miner, and putting as many obstructions and impediments in his way, as possible.
But to hark back. Here I am off the track again, and pursuing my impetuous way from smoked fish to mining reserves, without ever a thought towards the patience of my readers!
One of the most prominent features that shows boldly out from the background of boscage as the visitor nears the narrows of the Derwent, from the open roadstead, is a gigantic shot tower, which must have been built in the very early days when the Hentys were pioneers over on the Victorian coast, and when the clanking irons of the chain gang must have been a constant sound in the infant settlement. Let the reader get that weird and awful record of the convict system, contained in Marcus Clark's novel, "His Natural Life," and he will then have an idea of what man's inhumanity to man is capable of. The old tower is not the only evidence of antiquity about the place, as we shall presently see. Meantime look at the chequered patterns on the hill-sides. Black ploughed fields alternate with the squares of green young crops, and these again with symmetrically arranged orchards and vineyards. Yes, this is the chosen home at the antipodes of the ruddy-cheeked and golden-haired Pomona. One can almost fancy there is a fruity fragrance floating on the breezes that sweep over the laden trees. Away to the left, the long gleaming water-way of the tortuous Huon, crowded with ketches, wanders in and out among the hills, which are here clothed from
