shore the celebrated Thomas Francis Meagher, he of the drawn sword and of 'Irish Invincible' fame, resided for a time.
One morning I went down to the lake before sunrise, and found the opposite shores enveloped in a thick atmosphere of blue smoke, which had risen from many surrounding Bush fires. Above the edge of this smoke a splendid orange glow preceded the rising sun. A soft hazy cloud stretched itself over such of the adjacent hills as were at all visible. The lake had the appearance of an extensive sea—a vast sheet of the brightest silver, studded with millions of glancing particles of gold. Then, and not till then, I found the object of my search—the phantom island. Alas for the genius of romance! It was not a creation of indescribable grandeur like a mediaeval castellated rock or a fairy-like garden in a pearly ocean, such as we read of in Byron and Moore. On the contrary, it presented the very practical appearance of the black hull of a huge ship, rising only a few feet above the surface of the water, and yet seeming to be suspended over it like the flying island of 'Gulliver's Travels.' It is evidently nothing more nor less than a low mass of rock nearly in the centre of the lake, not always visible; and when I first saw it I fancied myself standing on the brink of the Nile, surveying the hulk of one of the great French ships which had been battered to pieces in Nelson's famous battle.
The Cradle Mountain, and the hills around, were totally invisible, owing to the dense columns of smoke which rose from the sides of the Western Tier, where fierce fires were raging. On such occasions a weird and deceptive glare is cast upon the water; and that morning the rosy glow of the sunrise through the nearly opaque gloom rendered the scene a truly magnificent one. A Bush fire also had broken out on the estate occupied by my friend Mr. Solomon
