coast. At Cape Raoul the basaltic columnar formation of the coast is very strikingly displayed. The cliffs jut out in serried series of mighty pillars, just like the perpendicular pipes of a great natural organ. The blast wails and shrieks amid the nooks and crannies, and anon sobs with a gurly undertone of lamentation as it whistles past. All the cliffs in shadow are white with hoar frost, and their minute icicles glitter like diamonds, while the sunny portions, wetted with spray, gleam with a sheen which is positively dazzling.
Now Storm Bay opens out before us. As if to sustain its reputation, the icy blast comes swirling round the snowy summit of Mount Wellington with augmented force, and chills us to the marrow. We were informed that snow on Mount Wellington is abnormal. Anyway the nightcap was on when we were there, and the weather was bitterly cold. Now we catch the gleam of a white lighthouse on a small island right ahead. Lovely bays open out on the right. The long, glistening estuary of the Derwent, studded with the bleached sails of numerous yacht-like craft. The long blue indistinctness of the river line of the Huon, with here and there a sail relieving the uniformity of tint. The swelling forest-clad hills closing up the background, and now the homesteads and green fields here and there dotting the long acclivity in front, all made up a scene which for breadth, animation, brightness, prettiness, you would find it hard to beat anywhere. The knolls
