Notwithstanding that Tasmania is noted for the salubrity of its
climate, and the magnificence of its scenery from one end of the
island to the other, still there are localities which may claim the
preference, perhaps, in the eyes of the visitor who is in search
of health and the picturesque. There is no part of the beautiful
island that offers the same attractions as the North East Coast in
the neighborhood of George’s Bay, for here there is a combination of
majestic grandeur with Arcadian beauty. To reach this favored locality,
the traveller exchanges a seat in the railway car for one in a four
wheeled conveyance at the Corners. It is very questionable if such
another dreary, monotonous spot exists on the face of the earth as
the Corners. Wherever the eye may wander, it meets with nothing but a
dismal stretch of a sheep run, dotted with a few stunted, distorted
trees, and the solitary, and still more dreary looking hotel rising
out of the midst, while its proprietor, and those about him, have
become hopelessly infected with the prevailing gruesome air of the
detested spot. But this unromantic place is calculated to enhance the
beauty of the scenes which await the visitor, and as he bowls along
on a hematite gravelled road, as level as a billiard table, with good
genial George Avery, the Jehu, he feels a sense of satisfaction as he
sees the Corners fading away in the distance and the grand hills rising
up before him. On either side of the road for some distance, he will
see vestiges of the early days of the colony in the primitive fences
of brushwood, and “dogleg.” In eight miles, Stoney Steps is reached
where there is a hostelry kept by Herr Shmidt. Here the traveller for
the first time since leaving the city, makes acquaintance with that
most beautiful river, the picturesque South Esk. While the horses are
being changed, he will have an opportunity of watching the falls at
the rear of the Inn where the pellucid stream tumbles over a rugged
barrier of basalt; and a little lower down observe how it spreads out
into a dreamy, apparently motionless reach, reflecting the acacias,
casuarina, and gums that thickly clothe its banks. Be the visitor an
enthusiast in the icthyial pastime, not the least attractive feature
of this stream in his eyes would be the fine brown trout with which
it abounds. Fifteen miles further, through country consecrated to
sheepdom, Avoca is reached. It is a small village or hamlet with one
inn, two stores, and about a dozen cottages, but it is exceedingly
picturesque, with the river St. Paul, meandering through it, and it is
well calculated to awaken memories of what Ireland’s lyric bard wrote
about the “Meeting of the Waters.” Those