WAYSIDE SKETCHES
IN
TASMANIA
BY
MELBOURNE:
H. THOMAS, 80 CHANCERY LANE.
1880.
AUTHOR’S RIGHTS RESERVED.
By S. H. Wintle.
The Corners.
Notwithstanding that Tasmania is noted for the salubrity of itsclimate, and the magnificence of its scenery from one end of theisland to the other, still there are localities which may claimthe preference, perhaps, in the eyes of the visitor who is insearch of health and the picturesque. There is no part of thebeautiful island that offers the same attractions as the NorthEast Coast in the neighborhood of George’s Bay, for here thereis a combination of majestic grandeur with Arcadian beauty.To reach this favored locality, the traveller exchanges a seat inthe railway car for one in a four wheeled conveyance at theCorners. 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 adismal stretch of a sheep run, dotted with a few stunted, distortedtrees, and the solitary, and still more dreary lookinghotel rising out of the midst, while its proprietor, and thoseabout him, have become hopelessly infected with the prevailinggruesome air of the detested spot. But this unromanticplace is calculated to enhance the beauty of the scenes whichawait the visitor, and as he bowls along on a hematite gravelledroad, as level as a billiard table, with good genial George Avery,the Jehu, he feels a sense of satisfaction as he sees the Cornersfading away in the distance and the grand hills rising up beforehim. On either side of the road for some distance, he will seevestiges of the early days of the colony in the primitive fences ofbrushwood, and “dogleg.” In eight miles, Stoney Steps isreached where there is a hostelry kept by Herr Shmidt. Herethe traveller for the first time since leaving the city, makesacquaintance with that most beautiful river, the picturesqueSouth Esk. While the horses are being changed, he will havean opportunity of watching the falls at the rear of the Innwhere the pellucid stream tumbles over a rugged barrier ofbasalt; and a little lower down observe how it spreads out intoa dreamy, apparently motionless reach, reflecting the acacias,[2]casuarina, and gums that thickly clothe its banks. Be thevisitor an enthusiast in the icthyial pastime, not the leastattractive feature of this stream in his eyes would be the finebrown trout with which it abounds. Fifteen miles further,through country consecrated to sheepdom, Avoca is reached. Itis a small village or hamlet with one inn, two stores, and abouta dozen cottages, but it is exceedingly picturesque, with theriver St. Paul, meandering through it, and it is well calculated toawaken memories of what Ireland’s lyric bard wrote about the“Meeting of the Waters.” Those
Blue Hills
which the traveller saw after leaving the dismal Corners, stretchinglike a barrier in the dim distance, he is now fairly amongst.Grim, granite mountain heights, flanked and ribbed with the oldworld palæozoic slates and sandsto