The township is well laid out, modern – the street all at right angles, and has similar advantages to the old Brighton at home; that after hours of heavy rain one can move about on foot with pleasure, the land being so undulating the water soon runs away; supposing the contrary, the sands are always available however wet the higher land may be, so that one is seldom kept long in-doors, a great desideratum at the sea-side.

In looking after our temporal affairs, we must not forget our spiritual wants, and in supply, we have a very pretty commodious Protestant church, standing on a hill in the centre of the town, built of brick, with a fine Norman tower, and fitted internally in the fine old English style. None of your new-fashioned posts and rails, with narrow entrances and open sides, that too small boys defy sleep, but fine old English pews, 10 x 10, with high partitions between each that are almost impossible to look over, so that one is compelled to look up at the minister and he to look down benignly on you, a mutual advantage that I think consistent. There is also a Catholic church, high on another hill; a fine roomy Scotch kirk, and a modest Baptist place of meeting, in the main street, at the lowest part of the settlement. So your spiritual welfare can be well attended to. I have visited them all, and found in each a full well-regulated congregation, and wondered where all the people came from, the place seemed so quiet.

We have also the regular guardians of the public, to wit, the police and a street patrol, all in good order like a big town; but in all my long residence I have never seen anyone in charge – a drunken man is a “rara avis,” and as to police office reports, “mirabile dictú,” there are none. Oh, happy, happy people – no street rows, no drunkards, no burglars, no robberies, and no bushranging; street doors are rarely fastened, and the good people go to bed in perfect peace, and, it is to be hoped, “in goodwill with all men.”

“Shall we take a ride to-day ?” “Yes. Tacking Point, or Lake Innes;” – the relative advantages of the former are winding shady paths along the coast descending every now and again to the beach, then through the thick scrubs, filled with all kinds of pretty trees. The grass and fern tree abound here; – or up the New England Road some four miles, then three miles to the left for the lake. I think the latter preferable, so to the lake, we will go. The road is good for the seven miles, and as we canter along, entirely forgetful of the cares of the world, and regarding only the pretty companion at our side, we arrive far too soon at the house and grounds which, to a recent date, have been deserted, except by “Old George” in charge, a fine fellow of the good old sort. The grounds have been laid out most beautifully, and no expense seems to have been spared; the garden abounds in fruit oranges, bananas, guavas, apples, pears, quinces, custard-apples, candle nuts, grapes, lemons, passion fruit, figs, limes. The trees are getting destroyed by a shrub imported by the original proprietor for hedging, namely, the lantana; it has now grown everywhere, and covers hundreds of acres, “thick as black night.” Rare plants and beautiful flowers are fast disappearing, from continued neglect, and the whole place seems to be going to ruin. The house is large, double verandahs, large enough to drive a coach-and-four through; fine lofty rooms, ranges of bed-rooms, bath-house, look-out tower, stable, loose boxes, coach-houses – in fact, every convenience and comfort that wealth requires for a large family. The house looks westerly towards the lake (a second edition of the Botany swamps), and the south towards Camden Head and Haven. The lake abounds in wild fowl, swans, ducks, &c., and the scrubs with wallaby, pademelons, brush turkeys, wonga wonga, queen, flock, and various pigeons; and a few miles inland lyre birds, pheasants, and all sorts of game.