traffic-disturbed harbours as
Sydney, Newcastle, and other ports; but on the tidal rivers of the
eastern and southern seaboard he can, every day, catch more fish than he
can carry during seven months of the year. In the true winter months
deep sea fishing is not much favoured, except during the prevalence of
westerly winds, when, for days at a time, the Pacific is as smooth as a
lake; but in the rivers, from Mallacoota Inlet, which is a few miles
over the Victorian boundary, to the Tweed River on the north of New
South Wales, the stranger may fairly revel not only in the delights of
splendid fishing but in the charms of beautiful scenery. He needs no
guide, will be put to but little expense, for the country hotel
accommodation is good and cheap; and, should he visit some of the
northern rivers where the towns, or rather small settlements, are few
and far between, he will find the settlers the embodiment of British
hospitality.

Some three years ago the writer formed one of the crew of a little
steamer of fifty tons named the _Jenny Lind_, which was sent out along
the coast in the endeavour to revive the coast whaling industry. Through
stress of weather we had frequently to make a dash for shelter, towing
our sole whaleboat, to one of the many tidal rivers on the coast between
Sydney and Gabo Island. Here we would remain until the weather broke,
and our crew would literally cover the deck with an extraordinary
variety of fish in the course of a few hours. Then, at low tide, we
could always fill a couple of cornsacks with excellent oysters, and get
bucketfuls of large prawns by means of a scoop net improvised from a
piece of mosquito netting; game, too, was very plentiful on the lagoons.
The settlers were generally glad to see us, and gave us so freely of
milk, butter, pumpkins, &c., that, despite the rough handling we always
got at sea from the weather, we grew quite fat. But as the greater part
of my fishing experience was gained on the northern rivers of the colony
of N.S. Wales it is of them I shall write.

Eighteen hours' run by steamer from Sydney is the Hastings River, on the
southern bank of which, a mile from the bar, is the old-time town of
Port Macquarie, a quaint, sleepy little place of six hundred
inhabitants, who spend their days in fishing and sleeping and waiting
for better times. There are two or three fairly good hotels, very pretty
scenery along the coast and up the river, and a stranger can pass a
m