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 enough already to fill a book, most of which has been published in a Sydney newspaper. But I intend to apply some of this waste time to a better purpose—that of writing a series of letters to you and other dear friends in England, descriptive of this country.

In the meantime, send me word how all is going on at home. I hope my dear father is in good health, and comfortable. My poor afflicted mother, I have a sad presentiment, must be gone for ever. If God has spared her, tell her that we poor exiles in Australia are comparatively happy, though we cling to the hope of returning to Old England. Give my dear wife's love to her father, and tell him that she weeps at the mention of his name. Tell him that we have now another Clarinda, a little friendless, blue-eyed infant, that looks up in his daughter's face and lisps 'mamma.' She was born amidst the rage of the turbulent sea, where no one smiled upon her birth; but He who holds the ocean in the hollow of His hand was with us on the waters. Remember us to all, Maria, Eliza, John, James, George, and our nephews, Thomas and William.

God bless you all. Farewell. Pay the land postage in England or the letters, I believe, will