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 perfect as they can make them now-a-days. For a quiet retreat for an invalid wanting- rest and fresh air, commend me to Oxford. Mr. Rose is a frank, genial, hearty host. He looks as if his food agreed with him, and his beef is the best I have tasted for twenty years.

The next stage from Oxford is a short one, but a toilsome. The road winds upwards through deep cuttings, with great gorges on either side; and by-and-by we halt to change horses at a little collection of huts, on a lonely hillside, while far below, the concealed river splashes and gurgles amid a forest of tree-ferns and undergrowth. Water for the horses is here supplied by a ram-lift from the river below.

The road on ahead is very narrow, and winds along the side of a steep hill. There are two dangers—one, that of falling over the siding down the almost sheer face of the cliff; the other, that of landslips from above. After rain, the resident groom rides daily over the road to see that no earth-fall has taken place during the period between his visits.

What a magnificent view lies here spread out before us! To the left is an immense ravine, the bed of the Waiho river. The sides of the deep valley are clad in all the inexpressible loveliness of the New Zealand bush. What an air of mystery hangs around its deep, dark recesses! How vivid are the varied shades of glossy green, lit up by the passing sunbeam! What a rare radiance shines out, from what was but now a gloomy depth, as