THE Barron River, which falls into Trinity Bay but a few miles north of Cairns, shares with similar streams the attractions of rich alluvial bottoms and a growth of grand cedar trees; but it has a peculiar and unrivalled attraction in the falls, which interrupt the upper course of its stream, and of which a description by a Barron River settler, Mr. A. Meston, may be here appropriately introduced, not only on account of its graphic eloquence, but as furnishing agreeable testimony that the pioneers of northern Queensland settlement comprise among them gentlemen of literary culture: "Byron says that no picture can give us an idea of the ocean; and no word-painting can give a clear outline of the unimaginable scene at the Barron Falls on the first three days of the present year" —1886 . . . . . "The actual height of the falls is now ascertained to be about six hundred feet, or four hundred and thirty-six feet higher than Niagara. From the edge of the precipice, the river falls nine hundred feet in half a mile. The Herberton railway will pass right along the top, and the finest view of the whole falls will be seen from the carriage windows. The view in flood time will have no rival in the known world.

"Stand back,’ said the dying Raphael, as the first glories of the world of spirits appeared to the parting soul, ‘Stand back, until I sketch that heavenly scene!’ And, standing by the Barron Falls on the second day of the new year, I, too, felt disposed to say, ‘Stand back, until I sketch that mighty picture,’ hung there on the primal rocks among the everlasting mountains, like an immortal replica by Raphaelistic Nature from some divine original in the picture gallery of God! Before me was a torrent of water three hundred yards wide and about sixty feet deep, rushing resistlessly along at the rate of twenty miles an hour, tumbling in a solid wall suddenly over the edge of the enormous precipice, launched clear out into space, and descending for over six hundred feet into the ‘waste wide anarchy of chaos, dark and deep,’ yawning abysmal in the depths below. I look up the river, and see it come sweeping round the bend, divided into three streams that rush together like wild horses as they enter the straight in the dread finish of their last race. They come with the sound of a tempestuous ocean dashing its surges through dark passages in the caverned rocks. Weird Fancy pictures them as the rivers that roll through the gloomy realms of Pluto. Imagination hears the sorrowful wall of Acheron, the lamentations of sad Cocytus, and the hoarse roaring of infernal Phlegethon, ‘whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.’ They roll over the cliff, strike the first ledge of rock, and the water is dashed into foam and mist; rolling billows of vapour are projected with terrific force in vast fantastic forms down the entrance of the Titanic avenue of the river beneath, and clouds of spray float away upwards for one thousand feet, and condense, and drip in showers of emerald dewdrops from the trees on the slopes of the mountains. The currents of air created by the cataract waved the branches of trees hundreds of feet overhead as if they were swaying in the contending winds of a storm.

"The thunder of the waters was awful. The rocks shook beneath you like a mighty steamer trembling with the vibrations of the screw. The very soul within you recoils appalled before the inconceivable grandeur of that tremendous scene. Those falls stand alone among cataracts like Chimborazo among the mountains. Eternity itself is throned there on those dark rocks among the wild whirlwind of waters, and speaks to you in solemn tones of the Past, the Present, and the Evermore. You stand voiceless, ‘mute, motionless, aghast,’ in their immortal Presence.

"On the left of the main falls is the circular pool, two hundred feet in depth, whose sides slope inward from the top, with a narrow outlet not twenty feet wide at the bottom. Into this frightful chauldron poured a vast body of water from the main river. It fell clear down, struck the surface of the pool as if it were solid rock, dashed itself into vapour, and threw a dense shower of spray far up the face of the opposite rock, from whence it descended in a thousand little rivulets of silver that sparkled like a flood of moonlight on, the dark surges of the midnight main. On the left came down a torrent that poured itself fell clear down on to the pool below in a sheet of glorious spray. Around the face of the rocks grew beautiful and tiny orchids, and ferns, and innumerable little plants looking serenely down with their green faces into the awful maelstrom underneath, indescribably beautiful, amid the war of winds and waters —

Resembling, ‘mid the torture of the scene,
Hope watching Madness with unalterable mien.

And gorgeous blue-winged butterflies emerged from the crevices of the rocks, fluttered slowly down until the spray caught them, and vanished like a flash of light into the vortex of remorseless waters, like lost spirits drawn in where the firmament of the Miltonian Hell spouted its cataracts of fire, until caught in the descending flames and swept down into the Infinite. Abyss, nameless in dark oblivion there to dwell. From the still pools up the river came magnificent blue and pink and scarlet lilies, with superb fan-like green leaves attached. On one of them was a splendid butterfly floating along like the Indian Cupid in the Nelumbium flower down the swift current of the Sacred River...

"Twilight is descending, and I gaze once more into that awful realm of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, with fearful chasms, rolling billows of foam, vast cloud-like vapours, descending columns of yellow, water-like liquid fire, opalescent and iridescent, fantastic rocks scarred and rent by aeons of ages, towering mountains crowned by mournful pines, showers of spray and wandering mist, mingled with the roar and rush and howl of immeasurable waters plunging in their death agonies into the ‘fathomless and thundering abyss,’ in unutterable sublimity of unfettered chaos and illimitable madness. Alas! after all I have only proved how impotent is language to give more than a vague and shadowy outline of that mighty picture hung there on the sullen rocks among the grand old mountains as a presentation picture to Australia from the Art Gallery of the Eternal!"

THE town of Port Douglas, the rival of Cairns, is a straggling street stretching across the neck of a peninsula named Island Point. There is every indication that this has been, in fact, at one time a bluff island separated from the mainland by shallows which have been converted in comparatively recent periods into swampy ground by the sea-drift. The harbour is a mere roadstead, sheltered from the southeast trade winds by the bluff point; the buildings are paltry, and the place generally depressing. On the ocean side of the isthmus which forms the connection with the land, the southeasterly wind blows strongly, giving under a blue sky and an ardent sun a curiously black aspect to the sandy shore where children play, and in the early morning some hardy residents do not hesitate to bathe, despite the probable companionship of sharks, and possible intrusion of the crocodiles which haunt the rivers of these regions near their mouths and are quite t home in the sea, being occasionally seen in the ocean swell off the rocky seaward slope of Island Point itself. In the neighbourhood there are tracts of good scrub-land, where sugarcane cultivation is vigorously carried on.

The coastal country, proceeding northward, is beautiful as viewed from the sea, but detailed description would be somewhat monotonous. The main range is ever in view, here approaching the ocean and dipping abruptly into the water; there receding in long curves enclosing tracts of country where a deep soil of detritus nourishes a wealth of tropical vegetation. The veil of mist which now enshrouds the faces and crests of the tree-clad mountains, and anon is wafted away, the deep shadows on the ravines and gullies which scar the hillsides, the ragged rocks which protruding catch and reflect the blaze of sunlight afford a panorama of perpetually varying interest. The Daintree and the Bloomfield Rivers, both scenes of plantation industry are passed ere Cooktown, the most northern as yet of east coast towns, is reached; and on the right the voyager leaves the opening from the Pacific Ocean through the Barrier Reef, to which Cook gave the name of Endeavour Passage, and in the vicinity of which, on the landward side, lies that reef whereon the explorer’s ship so nearly terminated her career. Some enterprising residents of Cooktown have lately visited this historical spot in the hope of recovering some of the cannon which Cook here cast overboard to lighten his shattered and grounded vessel; but the busy coral insect has so industriously imbedded these relics that no sign of their presence could be distinguished. The approach to Cooktown is readily distinguished by the light tower which surmounts the elevated Grassy Hill, which heaves its blunt apex five hundred and seventy feet from the water’s edge, and constitutes the south head of the port. Farther inland, Mount Cook rears its majestic crest to the clouds, attaining an altitude of one thousand five hundred feet. This mountain was so named by Lieutenant King in the year 1819, when he visited the place and sought for traces of Cook’s sojourn. King found the natives bold and treacherous, and noted with surprise that although it was here that Cook recorded the word "kangaroo," as derived from the aborigines, its application to the marsupial was not understood by those with whom he held communication. He discovered a little heap of coal near his landing-place overgrown with grass, and was somewhat puzzled by the circumstance, concluding ultimately, however, that the existence of the coal might be interpreted by a passage in the "Endeavour’s" log: "Employed getting our coal ashore." This is probably the correct solution, but it may be remarked that since the establishment of Cooktown coal measures have been discovered about a score of miles from the town.

THE mouth of the Endeavour River assumes the form of a short open estuary shoal in its northern area; but a channel of deep water extends along the southern portion, where the shore is steep-to. Steamers were thus enabled, before any of the existing wharves were constructed, to make fast to tree-trunks on the banks, and by throwing out a gangway of spars to land their freights without the employment of boats. The main street of Cooktown follows the curve of this southern bank, and although as yet undignified by any imposing buildings, it presents a tidy and thriving aspect. The formation of the hills being granite, the rainfall is quickly absorbed and carried off by percolation. The street is consequently clean and devoid of mud, and being macadamised with such excellent material, maintains good repair. The town hall, boasting a capacious wooden structure with a stage for entertainments, is the most considerable among the public buildings. At the rear of and parallel with the main street a steep ridge rises at right angles with which the cross streets ascend. Upon the slope and upon the crest of this ridge the simple residences of the inhabitants are planted, invariably wooden cottages painted white. Once surmounted, this ridge is discovered to be topped with a tableland, or plateau, gently declining towards the base of Mount Cook, and swept by the constant and vigorous blast of the southeast trade winds. The temperature at Cooktown is reputed less enervating than that experienced by residents of towns less favourably situated with respect to the breezes farther south. The hottest hours are from daybreak till about ten or eleven o’clock in the forenoon, at which time the sea breeze springs up and cools the atmosphere.

The Endeavour River, though navigable for craft of considerable draught for some four miles, is little used. A line of railway, the neat terminal station buildings of which are about a mile from the wharves, has been surveyed, and construction authorised to Maytown, one of the centres of the famous Palmer goldfield. As yet, however, only half the distance has been completed, and the alleged rich reefs at Maytown remain unworked-chiefly it is said in consequence of the little knowledge which southern capitalists have of them on account of their distance from the great cities and their inconvenience of access. At Cooktown, the telegraph system of Australia has its northern terminus, and here also may be said to be the limit of settlement on the eastern coast; but Cooktown is certainly not destined much longer to maintain this peculiarity. It is the usual port of departure for vessels proceeding to New Guinea, and small craft trading to the Gulf of Carpentaria, via Cape York, as they voyage to the northward, add yearly to the slender knowledge existent respecting the inlets, river-months, and shelling places intervening between the Endeavour and Thursday Island. From Cooktown issue also, from time to time, cutters and ketches carrying little private parties of adventurous prospectors and explorers bent on investigating some more northern spot of which enticing accounts have been given of some stray member of a coaster’s crew, who has, weather-bound, landed here or there. A granite formation characterises much of the coast country, and discoveries of alluvial deposits of tin are said to be worked by pioneers as far north as the Pascoe River in Princess Charlotte Bay. In August, 1877, similar deposits were found at the foot of Mount Thomas, close to Cooktown; and on the Bloomfield River, which empties into Cook’s Weary Bay, to the southward a few miles, tin has been dug for during some time. In the absence of settlements and towns, and even of pastoral occupation, the coastal line lying between Cooktown and Cape York may be dealt with in a general reference. The geographer of the future will doubtless have much to record of baby cities, rich mineral resources, and thriving settlements. As yet, however, these are among the probabilities of the accomplishment at which the next will be the witnesses. Perhaps the most appreciative generation will description ever placed on record respecting the charms of the voyage northward, through the palm-clad isles, and by the rugged range of the mainland, is to be found in the official report by Sir George Bowen, first governor of Queensland, of his cruise in 1862 in H.M.S. "Pioneer" to Cape York. Sir George dwells with rapture upon the beauty of the panorama. The general aspect of the scenery reminded, him of the famed attractions of southern Italy and Greece. The coastal ranges recalled to his memory the picturesque outlines of the Apennines of Calabria, of the hills of classic EubÇ a, and of the Peloponnesus, whilst the groups of islands through which his steamer threaded her way often reminded him of the isles of the Ägean and Ionian Seas.

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