Euroa, on the Severn Creeks, Dec. 1. 1852.

The day before I closed my last communication, we had travelled over good road, and with splendid weather, through a pleasant country. All at once we came to a most formidable gully called Sandy Creek. It was in fact a river lying deep amid a scene of chaos which the wintry torrents had produced. First there was a precipitate descent down to the bed of the river, steep as the roof of a house. Then there was a quagmire of adhesive clay, deep enough to take the horses up to their bellies, and the cart to the axles. Then, if you got through that, you would be obliged to make a sudden turn upon a heap of solid earth thrown up in the middle of the river, and then make another steep descent to the water, and, finally, to pass through the bed of the river, of some twenty yards wide at least. The water was up to your waist; and some huge trunks of trees lay sunk in the stream, ready to stop or to overturn your vehicle.

The party that was passing this hideous place immediately before us, had their cart at once turned topsy-turvy, and their horse thrown upon its back in the water, with his heels in the air. Luckily the water was not deep just at the spot; or the horse must have inevitably been drowned.