26TH SEPTEMBER.—At 6 a.m. the thermometer stood at 61°. My horse was quite leg-weary, and I was very loath to force him on, but one day's journey further was indispensable. We traversed open plains and passed through patches of brigalow of an open kind of scrub. The surface was grassy, but very gravelly; indeed it was, in many places, so devoid of mould as to resemble a newly Macadamized road,—the fragments being much of that size, and in general of a reddish colour, consisting, for the most part, of a red siliceous compound. In a ride of twenty-six miles, we saw no country much better, and I was obliged to conclude that the left bank was by no means so good as the country on the right, or to the northward of the river. We arrived, however, by nightfall, at a goodly water-course, in which we providentially found a pond, and encamped; resolved there to rest our horses next day, (being Sunday,) and most thankful to Him to whom the day was dedicated. Latitude 24° 12' 37" S. Thermometer, at 6 p.m., 92°.
27TH SEPTEMBER.—Thermometer, at 6 a.m., 68°. On laying down my work on paper, I found we had made a most favourable cut on the way homewards, our old bivouac of the 21st inst., being about due east from us, and distant not quite fifteen miles; the great tributary from the S.E. passing between, upon which we could depend for a supply of water, if it should be required.
It would appear that the finer the climate, and the fewer man's wants, the more he sinks towards the condition of the lower animals. Where the natives had passed the night, no huts, even of bushes, had been set up; a few tufts of dry grass only, marked the spot where, beside a small fire, each person had sat folded up, like the capital letter N; but with the head reclining on the knees, and the whole person resting on the feet and thigh-joints, clasped together by the hands grasping each ankle. Their occupation during the day was only wallowing in a muddy hole, in no respect cleaner than swine. They have no idea of any necessity for washing themselves between their birth and the grave, while groping in mud for worms, with hands that have always an unpleasant fishy taint that clings strangely to whatever they touch. The child of civilization that would stain even a shoe or a stocking with one spot of that mud, would probably be whipt by the nurse: savage children are not subject to that sort of restraint. Whether school discipline may have any thing to do with the difference so remarkable between the animal spirits of children of civilised parents and those of savages, I shall make no remark; but that the buoyancy of spirit and cheerfulness of the youth amongst the savages of Australia, seem to render them agreeable companions to the men on their hunting excursions, almost as soon as they can run about. If the naturalist looks a savage in the mouth, he finds ivory teeth, a clean tongue, and sweet breath; but in the mouth of a white specimen of similar, or indeed less, age, it is ten to one but he would discover only impurity and decay, however clean the shoes and stockings worn, or however fine the flour of which his or her food had consisted. What, then, is civilization in the economy of the human animal? one is led to inquire. A little reflection affords a satisfactory answer. Cultivated man despises the perishable substance, and pursues the immortal shadow. Animal gratification is transient and dull, compared to the acquisition of knowledge—the gratification of mind—the raptures of the poet, or the delight of the enthusiast, however imaginary. It is true that, amongst civilized men, substance is still represented by the yellow ore, and that the votaries of beauty "bend in silken slavery;" but are not beauty or gold as dust in the balance, substantial though they be, when weighed in lofty minds against glory or immortality? When the shadow he pursues is worth more, and is more enduring than the substance, well might it be said that "Man is but a shadow, and life a dream." Such were my reflections on this day of rest, in the heart of a desert, while protected from the sun's rays by a blanket, and in some uncertainty how long these dreams under it would continue undisturbed.
"The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell: a hell of heaven!"
Thermometer, at 6 p.m., 90°.
28TH SEPTEMBER.—Thermometer, at 6 a.m., 63°. The horses were much refreshed by that day's repose, and we this morning continued our journey in an easterly direction, over downs and through open scrubs, meeting no impediment from brigalow. We crossed the various branches of a considerable tributary coming from E.S.E., the only water seen this day, besides the great river; which we met with, exactly where, according to its general course, it was to be looked for. We crossed it, and encamped on the right bank of the northern river, at the place where I had previously crossed.
This day I had discovered, from the highest parts of the downs, a range to the S. W., and was able to intersect some of the principal hills, and so determine its place and direction. I named the most westerly feature, Mount Gray; the lofty central mass, the Gowen Range, and a bold summit forming the eastern portion, Mount Koenig. I had now obtained data sufficient to enable me to determine the extent of the lower basin of the river, by laying down the position and direction of the nearest ranges. The last-mentioned appeared flat-topped, and presented yellow cliffs like sandstone. At 6 p.m., the temperature was 81°.
29TH SEPTEMBER.—At 6 a.m., the thermometer was 59°. Re-crossing the river, I travelled, in a straight line, towards my camp of 19th September: thus, performing in one, the journeys of two former days. We crossed the main channel we had previously traced down, thus identifying it. The country was, in general, open; the downs well covered with grass, and redolent with the rich perfume of lilies and strange flowers, which grew all over them amongst the grass. We arrived at the spot I sought, and there encamped. Our provisions were nearly out; the sun having reduced the men's sugar, and melted the bacon, which had been boiled before we set out. This was an unfortunate blunder. Bacon, in such warm weather, should be carried uncooked, and our's might have then been very good. The men jocosely remarked, that, although we had out-manoeuvred the natives, the weather had been so hot that, nevertheless, we could not "save our bacon." Thermometer, at 5 p.m., 83°.
30TH SEPTEMBER.—Thermometer, at 7 a.m., 67°. I found, by my map, that I might very much shorten the homeward route to next camp (that of 18th September), by travelling towards it in a straight line across the downs. We accordingly set out on the bearing of 5½° S. of E., and hit the spot exactly at a distance of eighteen miles; arriving early, so as to afford some good rest to our horses. We crossed open downs chiefly, passed through a narrow belt of brigalow (about a mile wide), and twice crossed a tributary to the river, which tributary we thus discovered. The water-course on which we had again encamped, arose in open downs of fine firm clay, and it was pleasant to see a great river thus supplied by the waters collected only amongst the swelling undulations and valleys of the country through which it passed, like the rivers of Europe. The river we had discovered, seemed, in this respect, essentially different from others in Australia, which usually arise in mountains, and appear to be rather designed to convey water into regions where it is wanting, than to carry off any surplus from the surfaces over which they run.
1ST OCTOBER.—Our track back across the downs, brought again into view the Northern range, and I now named the prominent mountain at its salient, Mount Northampton, in honour of the noble marquis at the head of the Royal Society. The range to the southward also appeared above the trees of the valley, and I gave the name of Mount Inniskillen to the salient mountain, which appeared so remarkable a feature to us on first advancing into that region, from the eastward. We again reached the river this day, after traversing the wide plains. Its woods still resounded with the plaintive cooing of a dove, which I had not seen elsewhere. At a distance, the sound resembled the distant cooy of female natives, and we at first took it for their voices until we ascertained whence these notes came. I had arrived at a fine reach of the river, and while watering the horses, preparatory to leaving its banks, (to make a short cut on our former route,) when a pair of these birds appeared on a bough over head, so near that I could take a drawing, by which I have since ascertained the bird to have been GEOPELIA CUNEATA.