ed upon and rounded the north-western
extremity of Lake Torrens. I then changed my course for the Hermit
Hill, at the foot of which the Finniss Springs and Sir Thomas Elder's
cattle station lies. Our course was now nearly north. On the evening
of the third day after leaving the water that had saved us, we fell in
with two black fellows and their lubras or wives, shepherding two
flocks of Mr. Angas's sheep belonging to his Stuart's Creek station.
As they were at a water, we encamped with them. Their lubras were
young and pretty; the men were very hospitable to us, and gave us some
mutton, for which we gave them tobacco and matches; for their kindness
I gave the pretty lubras some tea and sugar. Our old Jimmy went up to
them and shook hands, and they became great friends. These blacks
could not comprehend where we could possibly have come from, Fowler's
Bay being an unknown quantity to them. We had still a good day's stage
before us to reach the Finniss, but at dusk we arrived, and were very
kindly received and entertained by Mr. Coulthard, who was in charge.
His father had been an unfortunate explorer, who lost his life by
thirst, upon the western shores of the Lake Torrens I have mentioned,
his tin pannikin or pint pot was afterwards found with his name and
the date of the last day he lived, scratched upon it. Many an
unrecorded grave, many a high and noble mind, many a gallant victim to
temerity and thirst, to murder by relentless native tribes, or sad
mischance, is hidden in the wilds of Australia, and not only in the
wilds, but in places also less remote, where the whistle of the
shepherd and the bark of his dog, the crack of the stockman's whip, or
the gay or grumbling voice of the teamster may now be heard, some
unfortunate wanderer may have died. As the poet says:--

"Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre."

If it is with a thought of pity, if it is with a sigh of lament, that
we ponder over the fate of the lost, over the deaths in the long
catalogue of the victims to the Australian bush, from Cunningham (lost
with Mitchell) and Leichhardt, Kennedy and Gilbert, Burke, Wills,
Gray, Poole, Curlewis and Conn, down to Coulthard, Panter, and Gibson,
it must be remembered that they died in a noble cause, and they sleep
in honourable graves. Nor must it be forgotten that the