On the Sunday previous to the day on which our journey was to commence,
I had a little adventure, which pleased me at the time, though, but for
the sequel, not worth mentioning here. I had walked with my brother and
a friend to St. Peter's Church; but we were a few minutes behind
time, and therefore could find no unoccupied seat. Thus disappointed,
we strolled over Princes Bridge on to the other side of the Yarra.
Between the bridge and the beach, on the south side of the river, is a
little city of tents, called Little Adelaide. They were inhabited by a
number of families, that the rumour of the Victoria gold-mines had
induced to leave South Australia, and whose finances were unequal to
the high prices in Melbourne.

Government levies a tax of five shillings a week on each tent, built
upon land as wild and barren as the bleakest common in England. We did
not wander this morning towards Little Adelaide; but followed the Yarra
in its winding course inland, in the direction of the Botanical
Gardens.

Upon a gentle rise beside the river, not far enough away from Melbourne
to be inconvenient, but yet sufficiently removed from its mud and
noise, were pitched two tents, evidently new, with crimson paint still
gay upon the round nobs of the centre posts, and looking altogether
more in trim for a gala day in Merry England than a trip to the
diggings. The sun was high above our heads, and the day
intensely hot; so much so, that I could not resist the temptation of
tapping at the canvas door to ask for a draught of water. A gentleman
obeyed the summons, and on learning the occasion of this unceremonious
visit, politely accommodated me with a camp-stool and some delicious
fresh milk--in Melbourne almost a luxury. Whilst I was imbibing this
with no little relish, my friends were entering into conversation with