EAST COAST OF TASMANIA.

On the 23rd, we passed along the east coast of Tasmania, at the distance of eight miles.  The weather being fine and the water smooth, we had frequent opportunities of testing the accuracy of the present chart, which we found to be about three miles in error both in latitude and longitude; the latter with respect to the meridian of Fort Mulgrave.*

(Footnote.  Strange to say, the position assigned this place in the chart, 147 degrees 28 minutes East is much in error with regard to longitude, as Fort Mulgrave is 3 degrees 52 minutes 35 seconds West of Sydney, or 147 degrees 23 minutes 25 seconds East; this, with the error I have already alluded to in the east coast of Tasmania, the most available one for shipping, points out the necessity of having the survey of that island completed.)

JOURNEY TO LAUNCESTON.

Next afternoon we entered the Derwent and anchored off Hobart.  Finding that his Excellency Sir John Franklin had just left for Launceston, I proceeded thither to wait on him.  Our stay in the Derwent depending on a favourable change in the weather, it was necessary that we should be always in readiness to leave, and accordingly I travelled by the fastest conveyance, the mail-cart, a sort of gig drawn by one horse, which, however, by means of frequent changes and good cattle, manages to average nine miles an hour.  It leaves Hobart, at half-past seven P.M., and reaches Launceston a little before eleven the following morning.  It was a cold, bleak night; but as the road was excellent, and I was well muffled up, with my feet in a bag, the time passed cheerily.  The general topic of conversation during the journey was about some three desperate bushrangers,* who appeared to keep all the innkeepers in dread of a visit.  At one place we stopped at, the host came up with a rueful countenance, and told us that it was only the previous night that he had been stuck up, with a pistol at his head, while they took what they wanted from his larder.

(Footnote.  The most notorious of these characters was one Michael Howe, who became a bushranger in 1812.  In 1817 he separated from his party, taking with him a native girl, whom he shot when hotly pursued, because he imagined she might occasion delay.  He twice surrendered on condition that his life should be spared; but soon resumed his predatory habits.  In 1818 he was killed by three men who had planned his capture; having been nearly seven years in the bush, part of the time entirely alone.  He committed several murders, and robberies innumerable.  His head was conveyed to Hobart.  In his knapsack was found a sort of journal of his dreams written with blood, and strongly indicative of the horrors of his mind.)

The first half of the journey was over a rather hilly and gradually rising country; the road then winds through almost one continued vale, bounded on either side by broken ranges of mountains.  The noble Ben Lomond appears quite close on the right as you approach Launceston.  I was much pleased with the comfortable inns on this line of road, the greater part of which is as smooth as a gravel walk.