them all a drink; this enables them to walk on with renewed spirits, over the naked plain, and, tired and dusty, in about seven miles more they reach another iron store, the property of the Commissioners, where they now begin to see a few marquees and huts, and people walking about.  They step across the “Torrens,” without knowing it, and enquire for the inn.  They are directed to the Southern Cross Hotel, then kept by a German Jew of the name of Levy, considered the best house in this settlement, and here we will leave them for the present, hungry, thirsty, and fatigued—­covered with dust and perspiration—­and with feelings of shame and disappointment at being so taken in!

CITY OF ADELAIDE.

“When things are at the worst, they mend,” is a common saying, and a true one; and so it was with our passengers.  Though rough, dirty and uncomfortable, they enjoyed the Jew’s dinner or table d’hote, though it consisted merely of a baked leg of mutton at the top, with a baked shoulder at bottom and a dish of small potatoes in the middle—­nothing else whatever—­neither pie, pudding, or cheese; but they had given themselves a good wash, and a change of linen, and a bottle of Barclay and Perkins at dinner had now restored them to good humour.

They found that the company at the table was much better than the dishes, and that they had all gone through the same miserable landing at the Fort, and some of them had even suffered considerably by falling down in the mud; so, as we draw comfort out of other men’s misfortunes, and it is better to laugh than weep, our newly-arrived emigrants began to think the place was not so bad after all.  They were, at any rate, great travellers, and were determined to make light of troubles and inconveniences, as all travellers do.  They saw that the gentlemen at table were a very nice set of fellows, and as they had evidently had to rough it, much more formerly, than was necessary at the present day, they should make up their minds to think well of everything—­to look only at the advantages of the Colony—­and in their letters to any London friends, they were resolved decidedly to recommend the place—­but not a word about the mud.

The Town of Adelaide, as depicted on the maps, is the very beau ideal of all possible cities—­there is an elegance and vastness of design about it, that almost makes one blush for the comparative insignificance of London and Stromboul; of Paris and Canton;—­but on going to the spot, like many other works of art and imagination, it resembles the picture very slightly—­it is altogether on too large a scale; and of all the follies committed by the inexperience of the surveyor-general, who is, nevertheless, in every other respect a most gentlemanlike, entertaining, and intelligent person, next to its inland situation, this monstrous extent of Adelaide will turn out to be the most fruitful of complaints.  You may lean against any tree in the City and exclaim, “This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.”