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To go forward looks very unpromising, and to retreat we have quite seventy miles with scarcely any water and no feed at all. The prospect is very cheerless, and what I shall do depends on the state of the horses, when they reach here. It is very discouraging to have to retreat, as Mr. Gosse's farthest point west is only 200 miles from us.
J at once recognized the sea-anemones, knowing them by his much reading of Gosse's Aquarium; and though they must now have been two or three days high and dry out of water, he made an extempore aquarium out of a bowl, and put in above a dozen of these strange creatures.
A heavy dew fell last night, produced, I imagine, by the moisture in the glen, and not by extraneous atmospheric causes, as we have had none for some nights previously. Leave for Mount Olga. Change of scene. Desert oak-trees. The Mann range. Fraser's Wells. Mount Olga's foot. Gosse's expedition. Marvellous mountain. Running water. Black and gold butterflies. Rocky bath. Ayers' Rock.
Gosse's "Canadian Naturalist," and his little book "The Ocean," not forgetting Darwin's delightful "Voyage of the Beagle and Adventure," ought to be in the hands of every lad who is likely to travel to our colonies.
Found a fine rock hole two miles from camp, and followed along Mr. Gosse's track for twenty miles to the Tomkinson Ranges, over most miserable sandy ridges, covered with spinifex. Fine grassy flats along and through the ranges. We left the track to examine a gully to the north, but could not find any water. Got on the track just before dark and followed it along a few miles.
About 3 o'clock returned unsuccessful, and finished what water we had with us. What next to do was the question; no time was to be lost. Mr. Gosse's map showed some gullies ahead, but whether there was any water in them was questionable; he states, "Nearly all the waters discovered in the Mann and Tomkinson Ranges were running when left, and from a considerable height."
Gosse's map, about twenty-one miles distant. The day was excessively hot again, and walking was most fatiguing. Men and horses moved along very slowly, but did not give in. Towards noon a hot wind began to blow. Onwards still we pressed, and crossed the large creek coming into the Alberga about two miles from the water.
Gosse suggests, in that realism which gives coherence to poetry. To quote Mr. Gosse's own words: Swinburne did not live, like Wordsworth, in a perpetual communion with Nature, but exceptional, and even rare, moments of concentrated observation wakened in him an ecstasy which he was careful to brood upon, to revive, and perhaps, at last, to exaggerate.
These, however, are but vagaries, for it is certain that the number of people who will read a book like Mr. Gosse's steadily increases. This is its justification, and it is a complete one. It can never be wrong to give pleasure. To talk about books is better than to read about them, but, as a matter of hard fact, the opportunities life affords of talking about books are very few.
The contradiction is obvious; but there can be little doubt that, though Browne has, as it were, extorted a personal homage, Mr. Gosse's real sympathies lie on the other side. His remarks upon Browne's effect upon eighteenth-century prose show clearly enough the true bent of his opinions; and they show, too, how completely misleading a preconceived theory may be.
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