Our march ended at sunset, without our seeing a single native.

We had passed through the country which the discoverers of Botany Bay extol as 'some of the finest meadows in the world*.' These meadows, instead of grass, are covered with high coarse rushes, growing in a rotten spongy bog, into which we were plunged knee-deep at every step.
[*The words which are quoted may be found in Mr.Cook's first voyage, and form part of his description of Botany Bay.

It has often fallen to my lot to traverse these fabled plains; and many a bitter execration have I heard poured on those travellers, who could so faithlessly relate what they saw.] Our final effort was made at half past one o'clock next morning; and after four hours toil, ended as those preceding it had done, in disappointment and vexation.

At nine o'clock we returned to Sydney, to report our fruitless peregrination.
But if we could not retaliate on the murderer of M'Entire, we found no difficulty in punishing offences committed within our own observation.

Two natives, about this time, were detected in robbing a potato garden.