Nearly ten years had elapsed since Mr. Oxley pitched his tents
under the smallest of the two hills into which Mount Harris is broken.
There was no difficulty in hitting upon his position. The trenches that
had been cut round the tents were still perfect, and the marks of the
fire places distinguishable; while the trees in the neighbourhood had
been felled, and round about them the staves of casks, and a few tent
pegs were scattered. Mr. Oxley had selected a place at some distance from
the river on account of its then swollen state. I looked upon it from the
same ground and could not discern the waters in the channel, so much had
they fallen below their ordinary level. On the summit of the great
eminence which we ascended, there remained the half-burnt planks of a
boat, some clenched and rusty nails, and an old trunk; but my search for
the bottle Mr. Oxley had left was unsuccessful.
"A reflection arose to my mind, on examining these decaying vestiges of a
former expedition, whether I should be more fortunate than the leader of
it, and how far I should be enabled to penetrate beyond the point which
had conquered his perseverance.
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