1 o'clock each day; the distance is forty miles: the first six is down the river, as before described, and passing close along Williamstown through a forest of shipping, you turn off by the lighthouse to the right into the wide reach opening on Corio Bay.
The scenery before spoken of is not very remarkable. The immense plain spreading away to the right, partly wooded along the shore, and to the left the wide expanse of the bay, with the Port Philip Heads in the distance, and a thickly wooded country extending along the bay to Geelong.
In summer the sea is seldom very rough; parties of pleasure are constantly visiting the rival cities, attended by bands of music, which make the trip by no means monotonous. At the head of the bay, close along shore, on a rising ground of a cliff-like form, stretching away, is the very pretty city of Geelong; at first sight it has a finer appearance than its more lordly rival,—this is from its position, not having a long low swamp before it. It is, as it were, more easily seen, with its handsome buildings and pretty streets, running up perpendicularly from the shore, thrown out in bold relief. Underneath the brow, on the beach, are the Custom House, bonded stores, and warehouses; three large and commodious jetties run out into deep water, to prevent inconvenience of low water at fall of the tide. One of these is exclusively for steamers and the disembarkation of passengers; the second for merchant vessels and merchandise; the third, the handsomest
