Lendle

Since my return from Australia, I have been solicited by a number of friends to give them a history of my adventures in that land of gold, where kangaroos are supposed to be as plenty as natives, and jump ten times as far, and where natives are imagined to be continually lying in ambush for the purpose of making a hearty meal upon the bodies of those unfortunate travellers who venture far into the interior of the country—where bushrangers are continually hanging about camp fires, ready to cut the weasands of those who close their eyes for a moment—and lastly, where every other man that you meet is expected to be a convict, transported from the mother country for such petty crimes as forgery, house-breaking, and manslaughter in the second degree