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.

My friends have all desired to hear me relate these particulars, and
have honored me with a large attendance at my rooms, and sat late at
night, and drank my wine and water, and smoked my cigars, with a relish
that did me great credit, as it showed that I am something of a
connoisseur in the choice of such luxuries. And then they laughed so
loudly at my jokes, no matter how poor they were, that, for a few days
after my arrival home, I really thought the air of Australia had
improved and sharpened my wit.

I should, no doubt, have continued feasting those who listened so
patiently to my yarns, had not a sudden idea entered my head, one night,
when the company were the most boisterous. I was in the act of raising a
glass of wine to my mouth, when it occurred to me that before I left
this country for Australia, via California, scarcely one of those
present had assembled on the dock to bid me farewell.

I placed the untasted wine upon the table again, lighted a cigar, and