I have done, and
that I have recorded. Any one who is sufficiently interested to read
these pages, may well understand the trials and dangers that have
beset my path. The number of miles of previously unknown country that
I have explored reaches to the sum of many thousands. The time I
expended was five of the best years of my life. As a recognition of my
labours, I have received the Patron's Gold Medal of the Royal
Geographical Society of London; and the late King Victor Emanuel sent
me a decoration and diploma of Knighthood, of the Order of the Crown
of Italy.

To a man accustomed to camels for exploration, the beautiful horse
sinks into the insignificance of a pigmy when compared to his majestic
rival, the mighty ship of the desert, and assuredly had it not been
for these creatures and their marvellous powers, I never could have
performed the three last journeys which complete my public
explorations in Australia.

I have called my book The Romance of Exploration; the romance is in
the chivalry of the achievement of difficult and dangerous, if not
almost impossible, tasks. Should I again be called on to enter the
Field of Discovery, although to scenes remote from my former
Australian sphere, I should not be the explorer I have represented
myself in these pages, if, even remembering the perils of my former
adventures, I should shrink from facing new. An explorer is an
explorer from love, and it is nature, not art, that makes him so.

The history of Australian exploration, though not yet quite complete,
is now so far advanced towards its end, that only minor details now
are wanting, to fill the volume up; and though I shall not attempt to
rank myself amongst the first or greatest, yet I think I have reason
to call myself, the last of the Australian explorers.

As a last remark, I may say the following lines may convey some of my
real feelings towards:--

AUSTRALIA.

What though no hist'ries old,
Rest o'er that land of gold;
And though no bard has told
Tales, of her clime:

What though no tow'r display,
Man's work of other days;
And, though her sun's bright rays
In the old time;

Gleam'd on no mighty fanes,
Built by the toiling pains
Of slaves, in galling chains,
In the earth's prime.

Hers is a new bright land;
By God's divine command,
Where each industr'us hand,
Willing to toil;

What though no song records,
Deeds of he