"Good wine needs no bush," but because a man does not always himself see the full scope of what he has written, an introduction may have its uses for author and readers alike. And to me—the adventure of whose own career has reached the inexorable Finis—these true stories of gold and gem seeking have an interest beyond the mere record of peril and achievement, though, in the words of Sir Philip Sidney, it "stirs the heart like a trumpet-blast" when brave men come to grips with dangers which (like the treasure-guarding dragons of fairy-tales) yield not only their hoard, but their own strength, as reward to the conqueror.

And these are true romances—no fiction with its Deus ex machina at the psychological moment, but the unadorned risks, escapes, and failures of adventurers on the quest of those strange commodities, seemingly haunted by death and fear, from their secrecy in the recesses of the earth till they shine with a sinister light in the crowns of kings or make rough, for better handling, the sword-grips of warriors.

The quest of "El Dorado" begins with the history of man, and in pursuit of the glittering phantom have "many souls of heroes gone down into Hades," only that others might step into their empty places in the ranks. For whatever is found, always just beyond reach flits what is not found—what never will be, be it the golden city of Manoa, with its palace of the Inca, "all the vessels of whose house and kitchen are of gold, and in his wardrobe statues of gold which seemed giants, and ropes, budgets, chests and troughs of gold," or the mysterious jewels of the wisdom of Solomon, or the genie-guarded gems of the Arabian Nights.

The instinct of delight in this adventure which has dazzled the mind of man from time immemorial is universal: it is a relish of youth which persists into the old age of the world; it warms the coldest blood; and our author, who has himself followed the mirage and felt the fascination so keenly, is able to transmit the magic of the search to his readers. Whether toiling over the Chilcoot Pass, hunger-pinched, and desperate with cold and exhaustion, or thirst-tormented in the burning deserts of Central Australia, the indomitable desire that drives him forward with his comrades, drives us also on this modern Odyssey, where the Siren sings on beaches of dead men's bones, and perils as terrible as any man-devouring Cyclops lie in wait for the wanderers.

The author, leaving his book to the verdict of the public, is once more an explorer in the Australian deserts, collecting who knows what strange experiences for future use, so I may, in his absence, characterise him as a born leader of men, a very prudent Odysseus; for what lesser qualities could have held together so strangely assorted a band as the rough-hewn Mac and Stewart and the gentleman adventurer Phil Morris? Reticence is perhaps unavoidable, but one would willingly see and hear more of the central figure than his own modesty allows him to give us.

Yet, as I said before, it is not only the adventure which gives a charm to these studies of wild life. They are little epics of comradeship—impressions of men to whom gold and jewels are much, but to whom loyalty is the one thing better. It is good to see the yellow gleam in the washings, and the milky fire of the Australian opal is worth the perils endured, but there is also the abiding knowledge that quite other and less elusive treasures reward the quest—courage, endurance, and above all—"the manly love of comrades."

And to me—to whom some of these studies recall in keenest remembrance scenes which I shall never behold again with my living eyes—there is another point of view and one of wider interest. Such men, in working out their own destiny, are evolving also the imperial destiny of the Mother-Country. They break the path, and other feet follow. There is the march of an army behind them, for they are the vanguard of civilisation—the first spray of the tide that, however slowly it flows, does not ebb. It is well, since the change must come, that these men, of good home-spun stuff, honest and kindly in thought and deed, should be among the forerunners of the race that will abide where it has set its feet. Scotland need not be ashamed of her sons as they stand before us in these true stories of daring and endurance, and speak with their enemies in the gate.

The inexhaustible mineral and gem deposits of New Guinea are only glanced at, but the description of those marvellous tropical forests, through whose deep ravines rush the gold-bearing torrents, from which "Mac" was able to wash out thirty pounds worth in one day, proves what possibilities England possesses in that great island, and sheds light on the policy of a time, now happily past, when I had hoisted the Flag, in 1872, and thus taken formal possession of Eastern New Guinea. I reported to my chief, and his reply has a curious interest in view of many later developments.

"Have we not enough tropical possessions, without requiring more? Enough issues to sap the strength of our Englishmen, without giving Government patronage to the infliction of new wounds on our body? Enough circumstances in which there must be a subjected race alongside of our English proprietors, without putting the Government stamp on a new scheme which will help to demoralise us, and weaken our moral sense as a nation?"

Such were the views of the Little Englanders thirty years ago. Such seem strangely out of date when explorers of the Alexander Macdonald type are tapping the remotest sources of commerce in the interests of the old country.

So I leave the little band to the reader—very human, compound of great generosities and small failings, travellers, like ourselves, on "the Great Trail" that leads to the Mountains of the Moon, and beyond, but always men, and knit together by so strong a bond that each might well say of the other, with Walt Whitman—