 | Logan |  |
PREFACE.—DEDICATION.
I hate Prefaces. I hate Dedications. Enough
for the one to say, that here is an American story;
that the child of Logan was an American; that he
was brave, wicked, and miserable, and that he
and I are descendants from Logan the Mingo
Chief. And for the other, the Dedication, I have
just about as much, and no more to say.
I do not dedicate my book to any body; for I
know nobody worth dedicating it to. I have no
friends, no children, no wife, no home;—no relations,
no well-wishers;—nobody to love, and
nobody to care for. To whom shall I; to whom
can I dedicate it? To my Maker! It is unworthy
of him. To my countrymen? They are unworthy
of me. For the men of past ages I have very
little veneration; for those of the present, none at
all. To whom shall I entrust it? Who will care
for me, by to-morrow? Who will do battle for my
book, when I am gone? Will posterity? Yea, posterity
will do me justice. To posterity then—to
the winds!—I bequeath it! I devote it—as a Roman
would his enemy, to the fierce and unsparing
charities of another world—to a generation of
spirits—to the shadowy and crowned potentates of
hereafter. I—I—I have done—the blood of the
red man is growing cold—farewell—farewell forever!—
| Logan | |