University of Virginia Library

PREFACE.

Some great man of antiquity said that if one were
carried up to the skies, and permitted to behold all the
wonders of heaven and earth, his pleasure would not be
complete until he had returned to the lower world to
recount what he had seen. And it must be true, for, even
on the most petty scale, the feeling to which he alludes is
constantly discoverable. We cannot migrate from one
point on this little ball to another, without a disposition
to give those we have left behind an idea of what is to
most of them an unseen world.

The first plunge into print costs indeed a desperate
effort; but when the instinctive shivering is once conquered,
the chilly element loses half its terrors, especially
if we see kind hands outstretched on all sides to encourage
our attempt. That such has been my own fortune,
I gratefully acknowledge.

The following pages constitute rather a continuation
than a sequel to the sketches offered to the public more
than two years ago, under the title of “A new Home—
who'll follow?” I say a continuation,—not that I mean
to threaten, in this day of the decline and fall of Annuals,
a Western Biennial—but simply to reserve my right to
prate further in the same strain if I should feel thereunto
prompted.

I am credibly informed that ingenious malice has been
busy in finding substance for the shadows which were

called up to give variety to the pages of “A new Home,”
—in short, that I have been accused of substituting personality
for impersonation. This I utterly deny; and
I am sincerely sorry that any one has been persuaded to
regard as unkind what was announced merely as a playful
sketch, and not as a serious history.

A landscape, however true its outline, however correct
its coloring, is only a study for the artist, unless something
human appear in the foreground to give an air of life to
the scene; and in attempting to paint a mountain or a
cathedral, it is considered essential to introduce human
figures, as a standard by which the imagination may be
aided to a just conception of these objects. For reasons
somewhat analogous, it appeared to me at once the easiest
mode of relieving the tediousness of mere narrative, and
the most effectual means of conveying a general idea of
the aspect of society in those regions where what is elsewhere
mere abstraction is made the practical rule of life,
to bring on the stage a phantasm of men and women who
should as naturally as possible act in illustration of my
subject. If, in drawing on experience for this purpose, I
have inadvertently given offence, I regret it, as I said before.
I would fain “avoid all appearance of evil,” in
this as in every other particular. It has appeared to some
few of the more enthusiastic of our Western patriots, that
there is something treasonable in exhibiting the settlers
of a new country as deficient in some of the amenities
of life and language. A recueil de pièces justificatives
would be very amusing, but I shall forbear to
defend myself.

I shall not readily renounce my privilege of remarking
freely on all subjects of general interest. In matters of
opinion I claim the freedom which is my birthright as an
American, and still further, the plainness of speech which

is a striking characteristic of this Western country, the
land of my adoption. I shall not consider myself in the
position of a foreign tourist, whose one stinging truth,
though varnished over with a thick layer of compliment,
shall rankle in the sensitive heart of my countrymen long
after the flattery is forgotten. Who more justly entitled
to the privilege of speaking the truth about us than one
of our very selves,—one whose lot is cast in, for better
for worse, with the settlers of the backwoods?

Be it remembered that what I profess to delineate is
the scarce reclaimed wilderness,—the forest,—the pioneers,—the
settlers,—the people who, coming here of
their own free will,—each with his own individual views
of profit or advancement,—have, as a mass, been the
mighty instrument in the hands of Providence of preparing
the way for civilization, for intelligence, for refinement, for
religion. I eschew and disclaim all notice of the older
settlements—the towns and villages in which the spirit of
emulation and of imitation has nearly annihilated all that
was characteristic of new country life. Of these I have
nothing to say; for has not their aspect been painted a
thousand times? There is still a dash of Western wildness
about them, it is true;—a freshness of coloring
may still be traced by a close observer;—but my theme
lies elsewhere, and this should be borne in mind.

It must be confessed that I have found, this time,
scarcely even the shadow of a thread on which to string
my wandering thoughts. I felt quite unequal to “Michigan,
`historical, statistic, and descriptive,”' and I was as
little inclined to a mere fiction. So I throw myself on the
indulgence of the reader, hoping he will allow me to say
my say in my own fashion, and be content to gather whatever
is worth having—as imparting a correct general idea
of this new world—from all sorts of incongruous things

and places; as the gold-hunter shakes the precious dust
from the points of the moist rushes,—nay, but that is too
ambitious a comparison!—or as the chemist scrapes the
tiny stream of opium from the stalks of a thousand poppies;—that
again has unlucky associations, but we will
let it pass. I shall take all kindness for granted.