University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Goldsmith.

In the autumn of this year I set out from Massachusetts
for the remote regions of the southwest on the
Spanish frontier, where I reside. When I entered the
steam-boat from Philadelphia to Baltimore, having taken
a general survey of the motley group, which is usually
seen in such places, my eye finally rested on a young
gentleman, apparently between twenty-five and thirty,
remarkable for his beauty of face, the symmetry of his
fine form, and for that uncommon union of interest,
benevolence, modesty, and manly thought, which are
so seldom seen united in a male countenance of great
beauty. The idea of animal magnetism, I know, is
exploded. I, however, retain my secret belief in the
invisible communication between minds, of something
like animal magnetism and repulsion. I admit that this

electric attraction of kindred minds at first sight, and
antecedent to acquaintance, is inexplicable. The world
may laugh at the impression, if it pleases. I have,
through life, found myself attracted, or repelled at first
sight, and oftentimes without being able to find in the
objects of these feelings any assignable reason, either
for the one or the other. I have experienced, too,
that, on after acquaintance, I have very seldom had
occasion to find these first impressions deceptive. It is
of no use to inquire, if these likes and dislikes be the
result of blind and unreasonable prejudice. I feel that
they are like to follow me through my course.

There was something in this young gentleman which
immediately and strongly enlisted my feelings in his
favor. It certainly was not his extraordinary beauty of
person, because I have so often seen such more vain
and insufferable than even an empty female beauty,
that this circumstance would rather have operated
against him. I accounted to myself for my strong liking
on my established theory; and I watched, during the
passage, to make such acquaintance with him, as such
places admit. No decorous opportunity for such acquaintance
occurred, and I only learned from the way
book, that his name was Francis Berrian, for Durango
in New Mexico.

For the rest, there was on board the customary samples
and assortments of all climes, characters, ages, and
conditions. There was the usual sprinkling of smirking
belles, and dandies with their inane and simpering faces.
There were the dignified personages, striding backwards

and forwards, on whose brow and in whose port
were impressed the claims of homage and observance
on the score of wealth, family, or political importance.
It is a fine position, in which to observe the innate workings
of vanity and self-importance. Mutual strangers,
wafted for a few hours on the same bottom, they part,
probably to meet no more on the earth; and yet it is
amusing to see what an anxiety they have to establish
their short-lived importance in each other's view. It is
no longer a marvel to me, that travellers will spend
time and trouble to engrave their names on a distant
rock which few have seen, or climb a pyramid to inscribe
a name which will be read but three times in an
age; and the name of `a pigmy still, though placed on
Alps.'

Perhaps the circumstance, which so much fixed my
attention upon the young gentleman in question, was an
indescribable air of contentment and tranquillity, as
though satisfied from himself; a carelessness of the
observation and estimation of the rest, as entire, as
though he had been alone in the boat. Nothing interests
me so much in a person, as to see him deriving
his resources from himself, and not drawing upon the
feverish stimulants of display, and the fancied figure
which he makes in the eye of another; but on the
reflections and enjoyments which spring up spontaneously
within himself. His dress and his servants
indicated wealth, and his countenance wore the tinge
of a southern sun. I remarked that there was a common
feeling of curiosity on board the boat to learn who

and what he was. This was particularly discernible
among the young ladies. But, though his manner indicated
great courtesy and suavity, he seemed rather
shy of communication; and there were many who left
the steam-boat, probably, suffering more from the pain
of ungratified curiosity, than I did. In Baltimore I
lost sight of him amidst the crowd of porters, of busy,
or impertinent people, who rush on board a steam-boat
the moment of its landing.

I crossed the mountains on the national road to
Wheeling, and descended the Ohio to Louisville, at
which place I embarked on board a steam-boat bound
to the place of my final destination. My first look
upon my fellow-passengers discovered among them the
fine-looking and dignified stranger, that had interested
me so much on my passage to Baltimore. The Ohio
was unusually low. His course must be the same with
mine for at least a thousand miles. Our captain calculated
that his boat would be frequently aground, and of
course did not think of running by night. The passengers
were mostly young men of that empty and boisterous
character, that is but too common on those waters;
men equally without ideas and without manners; who
know only to swear, play cards, and drink. I felt
pleased to think that the stranger could not escape my
acquaintance; that, in our assortment of passengers, a
man of his apparent character could not have a fellow
feeling with them, and that I should find in his society
a relief from the tedium of a long and tiresome passage,
and the impatience of a prolonged absence from my
family.

One would think, that the charm of congenial society
was no where less necessary than on a steam-boat,
which crowds so much life together, and wafts such a
variety of characters. But this, in the want of such
society, is soon found to be a bitter mistake. The
perpetual change of scenery, as you glide down such a
river, creates an unnatural craving in the eye, and an
anxious desire to find some person to whom we can
communicate the varied impressions; to whom we
look to see if the prospects, that are constantly shifting
under our eye, produce similar impressions to theirs.
If the passengers, as too commonly happens, are boisterous,
and enter into no amusements but cards and
drinking, and are utterly insensible to the pleasure of
contemplating nature, the mind recoils back on itself
with chagrin and disappointment; and a steam-boat,
under such circumstances, becomes a prison.

It is true, our passage was made under very pleasant
circumstances, apart from the character of the passengers.
We had a fine boat, a provident and obliging
captain, and excellent fare. Every one has heard,
that the French call the river itself la belle rivière. It
is a beautiful river, particularly in the autumn. Its
shores furnished us with plenty of game, and when we
lay by on its wide and clean sand-bars, we amused
ourselves with shooting among the countless multitudes
of ducks and geese. When the boat grounded, as it
often did, while the hands were getting her off, we had
our pleasant promenades in the wild woods, some in
pursuit of game, and some of the wild fruits. The

temperature of the air was delightful. There is no
where a milder azure of sky, or a more beautiful autumnal
sun, than over this devious and noble stream.
Nature, too, was laying on the last mellow colouring
in her grand painting of the season, on the surface of
the forests, in all the hues of red, purple, and yellow,
to that of the sear and dropping leaf. When disengaged
from the bars, our boat swept swiftly and majestically
round the curves of the river. The rest raised their
reckless laugh, told their stale jest, and played their
cards, to their own satisfaction. Our mutual want of
taste for these enjoyments brought us together, and
acquaintance led to intimacy. Our communications
became frank and cordial, and we as naturally seated
ourselves under the awning on the deck to enjoy the
autumnal landscape, and taste the cooling breeze, and
to enter into these pleasant conversations, as the rest sat
down to their cards. Of course we mutually inquired the
place of each other's birth and residence, and were
naturally led, in the progress of this acquaintance, to go
into the color and events of our past lives. I communicated
without reserve `the short and simple annals'
of my career, thus far on my pilgrimage; encouraged
by the promise, that this confidence should be repaid by
the history of his own.

It was commenced, laid aside, and resumed, as our
feelings, the temperature of the air, and circumstances
dictated. As his story advanced, my interest in it
became more intense. This story I now propose to
give to the reader, as I received it from him. If it

interest him half as much as it did me, he will not
complain that I have taken him along with me as
a companion. It will not be amiss to advertise him
here, that, in order to avoid distracting his attention by
bringing before him a multiplicity of characters, I have
left out many of the personages and minor events,
connected with his history, which were easily woven
into the copiousness and details of conversation.

He premised his narrative by observing, that he
should have to apologize for the frequent use of the
important pronoun of the first person in his discourse,
and the necessity of frequently recurring to his own
exploits, and his own praises. I insisted that he should
begin ab ovo, as Horace says, and that he should tell all.
`If,' he replied, `you find me considered in this history,
as a very pretty fellow, only ask yourself, how I could
help it? And when you hear extravagant and foolish
praise of this sort, or any other, we will both agree not
to look in each other's face, and you must suppose this
the idle exaggeration of a very partial third person.

`Besides, I forewarn you, that, although nothing will
be related but what did most certainly take place,
nothing but what is most strictly true, much of my story,
I am aware, will have in your eye the semblance of
being too wide from the common course of events, and
of drawing pretty largely on your readiness to believe
on the faith of the narrator. But if the whole story of
the Mexican revolution could be told, a thousand adventures,
a thousand whimsical turns of the wheel of
fortune would come to light, in comparison of which,

all my adventures would assume the air of common
occurrences. I forestall another charge. If I really
describe myself as I am and have been, and my adventures
as they occurred, this true history will seem
to you little short of a romance. You matter-of-fact
people here in the States, are, I am sensible, inclined
either to ridicule romantic feeling and adventure, or,
still worse, to view it as having immortal tendencies, and
tending to unnerve the mind, and unfit it for the severer
and more important duties of life.' `Have no fear
upon that score,' I cried, `for I, at least, am not one of
them. It is so long since I have heard of nothing but
dollars and cents, the mere mercenary details of existence,
that I languish to be introduced to another world.
I heartily despise the idle declamation against romances,
which I so often hear. Poesy and romance are the
higher and holier matters of the intellectual world. All
noble conceptions, all holy thoughts in the mind, are
undoubtedly connected with the qualified love and indulgence
of romantic feeling. The Greeks and Romans,
the most chivalrous and noble people of the past ages,
were dear lovers of romances. The Arabians and the
Spanish, and generally the more sensible and intellectual
people of the south were delighted with romances.
And where do we instinctively look for high and generous
feeling, and dignified acting? among these people, or
among the Dutch in their happiest, money-getting days?
The best minds and the tenderest hearts may repress
their inward likings, through fear of ridicule; but follow
them to the inmost sanctuary of their feelings, and I
dare affirm, you will there find them giving way to this
innate propensity of such minds. Strike out the poetry
of existence, the romance of creation, and what remains
but the dull routine of eating and drinking, sleeping and
dying? You sear the feelings, bronze the heart, and
leave no other pursuit or hope, but miserable and incessant
calculations of pounds, shillings, and pence.
The love of glory and of fame, the feelings of benevolence,
the thrill of affection and tenderness, are all
extinguished in the heart, as if they were in an atmosphere
of “choke damp.” The dreams of patriotism,
the willingness to devote all, and die for our country,
become the idle extravagance of insanity.

God knows, the tendency of every thing in this country,
and in the world at this time, is just towards this
order of things. The first question of the marriageable
daughter, is just that of the sagacious father, How much
money has he? What are his expectations? We would
not have silly damsels pine over sickening and everlasting
long-winded tales of love; but the more chivalrous,
high-minded, and romantic our young people are raised,
as I deem, the better. I should have little hope of a
young man, until I was persuaded that his bosom had
sometimes expanded with the dreams of romance. How
delightfully, and with what sweet naïveté, the sober
Addison lets us into his bosom in detailing one of his
day dreams, in which he tells us in a single walk he
conquered the whole world, not forgetting Constantinople,
and new moulded the condition of man, and rendered
it better and happier. Away with the miserable

project of rendering men more selfish than they are.
I would much rather the eye of my child should kindle
at hearing the recitation of beautiful verses, than be
dazzled with the glitter of gold coins. Indiscriminate
avidity for romance may be a great evil. I contend
not for the abuse of any thing. I say again, deprive
life of its poesy, existence of the creations of the
imagination, and what do you leave us? A “stale, flat,
and unprofitable” world, with which, I should think, a
a reasonable appetite might be satisfied in one week.
I have heard many a good soul declaim, that he would
be glad if there was nothing of romance in the world.
I should regard him who could, and would, destroy the
illusions of fancy and the imagination, as I would the
evil genius, who would destroy foliage and flowers from
the trees, to give us fruit on the naked stem. You
need have no fear on the score of being romantic.
You have awakened curiosity from a new source; and
this is just the time and place to listen to a story of
that sort, and the sooner you begin, the less I shall declaim.'

He then commenced as follows. `I am happy to find
that we are natives of the same state. I was born in
a retired village, not far from Boston. I was the youngest
but two, of eight children, and reared in the strictest
forms of puritan institution; and I remark, in passing,
that to commence with this discipline has one of two
terminations, when the subject of it leaves the land of
his birth, and becomes an inhabitant of foreign regions.
Either he receives from such early impressions the

rudiments of sobriety and good morals, which continue to
be developed through life, or he shakes off the influence
of early impressions, yields himself with more facility to
seductive and pernicious example, and finally transcends
in abandonment those, who never received good impressions.
I feel the benefit of this early discipline, and I
am sure that my early impressions were engraven too
deeply on my heart ever to be erased.

With what delight I retrace the remembrances of
my youth, in that dearest and best of all lands! Where
can be found on the earth better principled, better nurtured,
and happier families, than those of the substantial
yeomanry of that region? Even yet, after so many
wanderings and vicissitudes, I recall in my dreams the
hoary head and the venerable form of that father, who
used to bend the knee before us in family prayer, and
who taught my infant voice to pray. I find pictured on
my mind, that long range of meadows, which front our
village church. I see my father at the head, and my
mother and the rest of the family, according to their
ages, following each other's steps through those delightful
meadows, as we went up to the house of God in
company. I see even now the brilliance of the meadow-pink,
and I seem to hear the note of the lark, startled
and soaring from our path. There is the slow and limpid
stream, in which I have angled and bathed a thousand
times. There was the hum of the bees on the
fragrant, white balls of the meadow button-wood, which
formed an impervious tangle on the verge of the steam.
Each of the boys had his nosegay of pond lilies, with

their brilliant white and yellow cups, their exquisite and
ambrosial fragrance, and their long and twined stems.
Each of the girls had her bonnet and breast decked
with a shower of roses. Well, too, do I remember the
venerable minister, with his huge white wig, his earnest
voice, and an authority, at once patriarchal and familiar.
The small and rustic church was filled to overflowing
with those, who had there received baptism, and who
expected to repose with their fathers in the adjoining
consecrated enclosure. And there, opposite to the
church, was the village schoolhouse, one of those thousand
nurseries of New England's greatness. Dear remembrances!
How often ye visited my dreams in the
desolate land of the stranger.

Excuse digressions, which force themselves upon me,
whenever I compare the land of my birth with the
countries, in which I have since sojourned. I pass over
the events of my early years, observing only, that I was
the most limber and athletic, the best wrestler, swimmer,
and skaiter in the school, but was altogether too good-natured
to fight, though I had sometimes my provocations
to it. I was the favorite of my father and mother,
and was therefore selected to be the scholar of the
family; for it is well known that there every such
family is expected to furnish at least one scholar. I was
the favorite of the school, too, until it was divulged, that
I was to be sent to college. From that time I had to
encounter my full share of envy. I was sent to a neighboring
academy, and thence in due process of time to
Harvard College, where I was graduated, after the allotted
interval, with the usual honors.

Of the character that I formed, of the impressions
that I received at that rich and noble institution, I am
not, perhaps, an adequate judge. You were educated
at the same university, and will form your own opinion
of the correctness of my views. The arrangements of
that important institution are abundantly calculated to
call forth emulation, but I saw that emulation too often
accompanied with the baseness of envy. I well remember,
that here I first felt the “whip of scorpions,” of
disappointed ambition and mortified pride. My fellow
students sometimes received marks of approbation which
were denied me, and which, I had an inward conviction,
belonged to me, as justly as to them. My inward
tortures were increased by making the discovery, that I
was actually beginning to be envious. It was a most
self-abasing scrutiny, that taught me this. I made a
great effort, and I flatter myself, that I tore up this pernicious
branch by the roots, and cast it from me for
ever.

I may remark in passing, that I was naturally studious
and sedentary in my habits, reading incessantly, and devouring
every thing that came in my way. My reading
was of course what the better scholars called ill arranged
and digested. A native and strong propensity inclined
me to visionary musings, and dreaming with my
eyes open. I theorized, and speculated, and doubted,
and tasked my thoughts to penetrate the nature of mind,
and the region of possibilities; and I investigated with
a tormenting eagerness the evidences of an eventful
hereafter. I read the whole circle of the unbelieving

wits and historians, whose voluminous works are all
found in the alcoves of the library, and which were
sometimes read by the students, without the antidotes
furnished in the defences of natural and revealed
religion by those immortal men, whose names will last as
long as time. I read these profound works, and was
prepared by reading them for the perusal of the gospel.
I placed before my mind the simple grandeur of Him
of Calvary, and the sages, and Socrates, and Plato, and
Cicero, and Seneca hid their diminished heads. I was
deeply struck with the tender and affectionate spirit of the
apostles. In what a different world was the empire of
their thoughts and hopes! How wide in their views, sentiments,
and ultimate aims, from the men of the world!
Here were men, to whom riches, power, ambition, destinction
were as nothing. All that the world hopes or
fears was to them a mere childish dream. With what
calm indifference they contemplated the purple and the
terrible power of the Cæsars! What a sweet and holy
repose of an energy of mind, prepared alike for any
event, runs through their epistles! What motives for
an unalterable resignation!

None had yet discovered these my inward propensities;
but I had been fond of display. I had kindled
with the dreams of ambition. Nothing had fed my
thoughts like our New England celebrations, and gatherings
of the people upon solemn or festive occasions.
When the long and solemn procession was formed, when
all that was imposing and venerable in place and office
joined it, when the gorgeous ranks of the volunteer corps

displayed, and when the full band struck up, unobserved
tears would fill my eyes. My bosom swelled. Vague
and undefinable impulses, gleams of thought, half formed
resolutions crowded upon me. I returned to the
loneliness of my study; and `Thou,' I said internally,
`art destined to poverty and obscurity. Every avenue to
wealth and fame has been preoccupied, and you must
count to make your grave with the countless, unnamed
millions, who are forgotten.' As I became conversant
with the gospel, these inward storms were gradually dissipated.
I became not only unambitious, but I even
thought of trying for the character of a quietest. I
thought with astonishment of those saints in the oriental
regions, who would sit for years immovable on a pillar.
A change became visible in my habits, and my parents
exulted in the change hoping, that they should now see
the first and favorite wish of their hearts gratified, and
that I should become a minister of the gospel. But I
had too high an estimate of the sacredness of those
functions, and too deep and just a sense of constitutional
disqualifications, to assume that profession.

I was graduated in my nineteenth year, and a little before
that time, my mind had received that coloring, and
took that bent, which has determined my course, and
caused me to become what I am. I became extravagantly
fond of books of voyages and travels. I became
dissatisfied with cities and crowded resorts, and the
haunts and the bustle of the multitude. I fancied myself
on a floating island, and wafted into the depths of
unknown oceans. I delighted in the position of Robinson

Crusoe and his Friday in their lonely isle. At
another time I imagined myself situated with my father's
family in one of the boundless prairies of the West. Instead
of journeying through cultivated regions and
populous districts, I should have preferred to float down
from the head-spring of the Missouri to the ocean, or
to follow the intrepid Clark and Mackenzie over the
Rocky Mountains to the Western sea. I have introduced
this digression to account to you for those original impulses,
under the influence of which I have been a
wanderer in the distant regions where I now have my
home.

It pains me to remember the disappointment and distress
of my parents, when they ascertained that my
mind had so strongly taken this new direction. Words
would fail me to describe the remonstrances and disputes
which they held with me, to dissuade me from
my purpose. They were often bitter and severe, but,
I well knew, always founded in affectionate views for
my interest. How often did my mother paint to me
the desolation and sinking of heart which I should experience,
if cast on a sick bed in a strange land, and far
away from her affectionate nursing! When they demanded
of me, what was my plan, and what ultimate
views I had in this new and boundless country, I could
give them but a lame account of my views, for the
good reason, that they were too vague and indefinite
for me to define. I knew only that I had a presentiment
of future wealth, greatness, and happiness to befall
me somewhere in that region. I only knew that I intended

to descend this river and the Mississippi, and
ascend Red River, of the beauty and wealth of which I
had formed the most extravagant ideas; and dim outlines
of an Eden, somewhere in the Spanish country
beyond, filled out the back ground of the picture.
When they represented to me that I was not calculated
to be a land-jobber, speculator, merchant, or overseer,
and that they did not perceive that I had any notion of
fitting myself for any profession, I was compelled to
admit the justness of their representations, and I could
only reply, that there must be great chances there, and
that I intended to make my way as well as I could, and
follow the leading of events. When my resolutions
were once formed, I inherited from my father inflexibility
of purpose. My father had so often applauded
this trait in my character, and with no small satisfaction
had so often traced the lineage of this virtue to himself,
that he could poorly blame me for the exercise of it in the
present case. He hinted to me, indeed, what a glorious
prospect there was, that I might succeed the present
minister of our parish, who was old and infirm; or if I
would rather choose to be a lawyer, that when he
should become a justice, a dignity at which he had
been aiming for years, I might perhaps attend the sessions,
and plead before himself in the chair. He
touched upon the universal homage paid to a doctor,
his plump poney, his neat saddle-bags, and his glorious
long bills. All would not do; and my friends all allowed
that I was a headstrong and stubborn dog, just
like my father before me; and that it was a fine genius,
a fine face, and college learning, all thrown away. My
mother's remonstrances were the most painful of all, for
I knew she loved me with her whole heart and soul.
With how much earnestness and affection she painted
to me the solid independence and greatness which I
should be sure to attain at home, all of which I was
throwing away on a romantic and visionary project in
the wildernesses of the West; all this I had but too
much cause afterwards to remember. Those who had
envied me, already took up a lamentation over me, as
though the predictions about me had actually been accomplished;
and took it for granted, that in poverty
and misery I should there end my days.

When they saw that I was actually making arrangements
to set off for my El Dorado, my father and mother,
with the utmost consideration, made preparations of
whatever they thought would conduce to my comfort
and welfare. They furnished me with such a portion
of the property, as, added to my education, would equal
me with what my father supposed he might leave the
other children. The day in which I lost sight of the
paternal roof, was a sad day to me. Who can describe
the tenderness of the parting tears of such a mother as
mine? When I left the cheerful, industrious, and happy
group, knowing, too, that they considered me as one
for ever lost to them, my resolution would have given
out, had not my established character of sticking to my
purpose come to my aid. I received a great deal of
excellent advice, and from the hands of my father a
bible, and earnest counsel to make a diligent and good

use of it. My mother and sisters had been provident
in furnishing my trunk with the comforts necessary for
a traveller; I received the parting blessing with indescribable
emotions, and tore myself away.