University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.

“As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away,
like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed
one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time
for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too,
now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was
most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might occur in
it—what changes might take place in me, before I should
visit it again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander,
whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents
of existence; or when he may return; or whether it may
ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood!”[1]

Such were the dubious thoughts that passed like a shade
across my mind many years since, as I lost sight of my
native land, on my voyage to Europe. Yet, I had every
reason for bright anticipations. I was buoyant with
health, had enough of the “world's geer” for all my
wants, was on my way to visit the fairest scenes of Europe,
with the prospect of returning home in a couple of

years, stored with recollections for the remainder of my
life.

The boding doubts, however, which had beclouded my
mind at the moment of departure, threatened to prove
prophetic. Years and years elapsed, yet I remained a
voluntary exile from my home. Why did I so?—The
question has often been asked; for once I will make a
brief reply.

It was my lot, almost on landing in Europe, to experience
a reverse of fortune, which cast me down in spirit, and
altered the whole tenor of my life. In the midst of perplexities
and humiliations, I turned to my pen for solace
and support. I had hitherto exercised it for amusement;
I now looked to it as my main dependence, resolving, if
successful, never to abandon it for any prospect of worldly
gain, nor to return to my friends, until, by my literary
exertions, I had placed myself above their pity, or assistance.

Such are the main reasons that unexpectedly beguiled
me into a long protracted absence. How and why that
absence was thus protracted, would involve a story of baffled
plans and deferred hopes, which led me on from
month to month, and year to year, and left me where they
found me; would involve, in short, the checquered story of
my humble concerns and precarious feelings—and I have
a shrinking repugnance to such an exposure.

Suffice it to say, that my path, which many are apt to
think was a flowery one, was too often beset by thorns;
and that at times when I was supposed beguiled by the

pleasures and splendours of Europe, and “treading the
primrose path of dalliance,” I was in fact shut up from
society, battling with cares and perplexities, and almost
struggling for subsistence.

In the mean time, my lengthened exile subjected me to
painful doubts and surmises. Some, who really valued
me, supposed that I was dazzled by the factitious splendours
around me, and was leading a life of epicurean indulgence.
Others, who knew me not, or chose to judge
harshly, accused me of a want of affection for my native
land; I met with imputations of the kind in the public
papers, and I received anonymous letters, reiterating
them, and basely endeavouring to persuade me that I had
lost the good will of my countrymen.

I should have treated these imputations with little regard,
but they reached me in desponding moments, when
other circumstances had produced a morbid state of feelings,
and they sunk deeply in my mind. The literary undertakings
in which I was engaged, and on which I depended
for my maintainance, required a further absence
from my country, yet I found that absence attributed to
motives abhorrent to my feelings, and wounding to my
pride.

By degrees I was led to doubt the entire sentiment of
my countrymen towards me. Perhaps I was rendered
more sensitive on this head by the indulgent good will I
had ever experienced from them. They had always cherished
me beyond my deserts, excusing my many deficiencies,
taking my humours and errors in good part, and exaggerating

every merit. Their cordial kindness had in a
manner become necessary to me. I was like a spoiled
child, that could not bear the glance of an altered eye.
I cared even less for their good opinion than their good
will, and felt indignant at being elbowed into a position
with respect to them, from which my soul revolted.

I was repeatedly urged by those who knew the workings
of my feelings, to lay them before my countrymen, and to
repel the doubts that had been cast upon my patriotism.
I declined to follow their advice. I have generally been
content, in all matters relating to myself, to suffer the
truth to work its own way to light. If the conduct and
concerns of an individual are worthy of public attention,
they will sooner or later be accurately known and appreciated;
and it is that ultimate opinion that alone constitutes
true reputation: all transient popularity is little
worth struggling for.

Beside, what was I asked to vindicate myself from—a
want of affection to my native country? I should as soon
think of vindicating myself from the charge of a want of
love to the mother that bore me! I could not reply to
such an imputation;—my heart would swell in my throat,
and keep me silent.

Yet I will confess, that the arrow which had been planted
in my heart, rankled and festered there. The corroding
doubt that had been infused in my waking thoughts, affected
my sleeping fancies. The return to my country,
so long anticipated, became the constant subject of harassing
dreams. I would fancy myself arrived in my native

city, but the place would be so changed that I could not
recognise it. I would wander through strange streets,
meet with strange faces, and find every thing strange
around me: or, what was worse, I would meet with those
I loved, with my kindred, and the companions of my
youth, but they no longer knew me, or passed me by with
neglect. I cannot tell how often I have awakened from
such dreary dreams, and felt a sadness at heart for hours
afterwards.

At length the long anticipated moment arrived. I again
saw the “blue line of my native land” rising like a cloud in
that horizon where, so many years before, I had seen it
fade away. I again saw the bright city of my birth
rising out of its beautiful bay; its multiplied fanes and
spires, and its prolonged forest of masts, proclaiming its
augmented grandeur. My heart throbbed with pride and
admiration as I gazed upon it—I gloried in being its son.

But how was the wanderer to be received, after such an
absence? Was he to be taken, as a favoured child, to its
bosom; or repulsed as a stranger, and a changeling?

My old doubts recurred as I stepped upon land. I could
scarcely realize that I was indeed in my native city,
among the haunts of my childhood. Might not this be
another of those dreams that had so often beguiled me?
There were circumstances enough to warrant such a surmise.
I passed through places that ought to be familiar
to me, but all were changed. Huge edifices and lofty
piles had sprung up in the place of lowly tenements; the

old landmarks of the city were gone; the very streets
were altered.

As I passed on, I looked wistfully in every face: not
one was known to me—not one! Yet I was in haunts
where every visage was once familiar to me. I read the
names over the doors: all were new. They were unassociated
with any early recollection. The saddening
conviction stole over my heart that I was a stranger in
my own home! Alas! thought I, what had I to expect
after such an absence!

Let not the reader be mistaken. I have no doleful picture
to draw; no sorrowful demand to make upon his
sympathies. It has been the lot of many a wanderer, returning
after a shorter lapse of years, to find the scenes of
his youth gone to ruin and decay. If I had any thing to
deplore, it was the improvement of my home. It had outgrown
my recollection from its very prosperity, and strangers
had crowded into it from every clime, to participate
in its overflowing abundance. A little while was sufficient
to reconcile me to a change, the result of prosperity.
My friends, too, once clustered in neighboring contiguity,
in a moderate community, now scattered widely asunder,
over a splendid metropolis, soon gathered together to
welcome me; and never did wanderer, after such an absence,
experience such a greeting. Then it was that
every doubt vanished from my mind. Then it was that I
felt I was indeed at home—and that it was a home of the
heart! I thanked my stars that I had been born among

such friends; I thanked my stars, that had conducted me
back to dwell among them while I had yet the capacity to
enjoy their fellowship.

It is the very reception I met with that has drawn from
me these confessions. Had I experienced coldness or
distrust—had I been treated as an alien from the sympathies
of my countrymen, I should have buried my wounded
feelings in my bosom, and remained silent. But they
have welcomed me home with their old indulgence; they
have shown that, notwithstanding my long absence, and
the doubts and suggestions to which it had given rise,
they still believe and trust in me. And now, let them feel
assured, that I am heart and soul among them.

I make no boast of my patriotism; I can only say, that,
as far as it goes, it is no blind attachment. I have sojourned
in various countries; have been treated in them
above my deserts; and the remembrance of them is grateful
and pleasant to me. I have seen what is brightest
and best in foreign lands, and have found, in every nation,
enough to love and honour; yet, with all these recollections
living in my imagination and kindling in my heart,
I look round with delightful exultation upon my native
land, and feel that, after all my ramblings about the world,
I can be happiest at home.

And now a word or two with respect to the volume
here presented to the reader. Having, since my return
to the United States, made a wide and varied tour, for the

gratification of my curiosity, it has been supposed that I
did it for the purpose of writing a book; and it has more
than once been intimated in the papers, that such a work
was actually in the press, containing scenes and sketches
of the Far West.

These announcements, gratuitously made for me, before
I had put pen to paper, or even contemplated any thing of
the kind, have embarrassed me exceedingly. I have been
like a poor actor, who finds himself announced for a part
he had no thought of playing, and his appearance expected
on the stage before he has committed a line to memory.

I have always had a repugnance, amounting almost to
disability, to write in the face of expectation; and, in the
present instance, I was expected to write about a region
fruitful of wonders and adventures, and which had already
been made the theme of spirit-stirring narratives from
able pens; yet about which I had nothing wonderful or
adventurous to offer.

Since such, however, seems to be the desire of the
public, and that they take sufficient interest in my wanderings
to deem them worthy of recital, I have hastened,
as promptly as possible, to meet in some degree, the expectation
which others have excited. For this purpose, I
have, as it were, plucked a few leaves out of my memorandum
book, containing a month's foray beyond the
outposts of human habitation, into the wilderness of the
Far West. It forms, indeed, but a small portion of an
extensive tour; but it is an episode, complete as far as
it goes. As such, I offer it to the public, with great diffidence.

It is a simple narrative of every day occurrences;
such as happen to every one who travels the
prairies. I have no wonders to describe, nor any moving
accidents by flood or field to narrate; and as to those
who look for a marvellous or adventurous story at my
hands, I can only reply in the words of the weary knifegrinder:
“Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, sir.”