University of Virginia Library

PREFACE.

“And what do you think of it?” asked I, as my classical
friend entered the room where I was writing. I knew
his errand without raising my eyes.

“Think of it!” exclaimed he, in a tone that expressed
more contempt than anger—“I think that you had better
burn it than print it.” So saying, he threw down the manuscript
of the first volume, and took a seat by the table.

I confess that I felt a little disconcerted, and, without
venturing to meet his eye, I laid down my pen, and began
carelessly to turn over the leaves of the unfortunate manuscript.
After a disagreeable silence of three minutes,
he added—“Burn it, and save your reputation.”

Thinks I to myself, there is no flattery in all this, at any
rate; and after some hesitation, I requested him to point
out the faults he had discovered.

“It is all a fault,” answered he, “from beginning to
end. The grand fundamental rule of composition is violated
in every chapter. It is a literary monster.”

“The very thing I aimed at,” exclaimed I, with affected
composure; for at that moment a little devil called
Obstinacy, popped into my bosom, and I felt determined to
justify my bantling, right or wrong. “Monsters are the
only animals that meet encouragement in this age of refinement.
But which do you consider the most prominent
feature in my monster?”

“It is all monstrous,” he replied; “the plot is unnatural,
the incidents absurd, and the language inelegant. But
the greatest monster of all is your Mysterious Chief.”

“The absurdity of the incidents must not be imputed to
me,” said I; “they are all copied from life—most of them
are historically correct.”

“So much the worse! the mixture of truth and fiction
is the very thing that constitutes a literary monster. Horace
says”—

“A fig for Horace! Who authorised him to lay down
rules for me? My sole end and aim has been to produce a
work of my own; and the more it differs from any thing
that has ever preceded it, so much the better have I succeeded
in the attempt.”

“Give me leave to tell you, sir,” replied my friend,
very gravely, “that the present age is too enlightened to
swallow such stuff as is written in those pages. The great
majority of mankind have discarded such false and super-stitious
ideas; and true philosophy not only teaches us that
they are absurd, but that the occurrence of such incidents
as they are predicated on is absolutely impossible. Depend
upon it, your work is damned.”

“It is very possible that majorities may be wrong,” I
replied; “nay, both revelation and history assure us that
a great majority of mankind always have been wrong. It
is, also, very possible, that what some learned men term
the light of true philosophy, may only be an ignis fatuus.
Such, in my opinion, is every light that is not kindled at
the fountain of light—the great luminary of revelation.
If I differ in opinion from all the world, there can be no
unpropriety in expressing that opinion—none in maintaining
it, until my understanding is convinced of the
error. Want of knowledge is more excusable than want
of sincerity.”

“But pray, sir, be so good as to explain the design of
this work. What useful end can possibly be attained by
its publication?”

“This advertisement,” I replied, “is a ready answer
to your question. With your permission I will read it.

“ADVERTISEMENT.

“The grand object intended by the work here announced
to the public, is a monument of American patriotism
and bravery, embellished with a picture of those humbler
virtues, which, though not so dazzling to the imagination,
are not the less honorable to human nature and our national
character.

“It is admitted that the late brilliant achievements of
our heroic countrymen, like those of their forefathers,
are already inscribed on imperishable columns of Naval
and Military glory; and so long as the Atlantic rolls, the
Mississippi flows, or the Niagara thunders down its rocky
precipice, so long shall their names and valorous deeds be
united in the grateful remembrance of admiring posterity.
But the untempered lustre of martial glory will often dazzle
until it pains; and a continued series of warlike
achievements, however brilliant in their nature, or important
in their effects, soon becomes (to many readers) a disagreeable
and tiresome monotony; they gaze awhile with
wonder and admiration, until, stunned with the din, they
hasten from the scene, and seek relief in the more placid
enjoyments of peaceful pursuits and rural occupations;
or in the contemplation of love, friendship, and the arts.

“To furnish this relief without alluring from the subject—to
soften the rough notes of the bugle by the gentler
tones of the lyre—to mingle the flowers of fancy with
the laurels of victory—and to shift the scene occasionally
from the hostile camp to the mansion of love, has been the
author's aim in the projected work, and he trusts that the
attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. To this end,
many private events have been interwoven with the
thread of public history; without, however, once losing
sight of the direct line of chronology, which has ever
been carefully kept in view throughout the work. This
pertinacity in adhering to matters of fact, combined with
the very nature of the subject, has introduced more agents
on the stage than would be welcome or admissible in a
work of mere imagination. But this will be pardoned by
the candid reader, on the grounds just premised, viz. the
impossibility of avoiding it without a violation of fact.

“Although termed a Romance, and embellished with a
few fictitious scenes, incidents, and characters, it will,
nevertheless, be the most correct and complete History of
the recent War, that has yet appeared. Every event of
importance will here be found detailed in order; and all
those who, by their courage, enterprise, or success, (whether
on ocean, lake, or land) have contributed to the interest
of these events, will here receive every notice their
ambition can wish—every respect their services merit.

“On the whole, it is believed that this work will be
found equally interesting, as a history or a novel; and the

lovers of each will find themselves pleasantly led from one
to another of their own favorite scenes, without a very
wearisome march through those of their opponents in
taste.”

The moment I had finished, my friend exclaimed,

“But why introduce any thing supernatural? Is that
necessary to your plot?”

“Just as necessary,” I replied, “as a tail to a devil.”

“How! explain yourself.”

“A short story will do it. An opulent old nobleman in
France, whose picture-gallery was richly decorated with
scenes from Milton's Paradise Lost, offered a prize-medal
of princely value, to the artist who should produce the best
painting of Satan's Journey through Chaos, when

“The successful candidate for this glittering prize was
a poor painter of Laon, whose professional exercises had
always been confined to the humbler essays of lettering a
sign, or painting a flower-de-luce on the knapsacks of the
French infantry. Fired by a sudden blaze of heaven-born
genius, he now grasped the palet, and many were the days
and nights he passed in sleepless industry, plying his
brush, while his family were starving. At length the fallen
angel rose upon his enraptured view, tugging his arduous
way through realms of blackets night;

“When the piece was finished, the exulting painter
called in his friends to witness his success, and begged
each one to express his opinion of the performance, and
point out any imperfections they might discover, as he
had yet several weeks before him, in which he could make
improvements. Learned or unlearned, critics are all
alike. One found fault with the drapery, another with the
fiend, and a third with both. The lamplighter thought
chaos was unnaturally dark; the printer objected to the
devil's size, and the tailor disliked the set of his mail:

while the blacksmith insisted that the mouth of hell ought
to blaze in the distance. All could discover faults, but no
one could see the same.

“It now only remained for the curate to give his opinion,
who, after examining the piece very critically, unfortunately
discovered that the three distinguishing characteristics
of a true devil were wanting—the horns, tail, and
much-celebrated cloven-foot. The whole body of assembled
critics now stood aghast, staring at each other in mute
astonishment, while the sagacious curate strutted about
with no little importance. The painter, however, (like
some authors) was obstinate, and insisted that the most
modern and fashionable devils differed very little from
men, and that the appendages mentioned by the curate
had long been out of vogue. The curate expostulated,
and the painter insisted; the one quoted Latin, and the
other quoted Milton; the curate spoke of heresy, and the
painter began to yield, and at length proposed a compromise
which he expressed in the following words:

“`I agree with monsieur Curate in part. The cloven
foot and the horns may be proper; but for the tail, I will
never give up.'

“`Well, since I have furnished you with another week's
work,' replied the triumphant curate, `I will now take my
leave; when you have finished the horns and the foot, I
will undertake to convince you of the impropriety, nay,
the absolute impiety, of omitting the tail.'

“`Stay a moment,' answered the painter. `The horns
and the foot are already formed.'

“`Where are they?'

“`The former are concealed by the helmet, and the latter
is behind that sulphurous cloud. But never talk to me
about the tail.'

“`Madman!' exclaimed the zealous churchman, vexed
at such want of orthodoxy in his opponent—`why, all
the world, both clergy and laity, have agreed that the devil
has a tail; and without one yours will be condemned
and rejected.'

“`All the world,' the painter coolly replied, `both clergy
and laity, are perfectly welcome to their opinion. This
painting shall not be altered; and if all the world reject
the devil, we can do without clergymen.”

My friend offered no comment, but immediately took
his leave, as I shall do, after dropping

A WORD TO THE READER.

The Champions of Freedom cannot fail of being patronised
by Americans, even though dressed in home-spun
uniform, coarse and inelegant. It is of domestic manufacture,
and cannot displease the eye of a patriot. In the
Mysterious Chief you may possibly recognise an old acquaintance;
if not, you will gain a new one, and will never
repent his introduction.

I could enumerate many faults that will be readily discovered
in this work; but they are principally such as
could not be avoided without altering the plan. I have
dared a bold flight in a new and untried region, in which
“success would have been immortality”—let the failure
be consecrated by the attempt.

With regard to the execution of my plan, I have little
to say. It is my first attempt, and I have done the best I
could. In many respects I have studied the interest of
the reader alone, by making short paragraphs, and lessening
the length of a chapter when its subject is dull, and
increasing it when the incidents are interesting.

For the biographical facts interspersed throughout the
work, I most gratefully acknowledge that I am indebted
to two of the first literary publications in this country—
the Port Folio and the Analectic Magazine.

I feel it my duty to add, that the songs introduced into
the work, were set to music while it was in press, and
may be obtained of my very excellent friend, Mr. E. Riley,
music seller, in Chatham-street.

I will here take my leave of the reader, with two lines
that I designed as a motto for the title-page—but which
may not be amiss here: