It will be seen that neither a history nor a book of travels is attempted, but a mere collection of sketches, with but little choice of subjects, and still less attention to the order in which they are arranged. If his work should afford amusement, the author will be satisfied; if it should develope any new fact, honourable to his country, or useful to its citizens, his highest aim will be achieved; and, in any event, he will submit cheerfully to the verdict of public opinion, convinced that his book, if too dull to deserve approbation, is too brief to merit cen sure. LETTERS FROM THE WEST. LETTER I. INTRODUCTORY. CAN you tell me, my dear N―e, why I left you in sadness, though I would fain have chased away the cloud that hung upon my brow? If you can, you will explain a feeling which I have often experienced, but never could exactly define. I have seldom left a spot, at which I had sojourned long enough to form acquaintances, without a heavy heart; and yet there is something in that same heart which makes me delight to be ever roving from scene to scene. The prospect of a journey fills my B mind with delightful anticipations, and there is no labour which I undertake with so much alacrity as that which is preparatory to a change of place. The horse is my favourite among quadrupeds, and I find no music so inspiriting as the cracking of a coachman's whip; even the creaking of cordage, and the howling of the ocean blast, though they intimate danger, have often charmed me into forgetfulness, by harmonizing with my locomotive propensities. And yet there is a sadness in the word "farewell"-a melancholy in the glance which the traveller throws back at the receding landscape, but little in accordance with the bright visions which illumine his onward path. What is it that chains the heart to a narrow spot, when the wide world is blooming around? Can it be fondness for the scene which has already been enjoyed to satiety, where every thing has become monotonous, and the palled senses must feed upon the food they have grown tired of? Can it be regret, when pleasure allures in the perspective, and when any dear object which is left behind will be regained, and glow with new charms after a temporary absence ?. These |