you,

cilities of intercourse, by means of these little redlipped messengers, like this I have just received from that I can almost as well prosecute my labors here as at home. Could I get rid of all those associations which bind a man to his birth-land; could I appease that consciousness which whispers in my ear, that the allegiance of every true man, free to follow his choice, is due to his country and his kindred, I might perhaps continue here for the remainder of my life.

My little pavilion, situated upon an elevated slope formed of the upper bank of the Seine, gives me a view of the unrivaled valley that winds between Saint Cloud and Asnières; it shows me Paris in the near distance-Montmartre to the left, and the Arch of Triumph to the right. In the rear, close at hand, is our suburban village, having the aspect of a little withered city. Around are several chateaus, and from the terraced roof of my house-which is arranged for a promenade-I can look into their gardens and pleasure-grounds, sparkling with fountains and glowing with fruits and flowers. A walk of a few rods brings me to the bank of the Seine, where boatmen are ever ready to give the pleasure-seeker a row or a sail; in ten minutes by rail, or an hour on foot, I can be in Paris. In about the same time I may be sauntering in the Avenue de Neuilly, the Bois de Boulogne, or the galleries of Versailles. My rent is but about four hundred dollars a year, with the freedom of the gar

dens and grounds of the chateau, of which my residence is an appendage. It is the nature of this climate to bring no excessive cold and no extreme heat. You may sit upon the grass till midnight of a summer evening, and fear no chills or fever; no troops of flies, instinctively knowing your weak point, settle upon your nose and disturb your morning nap or your afternoon siesta; no elvish mosquitoes invade the sanctity of your sleep, and force you to listen to their detestable serenade, and then make you pay for it, as if you had ordered the entertainment. If there be a place on earth combining economy and comfort— where one may be quiet, and yet in the very midst of life-it is here. Why, then, should I not remain ? In one word, because I would rather be at home. This is, indeed, a charming country, but it is not mine. I could never reconcile myself to the idea of spending my life in a foreign land.

I am therefore preparing to return to New York the next summer, with the intention of making that city my permanent residence. In the mean time, I am not idle, for, as you know, the needs of my family require me to continue grinding at the mill. Besides one or two other trifling engagements, I have actually determined upon carrying out your suggestion, that I should write a memoir of my life and times— a panorama of my observations and experience. You encourage me with the idea that an account of my life, common-place as it has been, will find readers,

and at the same time, your recommendation naturally suggests a form in which this may be given to the public, divested of the air of egotism which generally belongs to autobiography. I may write my history in the form of letters to you, and thus tell a familiar story in a familiar way-to an old friend.

I take due note of what you recommend-that I should make my work essentially a personal narrative. You suggest that so long as the great study of mankind is man, so long any life-supposing it to be not positively vicious-if truly and frankly portrayed, will prove amusing, perhaps instructive. I admit the force of this, and it has its due influence upon me; but still I shall not make my book, either wholly or mainly, a personal memoir. I have no grudges to gratify, no by-blows to give, no apologies to make, no explanations to offer at least none which could reasonably find place in a work like this. I have no ambition which could be subserved by a publication of a merely personal nature: to confess the truth, I should rather feel a sense of humiliation at appearing thus in print, as it would inevitably suggest the idea of pretense beyond performance.

What I propose is this: venturing to presume upon your sympathy thus far, I invite you to go with me, in imagination, over the principal scenes I have witnessed, while I endeavor to make you share in the impressions they produced upon my own mind. Thus I shall carry you back to my early days, to my native

village, the "sweet Auburn" of my young fancy, and present to you the homely country life in which I was born and bred. Those pastoral scenes were epics to my childhood; and though the heroes and heroines consisted mainly of the deacons of my father's church and the school-ma'ams that taught me to read and write, I shall still hope to inspire you with a portion of the loving reverence with which I regard their memories. I shall endeavor to interest you in some of the household customs of our New England country life, fifty years ago, when the Adams delved and the Eves span, and thought it no stain upon their gentility. I shall let you into the intimacy of my boyhood, and permit you to witness my failures as well as my triumphs. In this the first stage of my career, I shall rely upon your good nature, in permitting me to tell my story in my own way. If I make these early scenes and incidents the themes of a little moralizing, I hope for your indulgence.

From this period, as the horizon of my experience becomes somewhat enlarged, I may hope to interest you in the topics that naturally come under review. As you are well acquainted with the outline of my life, I do not deem it necessary to forewarn you that my history presents little that is out of the beaten track of common experience. I have no marvels to tell, no secrets to unfold, no riddles to solve. It is true that in the course of a long and busy career, I have seen a variety of men and things, and had my share

of vicissitudes in the shifting drama of life; still the interest of my story must depend less upon the importance of my revelations than the sympathy which - naturally belongs to a personal narrative. I am perfectly aware that in regard to many of the events I shall have occasion to describe, many of the scenes I shall portray, many of the characters I shall bring upon the stage, my connection was only that of a spectator; nevertheless, I shall hope to impart to them a certain life and reality by arranging them continuously upon the thread of my remembrances.

This, then, is my preface; as the wind and weather of my humor shall favor, I intend to proceed and send you letter by letter as I write. After a few specimens, I shall ask your opinion; if favorable, I shall go on, if otherwise, I shall abandon the enterprise. I am determined, if I publish the work, to make you responsible for my success before the public.

COURBEVOIE, NEAR PARIS, JUNE, 1854.

S. G. GOODRICH.