common-place, plodding world of ours, which, if properly pictured, would absorb and interest without turning the mind into an enervating or immoral channel. However, I do not carry condemnation of fiction to the extreme that I would banish it altogether. Certain European novelists may write a pure sentiment. Arthur-who would condemn his truthful, home-like tales to the shade! Our noble Mrs. Stevens, enchanting us of a summer evening with her rich, instructing stories of olden times. Miss Sedgwick, Miss Orne, Miss Pickering, Miss Gove, and last of the many in our mental view, sweet, gentle, piquant, Fanny Forester, touchingly pleading our forbearance "with a smile on her cheek and a tear in her een."
Well, lady novel reader, I fancy I see a smile again. I feared I had gained your displeasure; for, till the last sentence or two, I imagined a look of dudgeon stole over you face. I will endeavor to cater for the taste of all, as far as consistency will allow me. To the first class of readers I will just say, that within these lids they will find nought contained but truth; to the second, that, although all true, some of the incidents are sufficiently thrilling to please, I trust, even after perusing the effusions of James, Cooper, or Lippard, that prince of thrilling story tellers, and with this they must rest content. The narrative, such as it is, is extracted, and compiled from various notes and other information obtained from Mrs. White, and Dr. White's Government Reports, and sundry documents kindly favored me, carrying them through a variety of scenes; interesting and extensive travels by land and water, and a residence of many years in the wilds of Oregon.