HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS THE GREAT WEST: CONTAINING NARRATIVES OF THE MOST IMPORTANT AND INTERESTING то WHICH 18 APPENDED HISTORICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES OF OREGON, NEW MEXICO, BY HENRY HOWE, AUTHOR OF "HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS OF VIRGINIA;" "HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS OF OHIO." Illustrated with India-tinted Engravings. VOL. I. NEW YOKK: GEORGE F. TUTTLE, 102 NASSAU ST. (UP-STAIRS). CINCINNATI: HENRY HOWE, NO. 111 MAIN STREET. PREFACE. WRITTEN history is generally too scholastic to interest the mass. Dignified and formal, it deals mainly in great events, and of those imperfectly, because not pausing to present clear impressions by the associations of individual life. It is these that lend to written fiction its greatest charm, and attract the multitude by appearing more like truth. Although untrue in the particular combinations, scenes and plots delineated, yet well written Fiction is drawn from Nature, from experience, and these facts in life, as with chessmen, are only arranged in new, but natural positions. History includes everything in Nature, Character, Customs and Incidents, both general and individual, that contributes to originate what is peculiar in a People, or what causes either their advancement or decline. So broad its scope, that nothing is too mighty for its graspso searching, scarce any thing too minute. Were written history a clear transcript of the valuable in history, it would be more enticing than the most fascinating fiction. But as History is written more like Fiction, and Fiction more like History, the latter has an hundred fold its readers. Herein are narrated not only the great events in the History of the West, but the smaller matters of individual experience, as important to its illustration. Interspersed are descriptions. of some of those more striking objects of Nature, that elicit wonder, or gratify the love of the grand or the beautiful. Additional, are prominent facts in relation to a distant Land which is lashed by the surf of a far western Ocean -a young Empire, rising in golden splendor under the rays of a far western Sun. For this work no originality can be claimed. Like all compilations, it is the production, not of one mind, but of a multitude-the offspring, not of one father, but of many. Hence, a superiority over an original work. The production of a single mind, however masterly, is pervaded by one style, and occasionally sinks into common place. But a skillful compilation gives a variety, and selecting only the best things, places them where they will best appear in comparison or combination. The fashion has been to prefer original works, and so it will continue until the public forget to regard the fields of literature as one grand Coliseum, and the actors thereon as merely mental Gladiators. Compilers are but an humble class-mere Camp followers of the great army of Authors who combat alone for Fame. When they are credited with selecting judiciously, abridging carefully, and combining adroitly, their Lilliputian cups are to the brim. Above this plane of a lower level they have no wings to soar. But on this is a broad field for utility. Such has been our object; and if we beguile the hours and brighten the memory of other days in the mind of the aged Pioneerif we amuse and instruct the young Farmer, at his evening's fireside, after a hard day's toil-then our measure is filled. A few solitary white sails, far out on the blue water, are seen with mysterious awe by the Indian from the Atlantic shore, appearing like huge monsters from a spirit world. They move toward the land! From out their sides pour forth a new, unheard-of race, with faces pale, speech unknown, and garments of singular texture and brilliant in colors. The ring of the ax for the first time echoes through the wood. The habitations of the new race rise from the green earth. On the ocean border, hundreds of leagues apart, they cluster in detached collections; but far inland do not yet penetrate. There the red man roams through the vast solitudes, unconscious of the dark cloud rising in the East to overwhelm and sweep him from the land. A stranger being suddenly appears before him. A long robe envelopes his form. Pale and sad is his countenance, and in his hand he elevates an unknown symbol. It is the Missionary of the Cross! Alone, in peril, in suffering, he has penetrated through the wilderness to teach him the mystery of redemption, of a more than human love. He remains, perchance, to die by the hand of him he came to save; but amid horrible torture, with the flame winding around him as a coffin sheet, he blesses his lot and yields up life with joy. The settlements of the pale faces rapidly advance. They reach the ocean-ward slope of the mountains. They pass over their summits. The smokes of their cabins curl up in the western valleys. The red man vanishes before them. Civilization is his conqueror, and now the footsteps of millions of the new race press his grave and press the graves of his fathers. To contemplate these mighty events-more wondrous than Romance is instructive to Virtue!-to act well in the Present, its aim! -to anticipate more glorious changes in the Future, its brightest Hope! |