Excerpt: Having been often solicited, by my friends, to publish an account of my travels and labors in the West, after much hesitation and doubt, I have concluded to accede to their wishes. But before doing so, I will say a little about my early life. Newburyport, Mass., is my native place. My father, whose full name I bear, was from Denmark; my mother from Amsterdam, Holland. I was the first born of a family of three boys, one of whom, Frederick, many years since passed the way of all the earth. The other, James, resides in Texas. My father was a sailor, and was lost at sea in a terrific storm, when I was seven years old. I have a faint recollection of seeing him two or three times, and the only memento I have of him, is a large pitcher he had manufactured in Liverpool with his name and the picture of a ship on one side, and my mother?s maiden name and a picture representing Liberty, Peace and Independence, on the opposite[10] side. My mother was left in indigent circumstances, with not a relative in the New World, save her three helpless boys. She married some years after my father?s death, and resided till her death, which took place two years since, in Princeton, Mass. I have then a father, mother and one brother on the other side of the river, and one brother on this side, and not many years can elapse ere the whole family will be reunited in the land beyond the flood. I well remember the spot where all of us once lived, although I have not been in Newburyport for thirty years. It was on High street, between the Court House and the residence of ?Lord? Timothy Dexter. To me, that street seemed a paradise, and it was, and still is, a magnificent thoroughfare. It is on high ground, runs parallel with the Merrimac river, overlooks the harbor, and is bordered with rows of grand trees, with fine residences embowered in lawns and flower gardens. In this charming locality, I spent the first decade of my life. Here I ran, played, and frolicked with my brothers, and other little associates. The Mall around the Court House, the pond in the rear, and a neighboring cemetery, were places of frequent resort. On Sunday, I attended Dr. Morse?s church, where, I am told, I was christened by the good doctor, who was an Episcopalian. But the bud came near being suddenly blasted. An old-fashioned cent which I put into my mouth, slipped down my throat, and was extracted with much difficulty. I distinctly remember the circumstance. When the copper was taken out, blood flowed copiously from my mouth. My poor mother was much frightened, and I suffered for a short time severely. If my father had lived, I should probably have been a sailor. He was first mate of the ship in which he made his last and fatal voyage, and was to have been promoted to captain on his return. I have ever loved the sea, and a ship is a thing of beauty in my eye. But it was written[11] that the solid earth, not the treacherous deep, should be the field of my operations.
