in silence; and for these reasons: first, the narrative
would lead me to a greater length than I have auy right to presume upon
in this history, or to believe that my reader would be a willing party
to; and, secondly, the recital would entail the acquaintance with a
vast variety of characters, not one of whom ever again occurred to me
in life, and of whom, when I quitted Africa, their very names never were
heard by me more. And here I may be pardoned for saying that I have been
sadly constrained, in these my Confessions, to avoid, upon the one hand,
any mention of those persons who merely exercised a passing influence
on my fortunes, and yet to show by what agencies of personal
acquaintanceship my character became formed and moulded. In a novel, the
world would seem to consist of only the very characters introduced,
or, rather, the characters serve as abstractions to represent certain
qualities and passions of mankind; but in real life is this the case?
Nay, is it not precisely the reverse? Do not the chance intimacies we
form in the steamboat or the diligence very frequently leave deep and
lasting impressions behind them? Are not phrases remembered, and words
treasured up as axioms, that we have heard passingly from those we are
never to see again? Of how many of our strongest convictions the origin
was mere accident,--ideas dropped like those seeds of distant plants
that are borne for thousands of miles upon the wind, and let fall in
some far-away land to take root and fructify? And are these the agencies
to be omitted when a man would give a "confession" to the world? Why are
the letters of an individual his best biography, save as recording his
judgment upon passing events or people, with whom, in all likelihood,
he has little subsequent connection? But enough of this; I have said
sufficient for apology to those who see the difficulty of the case. To
those who do not, I have been prolix without being profitable.

[Illustration: 576-227]

Of Africa, then, I must not speak. Three years of its burning sun and
parched soil--the life of bivouac and battle--had done the work of ten
upon my constitution and appearance. I was bronzed almost to a Moorish
tint; a few straggling hairs of gray showed themselves in my dark beard
and moustache; while emergencies and hazards of different kinds had
imparted a sterner character to my features, that little resembled the
careless gayety of my earlier days. In addition to this, I was