I have read
a great many books about America since those days; but I am bound to
say they have not made me much in love with the writers, and I am also
bound to say that they have given me very, very little information upon
exactly those points that I most wished to inquire into. Of late years
I have altogether given up this kind of literature. I believe the last
time I looked into any one of these so-called “Travels,” or “Tours,” or
“Reminiscences,” was when Mr. Anthony Trollope’s volumes appeared, and
I could not get through them. Somehow my father’s words on the mother’s
book seemed to apply to the son’s, and spite of myself his voice seemed
to be saying to me, “It is not even true!”

But though I have ceased to read books about America, the strong
desire to see the New World has never faded; nay, it has increased
in intensity as the years have gone on, and what was at first but a
vague hankering after something merely visionary, has gradually become
a definite longing to see and know an attainable reality. My friends
laugh at me and assure me I should be very much disappointed; that I
should not like it; that no man ought to go to the States after thirty;
that at Cincinnati there are only hogs to see, and at Chicago only
monstrous corn warehouses, at New York only monster hotels, and at
Boston--oh, dear! such arrogant prigs; finally, that it would be quite
impossible for me to continue wearing a white cravat over there, for
the washing of my linen would simply ruin me. I hold my peace, but I
am not convinced, and I still wish to visit America. And why is this
wish so strong in me? I will try to answer that question as briefly
as I can, but I must needs answer it in a disorderly kind of way, and
give my reasons as they occur to me, without any attempt at systematic
arrangement.

First and foremost, let it be understood that I wish to visit America
because I am so very ignorant about the real life of a great nation
that has sprung into magnificent maturity in a single century. History
ha