Life in the Old World/To My Reader
TO MY READER.
It is a curious thing to keep a diary—for one's self only. I cannot conceive how it can be done. Once in my earliest youth I kept a diary, or rather a kind of moral account current, in which each day was entered with a short observation, of good, or bad, or middling. At the close of the year the days were added up; but when, after a few years' time, I discovered that the amount of the middling days was ever the greatest, I grew tired of the thing, and have never since kept a diary for—myself.
Besides, when one is happy enough to be surrounded, in one's home, by beloved brothers and sisters, one scarcely finds the necessity of keeping a written account of one's life for one's self. The heart's sighs, the questionings of the mind, the occurrences of the day, find immediate sympathy from the near and the dear who are at hand. When distant, one writes letters to them, and in these, one's diary. I had often done so, and latest in my letters from America. For I then possessed a mother and a sister in my home.
But a change came over my home; death entered; my home was made desolate, and I—solitary.
I felt it severely, when, two years afterwards, I again found myself on a more extensive journey, for again feelings and thoughts became too much for me, and longed for utterance. To whom should I now write. I felt deeply the truth of a witty Frenchman's remark, “Oh how sweet is solitude! But one must however have somebody to whom one can say, ‘Oh how sweet is solitude!’ ”
This somebody I had hitherto had, but now!—My first inquiring glance found empty space, but my second showed me, thee, my R——.
Thou hast often, for a long time, been a kind, encouraging friend to me, on my way, thou hast exercised no inconsiderable influence upon my life, by giving me an inclination to write and to learn, and to travel that I might yet learn something more—why then, why should I not write to thee the impressions of my travel? why not keep a diary for thee? let it become afterwards whatever it might, a printed book, diary, descriptions of travels, novel, or even—nothing at all. In any case, I felt that it would be a pleasure to me to communicate to thee the inspirations of the moment, to present thee with the flowers and the fruits of my life of travel.
This thought gave a new interest to my journeyings, and thou, my R——, becamest, in this manner, my traveling companion, often an encouraging, strengthening friend by the way, without thou thyself knowing any thing about it, and thou hast been such for now upwards of four years.
My journey is now concluded, and my diary complete. I herewith send thee my two years' travels in Switzerland and Italy.
It is not a romance, but a faithful description of reality—such as I comprehended it. I cannot help reality having at times something of the romantic in it.
I have imparted to thee my cheerful and my sorrowful impressions, as I went along; have made thee acquainted with the persons, the books, or the occurrences which made epochs in my inner life during my search after—that which I enjoin upon thee to seek as well as me. I have more frequently made thee participant of the pleasure than the fatigue of the day, and when I have become sleepy, or have feared that thou wast, so I have bade thee good-night.
I have thrice, during my residence in Italy, passed, with young friends, through romantic episodes of a deeply-exciting character. Of these I shall communicate to thee, as much as it is in my power to communicate without betraying their real heroines and heroes. I shall therefore allow myself to add to a good deal of truth a few grains of fiction, besides weaving up two of the romances into one. They will not essentially lose thereby, neither wilt thou.
It is a long journey to which I invite thee, in more than one respect, a pilgrimage, although its object merely dawned upon myself by slow degrees.
I shall conduct thee to places already frequently visited, and to subjects which have already been often written about; but we shall not be long detained by that which is familiar, but much more by the life of the present time in its various forms, its relationship to that of antiquity and—before every thing else—to the higher realm of humanity, the kingdom of God—the image of paradise, which we all, more clearly, or more darkly, bear in the depths of our souls—which it is the great business of human life to develop and establish on the earth.
And if, at the conclusion of this long journey, thou shouldst see this beautiful promised land present itself with a little more distinctness out of the mists of time, if thou shouldst feel thyself a little more courageous, a little more cheerful in thy labor for it, then, my R——, thou wilt not find this journey too long, nor repent having undertaken it.
This anticipation would seem like great pretension, but without it I should not have had the courage to undertake the journey, neither now, to have prepared this book.
I have, in its arrangement, divided it into chapters, which I have called Stations. They are intended to render a review of the contents easy, and Stations has seemed to me a good natural expression to indicate certain divisions of our traveling life. I say our, because—are we not all of us traveling through life!
Athens, October, 1860.