After all， it was not half so foolish as if I had writtenromances， instead of reciting them.
The following pages will contain a picture of my vagrantlife， intermixed with specimens， generally brief and slight，of that great mass of fiction to which I gave existence，and which has vanished like cloud-shapes. Besides theoccasions when I sought a pecuniary reward， I wasaccustomed to exercise my narrative faculty， whereverchance had collected a little audience， idle enough tolisten. These rehearsals were useful in testing the strongpoints of my stories； and， indeed， the flow of fancy sooncame upon me so abundantly， that its indulgence was itsown reward； though the hope of praise， also， became apowerful incitement. Since I shall never feel the warmgush of new thought， as I did then， let me beseech thereader to believe， that my tales were not always so cold ashe may find them now. With each specimen will be givena sketch of the circumstances in which the story was told.
Thus my air-drawn pictures will be set in frames， perhapsmore valuable than the pictures themselves， since they willbe embossed with groups of characteristic figures， amidthe lake and mountain scenery， the villages and fertilefields， of our native land. But I write the book for the sakeof its moral， which many a dreaming youth may profit by，though it is the experience of a wandering story teller.
A FLIGHT IN THE FOG
I set out on my rambles one morning in June， aboutsunrise. The day promised to be fair， though， at thatearly hour， a heavy mist lay along the earth， and settled，in minute globules， on the folds of my clothes， so that Ilooked precisely as if touched with a hoar-frost. The skywas quite obscured， and the trees and houses invisible，till they grew out of the fog as I came close upon them.
There is a hill towards the west， whence the road goesabruptly down， holding a level course through tile village，and ascending an eminence on the other side， behindwhich it disappears. The whole view comprises an extentof half a mile. Here I paused， and， while gazing throughthe misty veil， it partially rose and swept away， with sosudden an effect， that a gray cloud seemed to have takenthe aspect of a small white town. A thin vapor being stilldiffused through the atmosphere， the wreaths and pillarsof fog， whether hung in air or based on earth， appearednot less substantial than the edifices， and gave their ownindistinctness to the whole. It was singular， that such anunromantic scene should look so visionary.
Half of the parson’s dwelling was a dingy white house，and half of it was a cloud； but Squire Moody’s mansion，the grandest in the village， was wholly visible， even thelatticework of the balcony under the front window； while，in another place， only two red chimneys were seen abovethe mist， appertaining to my own paternal residence， thentenanted by strangers. I could not remember those withwhom I had dwelt there， not even my mother. The brickedifice of the bank was in the clouds； the foundations ofwhat was to be a great block of buildings had vanished，ominously， as it proved； the dry-good store of Mr.
Nightingale seemed a doubtful concern； and DominicusPike’s tobacco-manufactory an affair of smoke， except thesplendid image of an Indian chief in front. The white spireof the meeting-house ascended out of the densest heapof vapor， as if that shadowy base were its only support； or，to give a truer interpretation， the steeple was the emblemof religion， enveloped in mystery below， yet pointing to acloudless atmosphere， and catching the brightness of theeast on its gilded vane.
As I beheld these objects， and the dewy street， withgrassy intervals and a border of trees between the wheeltrackand the side-walks， all so indistinct， and not to betraced without an effort， the whole seemed more likememory than reality. I would have imagined that yearshad already passed， and I was far away， contemplating thatdim picture of my native place， which I should retain inmy mind through the mist of time. No tears fell from myeyes among the dew-drops of the morning； nor does itoccur to me that I heaved a sigh. In truth， I had never feltsuch a delicious excitement， nor known what freedom wastill that moment， when I gave up my home， and took thewhole world in exchange， fluttering the wings of my spirit，as if I would have flown from one star to another throughthe universe. I waved my hand towards the dusky village，bade it a joyous farewell， and turned away， to follow anypath but that which might lead me back. Never wasChilde Harold’s sentiment adopted in a spirit more unlikehis own.
Naturally enough， I thought of Don Quixote. Recollectinghow the knight and Sancho had watched for auguries，when they took the road to Toboso， I began， betweenjest and earnest， to feel a similar anxiety. It was gratified，and by a more poetical phenomenon than the braying ofthe dappled ass， or the neigh of Rosinante. The sun， thenjust above the horizon， shone faintly through the fog， andformed a species of rainbow in the west， bestriding myintended road like a gigantic portal. I had never known，before， that a bow could be generated between thesunshine and the morning mist. It had no brilliancy， noperceptible hues； but was a mere unpainted frame-work，as white and ghost-like as the lunar rainbow， which isdeemed ominous of evil. But， with a light heart， to whichall omens were propitious， I advanced beneath the mistyarchway of futurity.