To conceive the idea, and execute the purpose of making a book, is, to a modest man, not a little monstrous; and yet, modest or immodest, monstrous or not, the author makes his best bow to the reader, and holds himself subject to criticism for not making it better. But many are running to and fro in the earth, and knowledge is being increased; for the runners, are they not making books for the million? And having run somewhat with the runners ourself, we might as well tell our story of travel too. The story is not of sailing round the world with Captain Cook, or any other Sea King. Nor is it one of Orient—of Oriental climes or times, or of its discords or chimes, but it is one that pertains to stirring events, in stirring times, in the most stirring of all stirring climes—America, our own sweet land of liberty.