to shut my eyes to the difficulties and inconveniences of my situation; but rather forced myself to contemplate them in their sternest aspect. The certainty may be painful; but why should I struggle to conceal from myself that all my former scenes must henceforth be but as a dream of the days that are gone? Here is my lot cast, Between us there is a gulf fixed (oh how wide!) which few have resolution to cross: yet it is nothing when attempted. It is an excitement, a novelty, a sensation worth the purchasing.
To a first settler, the uncertainty of the how, the when, the where, the everything, connected with his prospects, is distracting; but to those coming out to join their friends, what is there but pleasure? I really believe that most persons would think it a change for the better. But it is, as I have more than once observed, too great a responsibility to advise the change.
There are now no difficulties in the way of emigration compared with those which the original settlers encountered. We have houses to shelter in, beds to sleep on, inns to quarter at,—meat and bread. But as to any of yourselves emigrating—how could you leave property, business, friends to lead the life of a rustic? Could you enjoy such a condition, so widely differing from your present habits and occupations? It is kind in you to talk of coming out here, to keep me in spirits; but I know the impracticability of
