At York Factory on Hudson Bay there lived, not very long ago, a man who
had stored away in his mind one fixed resolution it was to write a book.
"When I put down," he used to say, "all that I have seen, and all that I
havn't seen, I will be able to write a good book."
It is probable that had this man carried his intention into effect the
negative portion of his vision would have been more successfal than the
positive. People are generally more ready to believe what a man hasn't
seen'than what he has seen. So, at least, thought Karkakonias the
Chippeway Chief at Pembina.
Karkakonias was taken to Washington during the great Southern War, in
order that his native mind might be astonished by the grandeur of the
United States, and by the strength and power of the army of the Potomac.
Upon his return to his tribe he remained silent and impassive; his days
were spent in smoking, his evenings in quiet contemplation; he spoke not
of his adventures in the land of the great white medicine-man. But at
length the tribe grew discontented; they had expected to hear the recital
of the wonders seen by their chief, and lo! he had come-back to them as
silent as though his wanderings had ended on the Coteau of the Missouri,
or by the borders of the Kitchi-Gami. Their discontent found vent in
words.
"Our father, Karkakonias, has come back to us," they said; "why does he
not tell his children of the medicine of the white man? Is our father
dumb that he does not speak to us of these things?"
Then the old chief took his calumet from his lips, and replied, "'If
Karkakonias told his children of the medicines of the white man--of his
war-canoes moving by fire, and making thunder as they move, of his
warriors more numerous than the buffalo in the days of our fathers, of
all the wonderful things he has looked upon-his children would point and
say, Behold! Karkakonias has become in his old age a maker of lies! No,
my children, Karkakonias has seen many wonderful things, and his tongue
is still able to speak; but, until your eyes have travelled as far as has
his tongue, he will sit silent and smoke the calumet, thinking only of
what he has looked upon."
Perhaps I too should have followed the example of the old Chippeway
chief, not because of any wonders I have looked upon; but rather because
of that well-known prejudice against travellers tales, and of that
terribly terse adjuration-".O that mine enemy might write a book!" Be
that as it may, the book has been written; and it only remains to say a
few words about its title and its theories.
The "Great Lone Land" is no sensational name. The North-west fulfils, at
the present time, every essential of that title. There is no other
portion of the globe in which travel is possible where loneliness can be
said to live so thoroughly. One may wander 500 miles in a direct line
without seeing a human being, or an animal larger than a wolf. And if
vastness of plain, and magnitude of lake, mountain, and river can mark a
land as great, then no region possesses higher claims to that
distinction.
A word upon more personal matters. Some two months since I sent to the
firm from whose hands this work has emanated a portion of the unfinished
manuscript. I received in reply a communication to the effect that their
Reader thought highly of my descriptions of real occurrences, but less
of my theories. As it is possible that the general reader may fully
endorse at least the latter portion of this opinion, I have only one
observation to make.
Almost every page of this book has been written amid the ever-present
pressure of those feelings which spring from a sense of unrequited
labour, of toil and service theoretically and officially recognized, but
practically and professionally denied. However, a personal preface is not
my object, nor should these things find allusion here, save to account in
some manner, if account be necessary, for peculiarities of language or
opinion which may hereafter make themselves apparent to the reader. Let
it be.
In the solitudes of the Great Lone Land, whither I am once more about to
turn my steps, the trifles that spring from such disappointments will
cease to trouble.
April 14th 1872.