visit to my relation, and seeing what I could of America in that way.
After a brief sojourn at New York, I started by railway for the
residence of my host--Mr. Isaac Meadowcroft, of Morwick Farm.

There are some of the grandest natural prospects on the face of
creation in America. There is also to be found in certain States of the
Union, by way of wholesome contrast, scenery as flat, as monotonous,
and as uninteresting to the traveler, as any that the earth can show.
The part of the country in which M. Meadowcroft's farm was situated
fell within this latter category. I looked round me when I stepped out
of the railway-carriage on the platform at Morwick Station; and I said
to myself, "If to be cured means, in my case, to be dull, I have
accurately picked out the very place for the purpose."

I look back at those words by the light of later events; and I
pronounce them, as you will soon pronounce them, to be the words of an
essentially rash man, whose hasty judgment never stopped to consider
what surprises time and chance together might have in store for him.

Mr. Meadowcroft's eldest son, Ambrose, was waiting at the station to
drive me to the farm.

There was no forewarning, in the appearance of Ambrose Meadowcroft, of
the strange and terrible events that were to follow my arrival at
Morwick. A healthy, handsome young fellow, one of thousands of other
healthy, handsome young fellows, said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Lefrank? Glad
to see you, sir. Jump into the buggy; the man will look after your
portmanteau." With equally conventional politeness I answered, "Thank
you. How are you all at home?" So we started on the way to the farm.