xii A FEW MEMOIRS OF 
of presumption, or disrespect, in making any attempt at 
a relation of the principal incidents in his life. 
Still, as “ Frank Forester,” the lover of Nature, the 
charming writer, the Shakespeare of sporting literature, 
Herbert’s name and fame have now become a species of 
American public property, as it were, in which every 
person using the English language takes a hearty interest; 
and, without intending any disregard to the personal 
wishes of their dear, departed friend—for such his read¬ 
ers all feel and know him to be—his spiritual life and his 
literary influence have now commenced to shine forth in 
their true glory, and possess a greater hold than ever 
upon the public mind, as if enough never could be writ¬ 
ten or printed concerning so versatile and fascinating an 
author. 
Yes, indeed; by the matchless works Herbert has left 
to speak for him, he is with us more than ever—in spirit 
—upon the hill-top, in the flowery dell, tracing the sides 
of mountain brooks from bright and breezy eminences, or 
holding lofty communion with Nature among the leafy 
arches and solemn shades in our glorious old woods. As 
a writer, he has stamped the current impress of his gen¬ 
ius upon a young and confederated nation, just beginning 
to find out its vast possessions in topography and resources, 
yielding to its inhabitants almost every variety of climate 
and production. “Frank Forester,” with his pen, ac¬ 
companies us like some well-experienced surveyor, walk¬ 
ing about with a divining rod. “ Our Frank ” does more. 
He pleasantly introduces us to this, that, or the other 
—whatever may be most worthy of observation—in 
earth, air, or water. He points out how to cherish and 
preserve what an all-bountiful Providence has in store for 
the active, the patient, or the resolute. He is the “ Peter 
Parley” of his delighted followers. We incontinently 
shoulder our smooth-bore, lug the knapsack, or continue 
