And, Dear Reader, I was quite frank about my true feelings on this matter if only one read. Indeed, on page 90, I wrote: "Here I must confess, that my temperance pledge, although formerly including all alcoholic, intoxicating and vinous liquors, did not extend to the latter, in California; and I am inclined to believe that old father Mathew himself, however far he might be from doing so in the north, would drink wine in California; I know old Bacchus would."

The quibbling mattered little as 1844 became 1845. By the time my Guide was hot off the presses, I still had some booking obligations to fulfill, so I decided to steer the content of the lecture as a whole a little more sharply in the direction of Oregon and California—to fabulous effect! Such were my successes on the lecture circuit that my guide went through five successive printings almost at once! It became a bestseller!

Not bad for the son of a man named Waitstill! Yes, my own dear, departed father was named Waitstill Hastings—to honor a number of Waitstill Hastingses before him. Oh, do not say the Puritans didn't have any sense of humor.

And lest you think my temperance talks the very taproot of a singular hypocrisy, I can assure you of this much: it was far from the only one.

As I toured, I traveled along with one Reverend McDonald, who preached hellfire and brimstone (rather than temperance, per se) in the best vein of our American tradition. Impeccably behaved children gathered around from miles to hear of the taint of their Original Sin; women swooned to hear how each time they glimpsed their fair faces in the mirror they locked eyes with the Devil himself!

McDonald the Methodist was naturally abstemious, but surprisingly amiable and I was pleased for the legs of our respective tours that overlapped and dismayed that he preceded me in dropping off that eastern circuit altogether.

When I finally made it back out West, I had some business in Yerba Buena, where I stopped by one of my favorite watering holes (if only because it was one of the only). However, as I entered Vioget's Saloon, I saw the form behind the bar and noted that it was most certainly not good ol' Jacques.

So, I sidled up along the bar and must have had my head down when the bartender turned around, extended his hand, and brightly queried, "My good Temperance friend, how are you?"

What could I do but reply, "My good Methodist brother, how do you do?"

He poured us each a whiskey and you can bet that round was on the house!

[He raises his glass wryly and drinks.]

McDonald dined out on that one for years, so I hear.

Dear Reader, do not look so confused—or so mirthful. The challenge before me was to bring to market a path to the Unknown. How else was I to find my audience? To whom else was I to point out that a shortcut is a most ingenious, most American thing—simply uncanny how it lessens the effort!