“By this time we had arrived at the ruins of the old indian town.  The situation was highly romantic, and of that kind which naturally inclines one to be melancholy.  At this instant a large heavy cloud obscured the sun, and added a grace to the gloominess of the scene.  The vestiges of streets and squares were still to be traced; several favourite trees were yet standing, that had outlived the inhabitants; the stream ran, and the springs flowed, as lively as ever, that had afforded refreshment to so many generations of men, that were now passed away, never to return.  All this while the Indian had melancholy deeply depicted in his countenance; but he did not shed many tears, till we came to that quarter where his ancestors had been entombed.  ‘This spot of land,’ said he, recovering himself a little, ’was once sacred to the dead; but it is now no longer so!  This whole town, with a large tract around it, not even excepting the bones of our progenitors, has been sold to a stranger.  We were deceived out of it, and that by a man who understood Greek and Hebrew; five kegs of whiskey did the business:  he took us in the hour of dissipation, when the whole universe appeared to us but a little thing; how much less then, this comparatively small tract of country, which was, notwithstanding, our whole dependance for the purposes of hunting and fishing!——­Here,’ continued he, sighing, ’was the habitation of Tawlongo, one of our most celebrated warriors.  He, in his time, could boast of having gained no fewer than one hundred and twenty-seven complete victories over his enemies; yet he was killed at last by an unarmed Englishman.

“Here, too, on the opposite side of the way, stood the house of Pilaware, the admirable; she had been addressed by thirty-three suitors of her own nation, but refused them all, and went off at last with an irish pedlar, for the sake of three yards of silver riband, and a new blanket.  Yonder stood the dwelling of Scuttawabah, my immediate ancestor; he died for joy of having found a keg of rum, that had been lost by some western trader.  May his joys be continued behind the western mountains—­Recollection overcomes me—­Let us return to the wigwam in the forest.’

“As soon as we had reached this sequestered abode, the Indian once more sat himself down, and leaned his head upon his hand, melancholy enough, to be sure.

“The old squaw desired to know why he was so sorrowful—­The remedy,’ said she, is in your power.’—­He then started up, as if suddenly recollecting somewhat, and cried out, ’Existence is but a dream, an agreeable dream indeed, if we only choose to consider it as such.—­Bring me that jug of strong cider; it will be my friend, when all others fail and forsake me—­Choicest gift of God to man! and which the white people alone possess the art and knowledge of producing!’—­He courteously offered me a share of his beverage; but I found it so intolerably sour, that I was forced to swear by