Mr. Birkbeck's journey across the little Wabash was a complete departure from all mark of civilization. Wandering without track, where even the sagacity of the hunter-guide had nearly failed, they at length arrived at the cabin of another hunter, in which they lodged. This man, his wife, his eldest son, a tall, half-naked youth, just initiated in the hunter's arts; his three daughters, growing up into great rude girls, and a squalling tribe of dirty brats, of both sexes, were of one pale yellow colour, without the slightest tint of healthful bloom. They were remarkable instances of the effect, on the complexion, produced by living perpetually in the midst of woods. Their cabin, which may serve as a specimen of these rudiments of houses, was formed of round logs, with apertures of three or four inches: there was no chimney, but large intervals were left between the "clapboards," for the escape of the smoke. The roof, however, was a more effectual covering, than Mr. Birkbeck had generally experienced, as it protected him and his party very tolerably from a drenching night. Two bedsteads, formed of unhewn logs, and cleft boards laid across; two chairs, (one of them without a bottom,) and a low stool, were all the furniture possessed by this numerous family. A string of buffalo-hide, stretched across the hovel, was a wardrobe for their rags; and their utensils, consisting of a large iron-pot, some baskets, one good rifle, and two that were useless, stood about in corners; and a fiddle, which was seldom silent, except when the inhabitants were asleep, hung by them. These hunters, in the back-settlements of America, are as persevering as savages, and as indolent. They cultivate indolence as a privilege: "You English (they say) are industrious, but we have freedom." And thus they exist, in yawning indifference, surrounded by nuisances and petty wants; the former of which might be removed, and the latter supplied, by the application of one tenth part of the time that is loitered away in their innumerable idle days.