"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 all the gods of the Indians, I would not have any connexion with it.--He then pointed to the stream where the girl was angling, and said, with a peasant countenance that had brightened up for a moment, 'Go; you are a _sober_ man; the clear waters are good for you; for my own part, this juice of the apple shall be sufficient.'--Two hours now elapsed, without any one uttering a word.--The Indian had by this time drunk two large gallons of cider; and recollecting in an instant, he had signed away his lands and wigwam, some days before, for a _mere trifle_, he became at once outrageous; his rage heightened to an alarming degree of extravagance by the strong fumes of the liquor he had swallowed.--'_It is enough_,' said he; '_my house and lands are departed: I will speak a word in favour of suicide_. "'Tis all in vain! These flowers, these streams, these solitary shades, are nothing to me. I shall not offend the spirit of truth when I say, they are odious in my eyes. Sixty times has the sun performed his journey of a year, since I was first struck with the beauty of his yellow rays. Could I be a witness of sixty yet to come, would there be any thing new, or which I had not seen before? It is high time we should intrude ourselves into the invisible abodes, when all things satiate and grow stale upon us here below. I will this very night enclose myself in my wigwam, and, setting it on fire, depart with the thin vapour that shall arise from the dried wood of the forest, when piled around me--No, no,' continued he, tasting the remains of his cider '_there is nothing new_; all is _old, stale; and insipid_.'