ad no sooner got out of the wood but he was entertained with such a
landscape of flowery plains, green meadows, running streams, sunny hills,
and shady vales as were not to be represented by his own expressions,
nor, as he said, by the conceptions of others. This happy region was
peopled with innumerable swarms of spirits, who applied themselves to
exercises and diversions, according as their fancies led them. Some of
them were tossing the figure of a quoit; others were pitching the shadow
of a bar; others were breaking the apparition of a horse; and multitudes
employing themselves upon ingenious handicrafts with the souls of
departed utensils, for that is the name which in the Indian language they
give their tools when they are burnt or broken. As he travelled through
this delightful scene he was very often tempted to pluck the flowers that
rose everywhere about him in the greatest variety and profusion, having
never seen several of them in his own country: but he quickly found, that
though they were objects of his sight, they were not liable to his touch.
He at length came to the side of a great river, and, being a good
fisherman himself, stood upon the banks of it some time to look upon an
angler that had taken a great many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncing
up and down by him.

I should have told my reader that this Indian had been formerly married
to one of the greatest beauties of his country, by whom he had several
children. This couple were so famous for their love and constancy to one
another that the Indians to this day, when they give a married man joy of
his wife, wish that they may live together like Marraton and Yaratilda.
Marraton had not stood long by the fisherman when he saw the shadow of
his beloved Yaratilda, who had for some time fixed her eye upon him
before he discovered her. Her arms were stretched out towards him;
floods of tears ran down her eyes; her looks, her hands, her voice called
him over to her, and, at the same time, seemed to tell him that the river
was unpassable. Who can describe the passion made up of joy, sorrow,
love, desire, astonishment that rose in the Indian upon the sight of his
dear Yaratilda? He could express it by nothing but his tears, which ran
like a river down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had not stood in
this posture long before he plunged into the stream that lay before him,
and finding it to be nothing but the phantom of a river, stalked on the
bot