“After fifteen nights of hurried march, we entered upon the chain of the Alleghany mountains, and reached one of the branches of the Tennessee, a river that falls into the Ohio. Aided by the advice of Atala, I built a boat, which I coated with plum-tree gum, after having re-sewn the bark with roots of the fir. I subsequently embarked therein with Atala, and we abandoned ourselves to the current of the river.
“The Indian village of Sticoë, with its pyramidal tombs and ruined huts, appeared on our left at the turn of a promontory; on the right we left the valley of Keow, terminated by the perspective of the cabins of Jore, which seemed to be suspended from the forehead of the mountain of the same name. The river which carried us along flowed between high cliffs, at the extremity of which we perceived the setting sun. The profound solitudes were not disturbed by the presence of men. We only saw one Indian hunter, who, leaning motionless upon his bow, on the peak of a rock, looked like a statue raised upon the mountain to the genius of those deserts.
“Atala and myself added our silence to the silence of this scene. All of a sudden, the daughter of exile filled the air by thus singing, in a voice replete with melancholy emotion, of her absent country:
“‘Happy are they who have not seen the smoke of foreign festivals, and who have never been seated elsewhere than at the rejoicings of their fathers!
“‘If the blue jackdaw of the Mississippi were to say to the nonpareil of the Floridas, “Why dost thou complain so sadly? Hast thou not here beautiful waters and lovely shades, and all sorts of pastures, as in thine own forests?”
“Yes,” would reply the fugitive nonpareil; “but my nest is in the jessamine; who will bring it to me? And the sun of my savannah, where is it?”
“‘Happy are they who have not seen the smoke of foreign festivals, and who have never been seated elsewhere than at the rejoicings of their fathers!
“‘After hours of painful wayfare, the traveller sits down in sadness. He sees around him the roofs of men’s habitations, but has no place wherein to repose his head. The traveller knocks at a cabin, places his bow behind the door, and asks for hospitality. The master makes a gesture of the hand; the traveller takes back his bow, and returns to the desert.
“‘Happy are they who have not seen the smoke of foreign festivals, and who have never been seated elsewhere than at the rejoicings of their fathers!
“‘Wondrous stories told around the hearth, tender effusions of the heart, long habits of loving so necessary to life, you have filled the days of those who have not quitted their natal place! Their tombs are in the land of their birth, with the setting sun, the tears of their friends and the charms of religion.