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ALL’S FOR THE BEST.
BT M. F. TUPPEB.
All’s for the best! be sanguine and cheerful,
Trouble and sorrow are friends in disguise ;
Nothing but folly goes faithless and fearful,
Courage for ever is happy and wise:
All for the best—if a man would but know it,
Providence wishes us all to be blest:
This is no dream of the pondit or poet,
Heaven is gracious, and all for the best.
All for the best 1 get your heart on this standard,
Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love,
Who to the shores of despair may have wandered
) A way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove.
A- in for the best! —be a man but confiding ;
Providence res j i
And the frail barque of his creature Is guiding
Wisely and warily, all for the best.
All for the best! then fling away terrors ;
Meet all your fears and your foes in the van ;
. And, in the midst of your dangers or errors,
’ - Trust like a child while you strive like a man.
Ail forthe t&si ! unbiassed, unbended,
Providence reigns from the east to the west;
And, by both wisdom and mercy surrounded,
Hope, and be happy, and all’s for the best I
SUCH THINGS WERE.
Time flies when he should linger most,
The brightest joys are soonest lost,
And swiftly pass the hours away
When friends are near and hearts are gay.
The fairest scenes that Time can bring
But add a feather to his wing,
And when his path is marked with care
We say in sorrow, “Such things were.”
In happy hours we often say,
In scenes like these we should be gay ;
But, if we lose one valued friend,
Our feelings change, our pleasures end ;
We mourn the looks so truly dear,
We miss the voice we used to hear ;
The scene is changed, and sadly there
We must remember “ Such things were.”
In every walk we seek alone
We sadly sigh for something gone!
In every path some spot is seen
Where that loved friend had lately been ;
In every song, in every dance,
We miss a step, a tone, a glance ;
We think of joys we used to share,
And say in sorrow, “ Such things were.”
LINES WRITTEN ON THE SAND.
Next, when ocean’s rising wave
O’er these sands shall curling lave,
It will, unconscious, sweep away
All we have writ in idle play ;
Then, ebbing, leave a lovely plain,
For merry hands to mar again !
Oh, would that Time’s all-sweeping tide
O’er our past sorrows thus could glide ;
Softly lave the harrow’d mind,
And leave no rugged trace behind.
But no, the lines by Sorrow traced
Are not thus easily effaced.
More like the letters on the rock,
They time and tide alike can mock ;
While those impress’d by Joy’s bright hand
Are like the letters in the sand.
WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS.
i NUMBER TWO.
CAPTAIN ‘DAN HENRIK AND TTJS AD YEN-,
‘mk-N'OIAfcA *
BY C. W. WEBBER.
[CONCLUDED .J
W; The hurry and necessities of his flight had
taken him off his course hack to the rendez
vous of his companions. He now first discov
ered this as he emerged from the timber upon
the prairie again, and found himself far enough
away from the course of the stream. He
paused but for a moment, to collect himself
and try and get back the true idea of his direc
tion. Thinking he had it, he urged his horse
into a swift run again. This was kept up for
several hours, until night began to close around
him, and his horse to give unmistakable indi
cations that he must have rest before he went
much further. He came at last to a small riv
ulet, trickling along a deep, rough cut, and, as
he supposed, in the direction of the west
branch of the Nueces. He had passed the
camp far enough, he knew, but this would set
him right if he followed it up when daybreak
came. So he selected a small piece of meadow
ground which was covered with musquit grass,
and well protected from view by the great
clusters of cactas which surrounded it on
three sides. Here he stripped his faithful
horse and turned him loose to graze, and then
taking for supper a hearty draught of water,
threw himself upon his blanket to sleep.
He had lost his provision wallet in the
chase, and it was more than he dare venture
upon to shoot game, for fear of betraying his
hiding-place; and though hungry enough, he
was fain this time “ to go to bed supperless. ’
He thought of home before sleep came, of
course, and wished himself there most heart
ily, that he might attack the well-stocked
pantry, the contents of which danced in most
tantalizing visions before him during .the
whole night. This was too much a common
predicament, however, to make any very
strong impression upon him otherwise.
He was mounted and off very early the next
L morning, and was by no means delighted to
perceive’ that’ his horse was considerably
gauntod by tb y On nard work and the
somewhat narrow commons of the night.
However, he moved on now with something
less of a hurry, as there were no indications of
pursuit apparent. Following the rivulet, he
soon reached the west branch, and turned up
this with a brisker movement, spurred by the
cheerful hope of soon rejoining his compan
ions and finding them safe. In an hour he
was in sight of the ground, and put his horse
into a swift gallop in his eagerness to pass
over the interval quickly. On coming up he
saw, instead of his comrades, the dead body
of an Indian warrior lying across the very
ashes of their camp-fire, all gashed and hewn
with bowie-knife cuts. All around the earth
was deeply broken up, with the evidences of
a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. The
breech of a rifle, which he recognized, and a
number of arrows, with a broken lance and
shield, were scattered around. He felt a
choking sensation, and his blood ran cold at
this sight.
His comrades had been surprised, no doubt,
by the same party which had pursued him,
but with what result it was impossible for him
to tell certainly, though he had little choice
but to believe and fear the worst. Amid the
multitude of the tracks of unshod horses he
could distinguish the few tracks of their shod
horses. There was no trace of their bodies in
the hasty survey he had time to make, and it
seemed very strange that this dead warrior
should be left behind, so contrary to their
well-known custom. He followed the trail for
some time, with great caution, but could make
no discovery, except a great deal of blood on
the ground, until towards noon, when, rising
the comb of a. steep ridge, he looked down
into the plain below upon a large body of
Indians, encamped about a mile distant.
This was a startling sight, and they per
ceived him at the same moment. Now he felt
he would have indeed to run for his life. One
glance, as he wheeled, was sufficient to show
him warriors mounting the horses of his
friends! He did not dread a race with the
horses of the Indians so much—for his horse
was more thai> a match for the best of theirs—
but the horses of his comrades v’ere as swift,
and in every sense as good as his. Now they
were to be turned against him! He cursed
the rashness that had induced him to follow
up their trail, but this was no time to pause
for regrets; he was off, down the hill, at the
best speed his horse, already somewhat fagged,
could raise. All depended upon getting back
to the timber and losing them. He could hear
their pursuing yells distinctly, for a moment,
and thin was no syren’s music to draw him
back. He had a good mile the start, but that
was no great matter if./as he supposed, their
horses were fresher tnan his own. He had
not time now to feel any alarm, but only that
. there was hot work before him, and he had it ■’
to attend to. His object was to get out of
sight as soon as possible, for he gained a great
deal by compelling them to run on his trail.
He strained his horse tremendously, and suc
ceeded, for when the sudden burst of their
voices came from time to time, proving that
they had reached the comb of the ridge, he
looked back and could not see it or them.
He felt a little less tight about the heart
now, and had time to think something of his
best course. It seemed a forlorn chance for
an escape ; he was over six miles from timber.
He suddenly remembered that he had ob
served, for several days past, a heavy smoke
off toward the south, and, looking now in that
direction, saw it filling the whole horizon with
gloomy masses, which seemed to be rising but
a few miles off. Observing that it was not
very high, it instantly occurred to him, in his
extremity—for the felt sure, from the action of
his horse, that he would not last much longer
in the hard run before them—that the safest
course for him would be the most desperate,
and this was to make directly for the approach
ing line of this fire, and take his chance of being
able to force his way through it alive. With
such a barrier between himself and the Indians
he would be safe. Acting upon this stern and
strange alternative, he urged his horse steadily
towards the fire. It was not long before he
met the dark advance guard of the smoke, as
it rolled along the grass, and rode beneath its
stifling shelter, the fire being yet a mile off.
He was now securely enough out of sight
of the Indians, and springing from his
horse, proceeded to prepare himself for a
trial of the fiery sea. He cut his blanket into
pieces, with one of which he blindfolded his
horse; another he tied in a loose bag about
the lower part of its head, enveloping the
mouth and nostrils. He then enveloped his
own face in a loose vizor of the same material.
The blanket was coarse and let in air enough
to sustain life for a short time, while it
kept out the c -i o ke. He could heW the yells
of his pursue l . .jfipqrly dose ai ly— Tie
was now in litter darkness, and mounting
quickly again, headed his horse directly for
the fire. On he went, not knowing where;
the reins were tightened, and the lash and
spur applied with the energy of desperation.
Hotter and hotter the air became, but on
he careered, heady and blind. The fire has
struck him with a roaring surge. His hair
flames crisply, and the flesh of his body seems
to be burning! The frantic and panting horse
attempts to shy; but no, the fierceness of the
agony has turned that rider’s arm and will to
iron.
It cannot shy—the poor horse! On! on!
scorching through the stifling blaze ! A few
bounds more and the terrific surges are past!
The fresh air has met him! He tore the
envelop from his face and leaped from the
staggering horse upon the charred hot ground.
The. blanket is torn away from its mouth, and
the animal begins to revive quickly, though it
shivers and can scarcely stand for the mortal
terror. He is safe ! He has accomplished an
unparalleled feat!
He hears faintly above the crackling and
roar of the roaring flames a howl of triumph
from his pursuers, who imagine they have
driven him into the flames, and that he is
burnt, horse and all. He makes a feeble
attempt to answer them defiantly, but can
scarcely hear his own voice. Stunned, and
gasping to recover the use of their almost
stifled lungs, he and his horse stand, side by
side, upon that blackened plain, without mov
ing a step for more than a hour.
But the perils of the day were by no means
passed. Before him, as far as the eye could
reach, there was only one charred, level,
smouldering waste, which had to be crossed
before he could reach water, for which both
himself and horse were now almost perishing.
He started on at last, taking his course at ran
dom, for one seemed to his bewildered senses
about as good as another. He did not ride at
first, Towfc mercifully led liis pour lionse, Until
the heat of fcfce ground, cflad the still smould
ering stubs of grass became insufferable to his
feet, and then he turned to mount. He now,
. for the first time, looked at the animal care
• fully, and to his horror, saw that nearly every
hair upon its body was gone, and little but the
bare skin left, and that was so badly scorched
in places, as to come off at the slightest touch.
This was dreadful enough, but—water!
water! water! he must have that, or they
would both die. He sprang into the saddle
and urged the wretched creature along with
the last energies of his sinking life. In an
hour he had begun to grow dizzy, and the
blackened earth swam round and round, and
tossed him to and fro! Now a strange noise
was about him; and as the lifting waves of
the earth would almost seem to leap up into
his face, he would catch glimpses of huge
wolves careering on them, turning up their
fiery eyes to his, and howling at him with red
hot open mouths and lolling tongues! Sud
denly his horse rushed down a steep bank,
and there was a great splashing. Water!
Blessed God, water! He tumbled from his
saddle into the cold delicious fluid.
In an instant his senses had returned, and
he saw himself surrounded by thirty or forty
prairie wolves, some of whom were swimming 1
in the water after him, while the others sat
upon the bank of the small lake, and howled ;
their gathering cry. He struck those which
were nearest with his gun barrel and beat
them off, while he had time to draw his knife.
One of them had seized his passive horse,
who, while it was endeavoring to pull him
down, stood still and drank—the long eager
draughts. He split the wolf’s head with his
knife, and soon sent the rest back out of the
water-, yelling with their wounds. But those
upon the bank only howled the louder, and
they were answered near at hand and from
afar by hundreds of others, who were swiftly
gathering in at the well-known call to a ban
quet.
He now remembered that these weird and
infernal brutes always collect in large numbers
to follow in the wake of a great prairie fire,
and tear the carcasses of those animals that
are killed; or band together, to chase and
drag down those that come through alive, but
scorched, blinded and staggering, as was his
poor horse. They become very savage with
blood, impunity and numbers, and very few
creatures which have escaped from the hungry
flames can escape from their yet more raven
ous jaws. The creature, at other times, is
utterly contemptible for its cowardice; but
he shuddered when he called to mind the
dreadful stories he had heard of its deadly
fierceness on such occasions as this.
“’My God!” he moaned aloud; “Wasn’t it
bad enough for iJie to pass that hell of flames
back yonder! and have I only escaped that
to meet a fate thousand times more hideous ?”>
He looked at his horse; the animal was
now, too, partially refreshed, and began to be
conscious of the new danger, as it gazed
around with staring eye-balls upon the eager
and swiftly gathering crowd that howled along
the bank. He snorted in affright, and lifted
his head with a wildly mournful neigh, that
seemed to poor Dan the most piteous sound
that ever rung upon his ear before. There was
some comfort though, the horse had life
enough in him to make one more run for
safety.
He mounted, and after having fired his rifle,
with deliberate aim, into the thickest of them,
charged right through at full speed. They
leaped at his feet and attempted to seize his
horse’s legs, but the animal was too mortally
frightened for them to impede his way for an
instant. Through he trampled, and away
across the prairie he flies, snorting with terror,
and moving with as great speed as if per
fectly fresh; and away, too, in pursuit, swept
the yelling herd of wolves. There were more
than a hundred now, and seemed increasing
in numbers at every jump ; for as Dan glanced
his frightened eyes around, he would see
them straitened out with speed and their
mouths wide open, coming to join the terrible
route from every direction over the prairie.
He looks behind him—they were close upon
his heels. The great part of them, particu
larly those in front, and who seemed most
fierce and ravenous, were scorched nearly
naked; and with the white foam flying, their
long red tongues, their fiery glaring eyes, they
presented the most hideous picture of un
earthly terror that ever mortal lived to be
chased by, unless by the horrible phantasma
goria of madness.
He fired his pistols back at them, but it
made no difference; they only yelled the
louder, and came on the more fiercely, while
five joined their long train for each one that he
killed. If his horse should fall or give out,
they would be torn to fragments in an
instant! This Appalling conviction rened
Ltav, +_■ gr-r-w Y
---■ him in the mdrtal'fright to steadying and guid
ing his horse, for the only hope now lay in
him. He soon perceived, however, that he
was leaving the pack far behind, for there is
little comparison between the speed of a horse
and that of the prairie wolf.
He now began to feel something of hope;
and as the frantic speed of his horse placed
yet a greater distance between them, the un
imaginable dread seemed to be lifting from his
life. Now he could not hear their yells, and
could barely distinguish, far in the rear, the
long snake-like train yet moving on in the
relentless chase, over the undulations “of the
bare plain. He sees timber ahead, and shouts
in a ecstacy of joyous relief, for then he him
self at least is safe! He can climb a tree—
and in the delight of that thought, he has no
time for thinking that his poor horse cannot
climb trees.
The horse sees, and is inspirited, too—for
to all creatures on the prairies there seems to
•be a vague feeling of safety in the sight of
woods. But, alas, poor horse! They have
reached the timber, but scarcely a hundred
rods have been passed over, when the faithful
creature gives out; and after a few ineffectual
efforts still to obey the urging spur, can only
lean against the trunk of a tree, and pant and
groan with exhaustion. Dan ascends the tree,
tying the lariat of his horse to one of the
lower limbs. He then loaded his arms in the
forlorn hope of defending him if they came
up. All was still as death, but the loud pant
ing of the exhausted animal. He ascended
higher to look out for the approach of the
wolves, for he had a faint hope that they had
given up the chase. But, alas! his heart sinks
again. There they come, the long, yellowish
looking train; and several large white wolves
have joined them now. He knows well the
tameless and pitiless ferocity of these red-eyed
monsters, and feels that his true, his noble
horse, must go!
NTo-w 1.0 iwi.li their cry! They are in
the woods. Thepoor horse-shivers—looks
back, and utters that wild and wailing neigh,
as they rush upon him in a body. Dan fires
down among them ; but what avail is it ? In
a twinkling his gallant beast is down, and has
been torn to atoms! The halter of the lariat
hangs empty beside the tree.
Now they lie panting around the foot of the 1
tree, with their fiery eyes turned wistfully up
at him—for the horse has been only a mouth
ful a piece. Whenever he makes a movement
they rise with eager yells, and leap up toward
him, as if to meet his fall. Dan says that in
the utter and dreadfully hopeless desperation
of his position now, a grotesque sort of humor
possessed him of a sudden, and he commenced
firing down at the red, glaring eye-balls of the
white wolves, and would roar with laughter,
and fairly dance upon his ticklish perch with
glee, when he saw the creature tumble over,
with a shrill death-cry; and then the whole
pack rush on it and tear it into shreds in an
instant, with gnashing cries.
He says he amused himself in this way for
an hour, and made them tear to pieces every
white wolf that had joined in the chase. This
sport delighted him so much, that he became ’
careless, and narrowly escaped falling. He ;
only saved himself by dropping his gun,
which they seized, and almost tore its stock to i
pieces before they discovered it was not eat- ]
able. I saw the dents of their ‘teeth in the
barrel afterwards. Darkness was coming on,
and they seemed not in the least disposed to
go; and he felt that he must tumble out from
the faintness of hunger*and fatigue, if he was
compelled to spend another hour in that tree
without food. He had become entirely reck
less now, and loaded up his pistols, determined,
if he must fall, to bring death with him for
some more of them.
Suddenly he heard a distant yelling on the
prairie, like that which liad sounded so dread
fully behind his flight. The wolves sprung to
their feet in a body, and, with pricked ears,
listened. He looked out towards the prairie,
and could faintly discover a large buffalo bull
plunging along over the plain, surrounded by
a great herd of wolves, who were tearing him
at every jump. He could even hear the low
bellowing of the creature’s agony. Another
victim! and hi? thirsty guardians started to
join the chase. One after another they went;
while those wlio stayed behind would turn
their heads to look back wistfully at him, and
whine and lick their dry chops. When the
chase came in sight though, off they started in
a body with savage yells. He fired his pistols
after them in farewell, and killed one of the
hindmost, while another, with a broken shoul
der, kept on yeEing with the pack.
He knew he would be safe now if he could
get a fire kindlrttSbefore they returned, if they
did so at all. jfotpre they were out of sight
he had roiichejpHtgq-ound, and with trembling
eagerness proqeeued to light a fire with the
help of his flint and steel, which every Ranger
carries. He soon had a great fire blazing, and
then cutting a piece from the last wolf he had
killed, proceeded to roast it for food. When
he had eaten, he felt so much refreshed that
he could now proceed to make provision for
the night’s rest. He gathered a great deal of
dried wood, and built a large fire in a circle
about the spot he had selected to sleep upon.
The wolves came back in about an hour after
he had finished his arrangements for the night;
but he now felt perfectly secure, for though
he could see their hungry eyes shining all
round the outside of the circle, and they kept
up a continued hAtvling all night long, he laid
himself down and slept soundly until morning.
When he waked up, the wolves were all
gone but one or two, craunching at the bones
of yesterday’s feast. He shot one of them
with his pistol, and made a breakfast off of it.
He picked up the gun, and found that though
very much torn, it could still be used. He
now took his course, and started to foot it
into the settlements. After a week of almost
incredible suffering, he got in safe, and saw
nothing mordLof the wolves or of his com
rades, who are thought to have been carried
off prisoners, and afterwards murdered by
the Indians on their attempting to escape.
Dan was sick of a fever for several weeks
at Corpus Christi after he got in, and raved
incessantly abou| wolves.
’ DANIEL BOONE, THE HUNTER.
This country has produced a race of hardy,
s daring men, whose adventures and trials in
- planting civilization in the American wilder
ness have exalted them to the position of
t heroes. In the proud advancement of great
s States, the efforts of the humble pioneers have
! too often received but slight attention, and
‘ names connected with the days of sacrifices
, and suffering have almost faded from the
E- ’’ic mind. But it was these men who laid
whiclLsuch imposing
li been reared ?
-and it is a grateful t4sk, sometimes to recall’
1 their worth and their works. Prominent and
> bravest of this class was Daniel Boone, well
i named the “ Great Pioneer of the West.” It
i is to him that the powerful and prosperous
State of Kentucky owes her first settlement.
; A man, in the words of another, “ who, when
l he was master of a vast territory, committed
- no oppression, and when he was deprived of
! every acre, uttered no murmur—who fought
l only to defend, subdued only to yield up to
i his country.”
s The grandfather of Daniel Boone came from
i Devonshire, England. He settled in what is
i now Berks county, Pennsylvania, with a family
■ of nine sons and ten- daughters. The father
• of Daniel bore the tingular name of “ Squire ”
i as his baptismal aßielation. He married one
; Sarah Morgan v /Daiiel was born on the 11th
of February, 1735,near Bristol, on the Dela
ware, some twenty miles from Philadelphia.
When he was thAe years old, his father
removed to Readim then a thinly populated
frontier As he grew up, he re
ceived some little instruction at such a school
as the times affordul. But at the earliest age,
he.exhibited a pecuiar fondness for the woods
and hunting. SaC Bogart, one of his bio
graphers : “ Boonelwas soon a hunter. The
stories of his in this department of
action are many, kis related of him, that he
soon deserted the farm-house of his father, and
established for himself a cabin in the woods,
decorated with tha spoils of the chase—that
he faced fearlessly the fiercer wild beasts that
prowled around—jdnd that men stepped back
to contemplate, with more than ordinary won
der, the daring of a boy who had so soon in
life won a name arc ong his people, by acts of
skill and courage.’!
About the year 1753, the elder Boone re
moved with his family to North Carolina set
tling near the Scjith Yadkin River. Here
Daniel grew to mjffiood, and at length mar
ried a young Rebecca Bryan. He
tlien Vadkin Valley,
“ but still more rß‘Ote from the sea-board.”
Says Bogart: “ Rmay be doubted whether,
if the opinions generally received of Daniel
Boone were true, ht would have been the pio
neer of Keutuckj. Until his history was
closely investigate!, he was classed with the
wild Unsman—the Indian fighter—the man of
the border foray —3 link between the savage
and the settler. Sis real character was not
this. Mild and simple-hearted, steady, not
impulsive in courage—bold and determined,
but always rather inclined to defend than
attack, he stood immeasurably above that
wretched class of jen who are often the pre
liminaries of civilisation. Boone deliberately
choose the peace of solitude, rathar than to
mingle in the wildVranglings and dispu tings of
the society arounTTiim.”
In 1767, John Finley, a hunter, penetrated
to the Kentuckyvliver, and returned with a
glowing account of the beauty of the country
and its superior advantages as a hunting
ground. After sone delay, anew expedition
was arranged, consisting of six men—Daniel
Boone, John Finley, John Stewart, Joseph
Holden, James Monay and William Pool. The
party set forth on the Ist of May, 1769.
The following accounts of their perils and
misfortunes are in the words of Boone. “We
proceeded successfully,” he says, “ and after a
long and fatiguing journey through a moun
taneous wilderness, in a westward direction,
on the seventh day of June following we
found ourselves on Red River, where John
Finley had formerly been trading with the ‘
Indians, and, from the top of an eminence, saw
with pleasure the beautiful level of Kentucky.
Here let me observe that, for some time, we
had experienced the most uncomfortable
weather, as a prelibation of our future suffer
ings. At this place we encamped, and made
a shelter to defend ourselves from the inclem
ent season, and began to hunt and reconnoitre
the country. We found everywhere abun
dance of wild beasts of all sorts through thp
forest. The buffalo were more frequent than
I have seen cattle in the settlements, browsing
on the leaves of the cane, or cropping the
herbage on those extensive plains—fearless,
because ignorant of the violence of man.
Sometimes we saw hundreds in a drove, and
the numbers about the salt springs were
amazing. In this forest, the habitation of the
beasts of every kind natural to America, we
practiced hunting with great success until the
22d day of December following. This day
John Stewart and I had a pleasant ramble;
but fortune changed the scene in the close of
it.* We had passed through a great forest, on
which stood myriads of trees, some gay with
blossoms, others rich with fruits. Nature was
here a series of winders, a fund of
Here she displayed her ingenuity and indiStry
in i variety, of flofjers and fruits, beautildkj
colored, elegantly’ shaped, and charmmgly
flavored; and we were diverted with innu
merable animals presenting themselves per
petually to our view. In the decline of the day,
near the KentucFy River, as we ascended the
brow of a small hill, a number of Indians
rushed out of a thick cane-brake upon us, and
made us prisoners. The time of our sorrow
was now arrived and the scene fully opened.
The Indians plundered us of what we had, and
kept us in confinement seven days, treating us
with common savage usages.
“ During this time, we discovered no uneasi
ness or desire to escape, which made them
less suspicious of us; but, in the dead of
night, as we lay in a thick cane-brake, by a
large fire, when sleep had locked up their
senses, my situation not disposing me for rest,
I touched my companion, and gently awoke
him. We improved this favorable opportu
nity, and departed, leaving them to take their
rest, and speedily directed our course toward
our old camp, but found it plundered, and the
company dispersed, and gone home. About
this time, my brother, Squire Boone, with
another adventurer, who came to explore the
country shortly* after us, was wandering
tlu-ough the forests, determined to find me, if
possible, and accidently found our camp.
Notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances
of our company, and our dangerous situation,
as surrounded with hostile savages, our meet
ing so fortunately in the wilderness made us
reciprocally sensible of the utmost satisfaction.
Soon after this, my companion in captivity was
killed by the savages, and the man that cam's
with my brother returned home by himself.
We were then in a dangerous, helpless situai
tion, exposed to perils and death amongst the!
savages and wild beasts—not a white man in
the country but ourselves. Thus situated!
many hundred miles from our families, in thd
howling wilderness, I believe few would have!
equally enjoyed the happiness we experienced*
, We continued not in a state of indolence, but,
I evecV day, and prepared a |t,tlo mu',
* tag©, to defend us from stormsJ
We reniained there, undisturbed, during tha
winter. 4
On the first day,of 1770, my brother returned!
home to the settlement by himself, for anew
recruit of horses and ammunition, leaving me
by myself, without bread, salt, or sugar—
without company of my fellow-creatures, or
even a horse or dog.”
For three long months Boone was without a
companion in the wilderness. It was a time
of constantly recurring thoughts to his be
loved wife and family—at least five hundred
miles distant—and of apprehension from the
savages, but yet of those forest sports which
were his delight. Ilis brother finally returned,
bringing a pair of horses, provisions, and a
supply of ammunition. After extensive ex
plorations, they retraced their way to the
Kentucky River, and resolved to establish a
settlement in its vicinity. The brothers ac
cordingly returned to North Carolina for their
families. Boone used every influence, during
two years, to induce his friends and neighbors
to accompany him to the new found land. On
the 25th of September, 1773, he and his
brother, with their families, began the journey.
They were -well provided with supplies. At
Powell’s Valley, five families aad forty men
joined the party. After some days’ travel,
seven of the young men happened to fall back
from the main body, to attend some cattle—
which were being driven with them—when
they were attacked by some Indians, and six
out of the seven were killed. One of these
was Daniel Boone’s eldest son, a boy of seven
teen. In consequence of this terrible affair,
the grief-stricken emigrants turned back.
Thus darkly did the clouds overspread the
path of Daniel Boone. All his hopes of mak
ing a settlement were for the time blasted.
And yet, like most men intended by Providence
for a great work, he was neither borne down
by his affliction, nor discouraged from pursu
ing the aim of his life. , In fact— an ban been!
stated in the lanuflage Jof Bogart- Boone wot
a quite superior to those of his class. His
want of education was made up by a strong
practical sense, and in the qualities of judg
ment, daring, and endurance, he excelled. He
was born with the impulses of a pioneer.
Wherever he had lived, as fast as the settle
ment increased in numbers, he longed for a
more distant and retired home. He was will
ing to bear the dangers and hardships of the
frontier and the wilderness, for the sake of the
sports which he'loved, and a society of bold
spirits like himself. In time, however, a grander
vision seemed to dawn upon him, and he saw
that he might be the founder of a distinct
community and government. His capacity for
his new position enlarged for the occasion
which demanded it, and he devoted himself
with increased zeal to the duties to which he
seemed called.
There is a singular romance connected with
the youthful courtship of Daniel Boone. We
ha'vc mentioned that the name of the young
lady was Rebecca Byran. She was a person of
considerable personal charms, and ofa sprightly
winning disposition. From the first of their
acquaintance, herself and Daniel were very
good friends, but with a natural diffidence he
refrained from an expression of his love, until
an odd circumstance brought it to light.
Boone was proceeding, on one occasion, to
the rude dwelling to which Rebecca resided
with hr parents, when he heard a movement
near hin, as if from a deer. He had his rifle
with him, and he prepared to shoot. In a mo
ment, le thought he discovered the eyes of
the aninals in the midst of some bushes. He
fired, and was startled by the 6cream of a
woman.
“Great Heaven!” was his teiTified excla
mation, as he dashed in the direction of the
cry.
“Oh! oh ! oh!” came to his ear.
Pusaing aside some bushes, to his horror lie
found Rebecca Bryan weltering in her blood.
“How did you hurt yourself?” demanded
Boone, bending ovfer the injured woman.
“I am shot!” she replied.
“ Shot!” he gasped, in still wilder alarm.
“ Yes—oh! —oh!” was Rebecca’s reply, as
she swooned from pain.
“ Fool that I am,” groaned Boone, as he smote
his forehead, “to make a mistake like this.
What right have I with a gun in my hand ?”
Thus speaking, he cast the instrument of
evil from him. He next caught up the insen
sible Rebecca, and bore her away. Reaching
the house, he briefly explained the accident to
her parents, and feeling that he could be of
little assistance, as they had an abundance of
aid, he rushed wildly back to the forest. For
days and weeks, he disappeared from the set
tlement. There was great alarm about him, as
it was feared he might do himself some injury.
All the usual! hunting-places wero visited by
his friends. evident that he had
pushed, forward, pTobably within the boun
daries of Virginia. Ho was still diligently fol
lowed.
It had turned out that Rebecca was, as the
saying is, “ more frightened than hurt.” Her
arm had only been broken, and a wound made
which, although painful, was by no means
dangerous. She entirely acquitted Boone of
all blame in the matter, and was constant in
her inquiries as to his return. Indeed, so anx
ious was she on that point, that her mother,
for, one, saw plainly the drift of her feelings.
Yes, Rebecca loved Boone. Hismanly form,
his fearless nature, and his upright life, had
won her long before. But the young hunter
never approached the subject of love. He
confided in her, he seemed fond of her society,
and he was but little with any of the other
young females of the neighborhood. All this
had been noticed by Rebecca, and yet she
could not tell whether Boone had anystronger
feeling for her than a mere friendship. She
had gone forth on a ramble in a melancholy
frame of mind, and was retracing her steps
when the accident occurred. It had only con
vinced her how much she loved Boone. Com
ing from his hand, she bore the pain without a
murmur, and felt willing to have received even
death.
“ I love him,” she used to breathe to herself,
“ truly and forever.”
We return to Boone. He had again pos
sessed himself of his rifle; and in the severity
of his grief, at first meditated self-destruction.
His better sense, however, triumphed. He
was fearful that the wound might be of a mor
tal nature ; but, in any event, his mortification
would not allow him to return to his home.
That he, a famed hunter, should have mistaken
the movements of a woman for those of a
deer, filled him with the deepest humiliation.
And then, there was the still more harrowing
t thought that the wound might be mortal in
[ its character. With a sense of agony which
\ was entirely new to him, he ran wildly from
I the the b°bif | it : nnn j rW,
7 mined to make Inis future home in the depths
of the wilderness. Thus be pushed on and
L on, until he crossed the borders of Virginia.
f After about a day’s additional travel, he came
to a cave far in the dim forest. The wild
beast and the hostle Indian could bo the only
tenants of the awful solitude, but he deemed
himself only fit for such dangers and priva
tions. He gathered some branches and leaves
in his cave, and stretched himself, weary and
footsore, to his rest.
“Not a free hunter,” he muttered, as he
closed his eyes, “ but an outcast from the face
of men.”
Overburdened by his sorrows, and footsore,
he fell into a deep sleep, in which he remained
for many hours. When he opened his eyes, he
was sensible of someone shaking him by the
shoulder, and heard a voice, saying :
“ Boone—Boone,”
“ Is she dead ?” was his first exclamation, as
he raised up.
“ Ha! he! he !” laughed a number of men,
standing round.
Boone was on his feet in an instant, his whole
face suffused with a blush, half of shame and
half of anger. In a moment it was gone. He
drew himself up, and said with firmness :
“ I am in no mood for this amusement.”
“ Come, come, Boone,” said one of the party,
“is this a reception for friends, who have
thought it worth while to follow you so far
from their homes.”
“If you followed me, to taunt or upbraid
me for the misfortune which has befallen me,
I bid you to leave me; but if you have any
tidings to comfort me, God knows you are
welcome.”
Boone bent forward with a face fairly dis
torted by his great anxiety. His friends could
not but notice how much he was changed.
“ \\ e come to tell you,” said the person who
had just before spoken, “ that the life f
Rebecca Ryan has not been at all endangered
her wound, aijd tho< -u-iahes to greet
Back at Hi I ~rft l ~i ~
The hunterjjfas too full for utterance, and
he did notatf3mj>t to check his tears. After a
moment, ho grasped each of his friends by the
hand, and begged them to forgive his first
rudeness.
The following day, Boone and his compan
ions began their return to North Carolina. In
his desire to see Rebecca, he got over his feel
ing of mortification. His heart was brimfull
with thankfulness and joy. He did not enter,
however, into the merriment of his friends,
for his mind was occupied with thoughts of
Rebecca. It is needless to describe the kind
manner in which she received him, or do more
than mention that, a month later, they became
husband and wife. He used to tell his children
the circumstances of the accident,and declared
that their mother but turned out a dear, after
all. Mrs. Boone lived to the green old age of
seventy-six years; but died before her hus- 1
band, in March, 1813.
Setting up in Business. —lt requires a grea
amount of money to set up in almost every
kind of ljusiness tliai promises a fortune, or
even a competency, and then the chances are
numerous that you may fail. $lO, $5, or $2
are not -very large sums of money, but by in
vesting all or one of these amounts in the
legalized lotteries of Hodges, Davis & Cos.,
your chances are good for making your for
tune by drawing a capital, or a half or quarter
prize. Should you fail, your investment is a
small one and your loss light. Should you
succeed your fortune is made at a small out
lay. Reniember to send to the address of
Hodges, Davis & Cos., Macon Georgia.
TO SAVE SWEET POTATOES.
We find the following plan highly recom
mended : “ Always dig before frost, and when
the ground is very dry ; have your beds ready
by raising them about ten inches above the
ground ; then put on dry straw about one foot
deep ; then put on the potatoes, about twenty
five bushels in a bank; next put straw one
foot deep on them, then dirt at least one foot
thick, well packed. Shelter them with a good
shelter to keep them dry. Leave no air hole,
but rather try to exclude the air entirely. Po
tatoes thus put up are not affected by the
changes of the weather, which generally rot
the potato. If dug when the ground is wet,
they are almost certain to rot.”
NOTES AND QUERIES.
Nelly,—Macon— Novice, in the sense your refer to, is
the appellation given to persons of either sex who are
living in a monastery in a state of probation previous to
becoming professed members of a monastic order. Per
sons who apply to enter the novicate state, on being
admitted by the superior of the monastery, promise
obedience to him during the time of their stay, and are
bound to conform to the discipline of the house; but
they make no permanent vows, and may leave, if they
find that the monastic life does notsuit them. According
to the canons of the Council of Trent for the admission
of a novice, there must be health, morality, disposition
for a monastic life, intelligent capacity, &c. No married \
person can be admitted, unless by the consent of both
parties, nor any person who is encumbered with debts.
After the termination of the year of probation, if she
(or he) persist in hid vocation, she may be admitted into
the order by takinglthe solemn yow.-L which are binding
for life. Os late j/ears the number yf monaalerieC
..been multiplied JjpyondyUieasuje*ai|s* jury
been resorted to in order to induce/people',to enter t’
monastic profession.
Conseelo, of Richmond, Ya., is most anxious to
know what will increase the hair on her eyebrows, and
lessen it on her forehead, where it grows too low. Nature
seems to have been a little perverse ; but in such cases it
is better not to attempt opposition ; if you shave the hair
from your forehead, or remove it by depilatories, it will
start up more bristly than ever, ‘fids course pursued
with regard to the eyebrows would, perhaps, produce a
more bushy appearance ; but we strongly advise you to
be content with the present arrangement of Nature.
Your third question we do not understand. This is the
first intimation we have had of your wishes for informa
tion.
Clara, — Ciiarlestox, S. C. —The question you have
asked is on so important a subject that, as you have not
worded it very clearly, we advise you to consult the
clergyman whose church you may attend; he will, we
feel assured, give you full information on a point which
you very properly desire to have set at rest.
Cypres, — Batox Rouge, La. —Epidemics do not un
usually, like endemics, exist for an indefinite period in
the places wherein they appear. Their origin, progress,
and termination are frequently matters of historical
record. Many of those which formerly afflicted our
ancestors have disappeared, to be replaced by others
unknown to them.
Griselda,—Lexixgtox, Ivy.— To clean a gold chain :
Dissolve 3 oz. of sal ammoniac in 6 oz. of water, and boil
the article in it; then boil for a few minutes in a quart
of water, with 2 oz. of soft soap ; wash afterwards in
cold water, rub dry with flannel, and shake the article
for some time in a bag with very dry bran.
Arabella, — Covixgtox, Ky. —We prefer cold water
for the purpose. There is no better cosmetic than soap
and water ; the former, when not of the common yellow
kind, is very beneficial to the skin. 2. The qestion is
not yet decided. 3. Try a solution of chloride of lime,
liquid chlorine, or indine. 4. Adding “ kind remem
brances” at the end of a letter is a stronger expression
than “ remembrances. ” 5. Tahiti forms part of a na
tive sovereignty. It was taken possession of by the
French in 1846. The population, of about 9000, have
been converted to Christianity by English and American
missionaries. 6, Crickets are attracted by heat.
Christiana, Macox. The established religion of
Russia is Greek ; but—which is surprising in a Govern
ment otherwise so despotic—full toleration is granted to
every other. It has been so since the days of the illus
trious Peter I. 2. Madame Malibran was born at Paris,
in 1808. Both her parents were Spaniards.
A Housewife, —Maryland.— Cold may be used ; but
the reason why vinegar is boiled for pickling is that the
impurities, coagulated by heat, may be separated by
straining when cold. . ,
more scarce than a good diamond. jl
Minna,—Savannah.— The oil of t,he'‘poppy seed is per
fectly wholesome ; for, though the poppy is in itself
highly narcotic, the oil has none of its properties, and is
extensively used in adulterating olive oil.
An Inquirer,—New Orleans. —Among modem Jews
the distinction of the tribes is lost.
Eustace, — Atlanta. —You have been misinformed, for
no American judge can pass a sentence greater than the
law prescribes, though he may diminish the extreme
severity of the law.
Scrutator,. —New York.— Gentility is neither in birth,
manner, nor fashion, but in the mind. A high sense of
honor, a determination never to take a mean advantage
of another, an adherence to truth, delicacy, and polite
ness towards those with whom you may have dealings,
are the essential and distinguishing characteristics of a
gentleman.
John S., Tennessee —The very peculiar circum
stances of the case led us to give a more geneii 1 reply
than was perhaps expected. Unless we knew thj ‘ties,
and could from personal experience ascertain'* the in
fluence of a domestic is to be tolerated or nVc, we can
really say no more than that, from your description, the
young lady cannot be fairly accused of “ want of del
icacy of mind.”
Jacintha, —St. Louis, Mo.— To clean a hair-brusli :
Dissolve half an ounce of pearlash in a pint of boiling
water ; pass the brush through it until it is clean ; then
pour over it clean boiling water. Dry slowly at a dis
tance from the fire, or in the sun.
Eva, —Mobile, Ala.— ln the disordered state of the
digestive powers, which not unfrequently leads to con
sumption, and in broken-down constitutions, the genial
influence of a mild climate is one of the most powerful
means of relief which we possess.
Joanna, — Houston, Texas. —Much soap and much
labor may be saved by dissolving alum and chalk in bran
water, in which the linen ought to be boiled, then well
rinsed out.
Jane, — Baltimore, Md. Lavender water may be
made without distillation, as follows • —Take a pint of
good spirits of wine, an ounce of English oil of lavender
10 grains of musk, and an ounce of essence of ambergris.
Let these stand in a well corked bottle for a month;
then filter through blotting paper, and put by hr a
■well-corked bottle. It improves by beeping.’
Adela tV . E., —Georgetown, D. C. — The custom is
a very odd one, and it is supposed that the lucky finder
of the ring will be a wife before the termination of the
year. 2- We never heard of the custom, and suppose it
is either an obsolete fashion revived, or altogether anew
proceeding.
Rosamond,—Bridgewater, N. C.—The interior of the
earth is entirely unknown to us, as tin. denth
we have been abieto psnetra7eTs'uoi''j!?g l 1!t comfuuison’
with its diameter ; it is useless, therefore, to speculate ou
the various hypotheses regarding its formation.
Daniel, Tennessee. We regret to say that we know
of no remedy for “curing sunburn,” excepting the old
adage— 1 ‘ Winter rains move summer stains. ’ ’
J. L. K. ,—Washington.— Our best thanks. The letter
has been forwarded to the proper quarter.
0 p ,—Tailadllphia.—Music constitutes an essen
tial branch of the German, and their lungs thus acquire
a strength, from the exercise of the organs of the breast
by singing, which is said to be a main preventive of con
sumption and other diseases to w hich the climate exposes
them. ‘ r *
Floranthk,—Boston Mass —The name of the cherry
is spelt thus-biggarreu. The produce of cherry-trees
m general, is much increased, and the fruit brought to
ripen early, by digging in lime round the foot of the
tree, and watering it from time to time with warm water.
Belladonna,—Macon—Dates, stewed in the same
way as dried plums, are said to be an excellent remedy
for coughs and colds. We can scarcely f orm aiu t
opinion of this fruit, which comes to us in a dried state
When first ripe it is said to very delicious
Camilla -Georgetown, D. C. -Kossuth, the late
Governor President of Hungary, was born in 1801.
A True Friend,— Mobile —ln England
many of the wealthy people of this country oarHagw
arc sent by the father of the bride to call I'or ‘tW
ties who are to be present at the wedding ceremony The
guests only invited for the breakfast at the l 1 ’
father or mother of the bride, are
room. A card, with the name of each guest is nl„elf g ”
the plate where they are to sit. 2. Gloved P T 0n
during the meal. The knife and fork remain T?
when given to the waiter, he holding them i! S !
while the plate is replenished. 4 V h “ nd
groom leave the ladies retire to the drawing ““
*,* Several notices lat over to be iw.
NEXT. ANSWERED IN OUR