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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