CHASED BY A RHINOCEROS.

On the 22d, says Mr. Cumming, ordering my men to move on toward a fountain in the center of the plain, I rode forth with Ruyter, and held east through a grove of lofty and wide-spreading mimosas, most of which were more or less damaged by the gigantic strength of a troop of elephants, which had passed there about twelve months before. Having proceeded about two miles with large herds of game on every side, I observed a crusty-looking, old bull borele, or black rhinoceros, cocking his ears one hundred yards in advance. He had not observed us; and soon after he walked slowly toward us, and stood broadside to, eating some wait-a-bit thorns within fifty yards of me. I fired from my saddle, and sent a bullet in behind his shoulder, upon which he rushed forward about one hundred yards in tremendous consternation, blowing like a grampus, and then stood looking about him. Presently he made off. I followed but found it hard to come up with him. When I overtook him I saw the blood running freely from his wound.



The chase led through a large herd of blue wildebeests, zebras, and springboks, which gazed at us in utter amazement. At length I fired my second barrel, but my horse was fidgety, and I missed. I continued riding alongside of him, expecting in my ignorance that at length he would come to bay, which rhinoceroses never do; when suddenly he fell flat on his broadside on the ground, but recovering his feet, resumed his course as if nothing had happened. Becoming at last annoyed at the length of the chase, as I wished to keep my horses fresh for the elephants, and being indifferent whether I got the rhinoceros or not, as I observed that his horn was completely worn down with age and the violence of his disposition, I determined to bring matters to a crisis; so, spurring my horse, I dashed ahead, and rode right in his path. Upon this, the hideous monster instantly charged me in the most resolute manner, blowing loudly through his nostrils; and, although I quickly wheeled about to my left, he followed me at such a furious pace for several hundred yards, with his horrid horny snout within a few yards of my horse's tail, that my little Bushman, who was looking on in great alarm, thought his master's destruction inevitable. It was certainly a very near thing; my horse was extremely afraid, and exerted his utmost energies on the occasion. The rhinoceros, however, wheeled about, and continued his former course; and I, being perfectly satisfied with the interview which I had already enjoyed with him, had no desire to cultivate his acquaintance any further, and accordingly made for camp.



BURNING OF THE ERIE.

The steamboat Erie, under command of Captain Titus, left the dock at Buffalo on the afternoon of August 9th, 1841, laden with merchandise, destined for Chicago. As nearly as could be ascertained, she had on board about two hundred persons, including passengers and crew.

The boat had been thoroughly overhauled and recently varnished. At the moment of her starting, though the wind was blowing fresh, every thing promised a pleasant and prosperous voyage. Nothing occured to mar this prospect till about eight o'clock in the evening, when the boat was off Silver Creek, about eight miles from the shore, and thirty-three miles from the city, when a slight explosion was heard, and immediately, almost instantaneously, the whole vessel was enveloped in flames. Among the passengers were six painters, who were going to Erie to paint the steamboat Madison. They had with them some demijohns filled with spirits of turpentine and varnish, which, unknown to Captain Titus, were placed on the boiler-deck directly over the boilers. One of the firemen who was saved, says he had occasion to go on deck, and seeing the demijons, removed them. They were replaced, but by whom is not known. Their inflammable contents undoubtedly aided the flames in their rapid progress.

Captain Titus, who was on the upper deck at the time of the explosion, rushed to the ladies' cabin to obtain the life-preservers, of which there were about one hundred on board; but, so violent was the heat, he found it impossible to enter the cabin. He returned to the upper deck, on his way giving orders to the engineer to stop the engine, the wind and the headway of the boat increasing the fierceness of the flames and driving them aft. The engineer replied, that in consequence of the flames he could not reach the engine. The steersman was instantly directed to put the helm hard a-starboard. She swung slowly around, heading to the shore, and the boats—there were three on board—were then ordered to be lowered. Two of the boats were lowered, but, in consequence of the heavy sea on, and the headway of the vessel, they both swamped as soon as they touched the water.

We will not attempt to describe the awful and appalling condition of the passengers. Some were frantic with fear and horror, others plunged headlong madly into the water, others again seized upon any thing buoyant upon which they could lay hands. The small boat forward had been lowered. It was alongside the wheel, with three or four persons in it, when the captain jumped in, and the boat immediately dropped astern, filled with water. A lady floated by with a life-preserver on. She cried for help. There was no safety in the boat. The captain threw her the only oar in the boat. She caught the oar and was saved. It was Mrs. Lynde of Milwaukie, and she was the only lady who escaped.

In this condition, the boat, a mass of fierce fire, and the passengers and crew endeavoring to save themselves by swimming or supporting themselves by whatever they could reach, they were found by the steamboat Clinton, at about ten o'clock that night. The Clinton had left Buffalo in the morning, but, in consequence of the wind, had put into Dunkirk. She lay there till near sunset, at which time she ran out, and had proceeded as far as Barcelona, when just at twilight the fire of the Erie was discovered, some twenty miles astern. The Clinton immediately put about, and reached the burning wreck.

It was a fearful sight. All the upper works of the Erie had been burned away. The engine was standing, but the hull was a mass of dull, red flames. The passengers and crew were floating around, screaming in their agony, and shrieking for help. The boats of the Clinton were instantly lowered and manned, and every person that could be seen or heard was picked up, and every possible relief afforded. The Lady, a little steamboat lying at Dunkirk, went out of that harbor as soon as possible, after the discovery of the fire, and arrived soon after the Clinton. By one o'clock in the morning, all was still except the melancholy crackling of the flames. Not a solitary individual could be seen or heard on the wild waste of waters. A line was then made fast to the remains of the Erie's rudder, and an effort made to tow the hapless hulk ashore. About this time the Chautauque came up and lent her assistance.

The hull of the Erie was towed within about four miles of shore, when it sank in eleven fathoms of water. By this time it was daylight. The lines were cast oft. The Clinton headed her course toward Buffalo, which place she reached about six o'clock.

Upon inquiry it was found that there had been between thirty and forty cabin passengers, of whom ten or twelve were ladies. In the steerage there were about one hundred and forty passengers, nearly all of whom were Swiss and German emigrants. The whole number of persons on board, who were saved, did not exceed twenty-seven.

All that imagination can conceive of the terrible and heart-rending was realized in the awful destruction of this boat. Scores sank despairingly under the wild waters; but there is reason to fear that many, very many, strong men, helpless women, and tender children perished in the flames.

Among the passengers were a young gentleman and lady, who first became acquainted with each other on board. The lady was accompanied by her father. Upon an intimacy of a few hours an attachment seems to have been formed between this couple. When the passengers rushed to the deck, after the bursting forth of the flames, the lady discovered her new acquaintance on a distant part of the deck, forced her way to him, and implored him to save her. The only alternative left them was to jump overboard, or to submit to a more horrible fate. They immediately jumped, the gentleman making the first plunge, with a view of securing for the young and fair being, who had measurably committed to his hands her safety, a plank floating a short distance from the boat. As soon as the plank was secured, the lady leaped into the water and was buoyed up by her clothes, until the gentleman was enabled to float the plank to her. For a short time the young man thought that his fair charge was safe; but soon his hopes were blasted—one of the fallen timbers struck the lady on the head, her form sank upon the water, a momentary quivering was perceptible, and she disappeared from human view. Her father was lost, but the young gentleman was among the number picked up by the Clinton.

There was a fine race-horse on board, who, soon after the alarm, broke from his halter at the bow of the boat, and dashed through the crowd of passengers, prostrating all in his way; and then, rendered frantic by terror and pain, he reared and plunged into the devouring fire, and there ended his agony.

One of the persons saved, in describing the scene, says:—"The air was filled with shrieks of agony and despair. The boldest turned pale. I shall never forget the wail of terror that went up from the poor German emigrants, who were huddled together on the forward deck. Wives clung to their husbands, mothers frantically pressed their babes to their bosoms, and lovers clung madly to each other. One venerable old man, his gray hairs streaming on the wind, stood on the bows, and, stretching out his bony hands, prayed to God in the language of his father-land.

"But if the scene forward was terrible, that aft was appalling, for there the flames were raging in their greatest fury. Some madly rushed into the fire; others, with a yell like a demon, maddened with the flames, which were all around them, sprang headlong into the waves. The officers of the boat, and the crew, were generally cool, and sprang to lower the boats, but these were every one successively swamped by those who threw themselves into them, regardless of the execrations of the sailors, and of every thing but their own safety.

"I tried to act coolly—I kept near the captain, who seemed to take courage from despair, and whose bearing was above all praise. The boat was veering toward the shore, but the maddened flames now enveloped the wheel-house, and in a moment the machinery stopped. The last hope had left us—a wilder shriek rose upon the air. At this moment the second engineer, the one at the time on duty, who had stood by his machinery as long as it would work, was seen climbing the gallows-head, a black mass, with the flames curling all around him. On either side he could not go, for it was now one mass of fire. He sprang upward, came to the top, one moment felt madly around him, and then fell into the flames. There was no more remaining on board, for the boat now broached around and rolled upon the swelling waves, a mass of fire. I seized upon a settee near me, and gave one spring, just as the flames were bursting through the deck where I stood—one moment more and I should have been in the flames. In another instant I found myself tossed on a wave, grasping my frail support with a desperate energy."

One of the not least interesting facts connected with the catastrophe, was that the helmsman was found burnt to a cinder at his post. He had not deserted it even in the last extremity, but grasped with his charred fingers the wheel. His name was Luther Fuller. Honor to his memory!

A boy of twelve years of age, named Levi T. Beebee, belonging to Cleveland, Ohio, was among those saved. He exhibited a degree of self-possession and fortitude rarely surpassed. Though molten lead from the burning deck was dropping on his head, and his hands were scorched by the flames, he clung for at least two hours and a half to the chain leading from the stern to the rudder.



CONFLICT WITH AN INDIAN.

David Morgan had settled upon the Monongahela during the early part of the revolutionary war, and at this time had ventured to occupy a cabin at the distance of several miles from any settlement.

One morning, having sent his younger children out to a field at a considerable distance from the house, he became uneasy about them, and repaired to the spot where they were working. He was armed, as usual, with a good rifle. While sitting upon the fence and giving some directions as to their work, he observed two Indians upon the other side of the field gazing earnestly upon the party. He instantly called to the children to make their escape, while he should attempt to cover their retreat.

The odds were greatly against him, as in addition to other circumstances, he was nearly seventy years of age, and, of course, unable to contend with his enemies in running. The house was more than a mile distant, but the children, having two hundred yards the start, and being effectually covered by their father, were soon so far in front, that the Indians turned their attention entirely to the old man. He ran for several hundred yards with an activity which astonished himself, but perceiving that he would be overtaken, long before he could reach his home, he fairly turned at bay, and prepared for a strenuous resistance. The woods through which they were running were very thin, and consisted almost entirely of small trees, behind which, it was difficult to obtain proper shelter.

Morgan had just passed a large walnut, and, in order to resist with advantage, it became necessary to run back about ten steps in order to regain it. The Indians were startled at the sudden advance of the fugitive, and halted among a cluster of saplings, where they anxiously strove to shelter themselves. This, however, was impossible; and Morgan, who was an excellent marksman, saw enough of the person of one of them to justify him in risking a shot. His enemy instantly fell, mortally wounded.

The other Indian, taking advantage of Morgan's empty gun, sprung from the shelter, and advanced rapidly upon him. The old man, having no time to reload, was compelled to fly a second time. The Indian gained rapidly upon him, and, when within twenty steps, fired, but with so unsteady an aim, that Morgan was wholly unhurt, the ball having passed over his shoulder.

He now again stood at bay, clubbing his rifle for a blow, while the Indian, dropping his empty gun, brandished his tomahawk and prepared to throw it at his enemy. Morgan struck with the butt of his gun, and the Indian hurled his tomahawk at one and the same moment. Both blows took effect; and both of the combatants were at once wounded and disarmed. The breech of the rifle was broken against the Indian's skull, and the edge of the tomahawk was shattered against the barrel of the rifle, having first cut off two of the fingers of Morgan's left hand. The Indian then attempting to draw his knife, Morgan grappled him, and bore him to the ground. A furious struggle ensued, in which the old man's strength failed, and the Indian succeeded in turning him.

Planting his knee on the breast of his enemy, and yelling loudly, as is usual with the barbarians upon any turn of fortune, he again felt for his knife, in order to terminate the struggle at once; but having lately stolen a woman's apron, and tied it around his waist, his knife was so much confined, that he had great difficulty in finding the handle.

Morgan, in the meantime, being an accomplished pugilist, and perfectly at home in a ground struggle, took advantage of the awkwardness of the Indian, and got one of the fingers of his right hand between his teeth. The Indian tugged and roared in vain, struggling to extricate it. Morgan held him fast, and began to assist him in hunting for the knife. Each seized it at the same moment, the Indian by the blade, and Morgan by the handle, but with a very slight hold.



The Indian, having the firmest hold, began to draw the knife further out of its sheath, when Morgan, suddenly giving his finger a furious bite, twitched the knife dexterously through his hand, cutting it severely. Both now sprung to their feet, Morgan brandishing his adversary's knife, and still holding his finger between his teeth. In vain the poor Indian struggled to get away, rearing, plunging, and bolting, like an unbroken colt. The teeth of the white man were like a vice, and he at length succeeded in giving his savage foe a stab in the side. The Indian received it without falling, the knife having struck his ribs; but a second blow, aimed at the stomach, proved more effectual, and the savage fell. Morgan thrust the knife, handle and all, into the body, directed it upward, and, starting to his feet, made the best of his way home.



FIRE ON THE PRAIRIES.

The following account of one of those fearfully sublime spectacles—a fire on the prairie—is from the "Wild Western Scenes" by J.B. Jones. The hunters have been out and are overtaken by night, and are lost in the darkness.

Ere long, a change came over the scene. About two-thirds of the distance around the verge of the horizon a faint light appeared, resembling the scene when a dense curtain of clouds hangs overhead, and the rays of the morning sun steal under the edge of the thick vapor. But the stars could be seen, and the only appearance of clouds was immediately above the circle of light. In a very few minutes the terrible truth flashed upon the mind of Glenn. The dim light along the horizon was changed to an approaching flame. Columns of smoke could be seen rolling upward, while the fire beneath imparted a lurid glare to them. The wind blew more fiercely, and the fire approached from almost every quarter with the swiftness of a race-horse. The darkened vault above became gradually illuminated with a crimson reflection, and the young man shuddered with the horrid apprehension of being burnt alive! It was madness to proceed in a direction that must inevitably hasten their fate, the fire extending in one unbroken line from left to right, and in front of them, and they now turned in a course which seemed to place the greatest distance between them and the furious element. Ever and anon a frightened deer or elk leaped past, and the hounds no longer noticed them, but remained close to the horses. The flames came on with awful rapidity. The light increased in brilliance, and objects were distinguishable far over the prairie. A red glare could be seen on the sides of the deer as they bounded over the tall dry grass, which was soon to be no longer a refuge for them. The young man heard a low continued roar, that increased every moment in loudness, and, looking in the direction whence they supposed it proceeded, they observed an immense, dark, moving mass, the nature of which they could not divine, but it threatened to annihilate every thing that opposed it. While gazing at this additional source of danger, the horses, blinded by the surrounding light, plunged into a deep ditch that the rain had washed in the rich soil. Neither men nor horses, fortunately, were injured; and, after several ineffectual efforts to extricate themselves, they here resolved to await the coming of the fire. Ringwood and Jowler whined fearfully on the verge of the ditch for an instant, and then sprang in and crouched trembling at the feet of their master. The next instant the dark, thundering mass passed overhead, being nothing less than an immense herd of buffaloes driven forward by the flames. The horses bowed their heads as if a thunderbolt were passing. The fire and the heavens were hid from view, and the roar above resembled the rush of mighty waters. When the last animal had sprung over the chasm, Glenn thanked the propitious accident that thus providentially prevented him from being crushed to atoms, and uttered a prayer to Heaven that he might by a like means be rescued from the fiery ordeal that awaited him. It now occurred to him that the accumulation of weeds and grass in the chasm, which saved them from injury when falling in, would prove fatal when the flames arrived. And after groping some distance along the trench, he found the depth diminished, but the fire was not three hundred paces distant. His heart sank within him. But when on the eve of returning to his former position, with a resolution to remove as much of the combustible matter as possible, a gleam of joy spread over his features, as, casting a glance in a contrary direction from that they had recently pursued, he beheld the identical mound he had ascended before dark, and from which his unsteady and erratic riding in the night had fortunately prevented a distant separation. They now led their horses forth, and, mounting without delay, whipped forward for life or death. Could the summit of the mound be attained, they were in safety—for there the soil was not encumbered with decayed vegetation—and they spurred their animals to the top of their speed. It was a noble sight to see the majestic white steed flying toward the mound with the velocity of the wind, while the diminutive pony miraculously followed in the wake like an inseparable shadow. The careering flames were not far behind, and, when the horses gained the summit and Glenn looked back, the fire had reached the base!

Fortunately, that portion of the plain over which the scathing element had spent its fury, was the direction the party should pursue in retracing their way homeward.

The light, dry grass had been soon consumed, and the earth now wore a blackened appearance, and was as smooth as if vegetation had never covered the surface. As the party rode briskly along, (and the pony now kept in advance,) the horses' hoofs rattled as loudly on the baked ground as if it were a plank floor. The reflection of the fire in the distance still threw a lurid glare over the extended heath. As the smoke gradually ascended, objects could be discerned at a great distance, and occasionally a half-roasted deer or elk was seen plunging about, driven to madness by its tortures. And frequently they found the dead bodies of smaller animals that could find no safety in flight.



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY.

At the close of the war with Great Britain, in the year 1815, I took command of the brig Ganges, owned by Ebenezer Sage, Esq., then a wealthy and respectable merchant at Middleton. I sailed from New York on the 20th of August, bound for Turk's Island for a cargo of salt, and, on the 5th of September, I arrived at my destined port. It being the season for hurricanes in that region, it was thought most safe for us to go around into a small harbor on the south side of the island. In order to reach this harbor, we had to go through a narrow, crooked channel, with rocks and dangerous reefs on every side, but, with a skillful pilot, we made our way through safely, and came to anchor. On the next day we commenced taking in our cargo of salt. On the 9th of September, a day that I shall ever remember, my pilot came to me somewhat agitated, and said that there were strong indications of an approaching hurricane, and advised me to make all possible preparations to encounter it.

We therefore quit taking in salt, and made every thing about the ship snug as possible. At twelve o'clock, midnight, the gale commenced, as the pilot had anticipated, and continued to increase until six in the morning, at which time it became most terrific. Every blast grew more and more violent until our cables all parted, and we were left to the mercy of the gale. It blew directly from the land. We got the ship before the wind, as the only course we could pursue. In doing this we were well aware of the dangerous channel we had to pass, and my only hope was, that we might get to sea clear of the land. But this hope soon vanished. In about twenty minutes after we started, the ship struck a rock, which knocked off her rudder, and set her leaking badly. The rudder being gone, we of course had no control of the vessel. She came around side to the wind, and at this moment her mainmast was blown over the side. We at once cut away the rigging that attached it to the hull, and it floated off, and the foremast still standing, the ship swung off again a little before the wind. All hands were soon set to pumping, but we found that in spite of all our exertions, the water rapidly increased in the hold.

The appearance of the elements at this time almost baffles description. So violent was their commotion that no one could stand without grasping something for support. Not a word could be heard that was uttered. I had to communicate every order by means of signs, while I stood on the quarter-deck holding on to the cabin doors. In this situation I endeavored calmly to reflect. Here we were, as we supposed, on the open ocean,—in a tempest of unparalleled violence—with no rudder—one mast gone—boats all lost—and the ship settling under us from the weight of water in the hold. The sky was black almost as midnight above us, and the waves beneath, and around, and over us—for they dashed at quick intervals, like so many furies, across the devoted ship—seemed ready to drown us ere we sank into their dread abyss. The voice of the gale as it howled through the rigging, mingled with the creaking of timbers, and the roar of waters as they struck the vessel, was an awful wail, as it appeared to me, over bodies devoted to almost instant death. Destruction seemed inevitable. It would not, to all human calculation, be protracted even an hour. We were sinking down, down—inch following inch of the fated vessel in rapid succession—down remedilessly to our graves in the maddened sea, amid the monsters of its great deep.

I descended to the cabin, and attempted calmly to surrender myself to Him who made me. My thoughts—oh, how they flew at once to my wife and children at home! I attempted to pray, and for the first time since I had left my pious mother. I did pray—for my family first—and oh how fervently, in closing my supplications, I besought for myself pardon and forgiveness through Him who is ever ready to hear the penitent!

The water had now got on to the cabin floor, I therefore placed myself on the stairs leading on deck. Shortly after this the wind shifted, and in a few minutes the ship struck with a tremendous crash. I rushed on deck, and at once saw rocks fifty feet high, and perpendicular, but a few feet from the after part of the ship, which now soon filled with water, and rolled over toward the land. At its fore part, and at the only point where we could by any possibility have been saved, the rocks descended gradually, and the foremast leaned over them. Not a moment was to be lost. We crawled up the rigging, and, swinging ourselves on to the rocks, made our way up the precipice on our hands and feet, and, reaching the summit, at once sought, in holes in the rock, shelter from the tempest, which still continued so violent that no one could stand upon his feet.

Our escape happened about ten o'clock in the morning; at five in the afternoon the gale had so moderated that we could stand. We then crawled out from our hiding places, and, assembling together, found that all were safe except my brother, who was mate of the ship, and he, we supposed, was lost, in attempting to get on shore. We soon, as was very natural, approached the precipice to learn the fate of the ship. Nothing was to be seen of her but plank, timbers, spars, sails, and rigging, all in one confused, broken mass, and washing up against the rocks. It was truly to us a most deplorable spectacle. We had no resource in the vessel; not a thing of value was left.

As night was approaching, we now walked along before the wind toward the south part of the island, and there found, by the side of a huge pile of rocks, a hole or sort of cave, about eight feet square and five feet high. Here we all crawled in, wet and cold, but with hearts grateful to God for our wonderful preservation. As we were packed very close to each other, the natural warmth of our bodies soon relieved us considerably from the sensation of wetness and cold, and we passed the night as comfortably as our varied miseries would allow.

Morning came, and we left our cave. The gale had much abated, and we could see some distance. We found that we were on a small desolate island, about a mile long, half a mile wide, and about ten miles from the place we left the day before. It was covered mostly with huge rocks, with here and there a small patch of soil, overrun with prickly pear, and inhabited by no living animal excepting lizards and small poisonous snakes. We had been now over twenty-four hours without food or water. Of the latter article, on searching around, we found a little in the hollows on the rocks, but it was about half salt, having been made so by the spray which the gale had thrown from the ocean quite over the island, and the more we drank of it the more thirsty we became. As to food, we were soon convinced that this was out of the question. Toward night, we found a cask near the beach, standing on one end, with one head out, which held about two gallons of water, that had rained in. This was not salt, but smelled badly. We, however, scooped out with our hands about one half of it, and left what remained for the next day. We got some relief from this, and then we returned to our former resting-place for the night.

When we crawled out on the following morning we found that the weather had become fine and clear. We could see vessels passing at a short distance from us, but had no means of making any signal, nor any for leaving the shore. This being the third day of our distress and privation, some of us began to suffer much from hunger. Others suffered more from thirst. We, however, cheered each other with the faint hope that some thing would appear for our relief. We wandered about as we had done the day before, seeking for water but found none. We had nothing to dig with but our hands; these we used, but in vain; no water appeared. Toward night we went to the cask, and drank what remained there. We then returned again to our cave for the night, all much exhausted and low-spirited. Despair began to shade every countenance. Very little was said, and we passed the night well as we could, pressed by hunger and parched by thirst. Morning came, and again we all left our shelter. The weather continued fine and clear. The men again separated in search of water, but being myself very feeble, I took my seat on some rocks near the cave, at a point from whence I could see every thing moving on the water, and with a lingering hope that something would appear for our deliverance.

About ten o'clock, an object loomed up in the distance. I thought it was a boat, but could not at once tell. It approached, and soon I saw it distinctly. It was a boat, with one sail, and was steering directly for a low beach not far from where I was seated. My feelings at this moment were so overcome that I lost all power of utterance. I could not, at first, rise from the rock, My strength, however, shortly returned a little, and I got up and made all the noise I could. Some of the men near at hand heard me, and came up. I at once pointed to the boat, which was now near the shore. They shouted to their companions, and we were all soon at the beach near where the boat was landed. A black man got out of the boat, and came to me with a letter—but, before reading it, I besought him for water. To my surprise he had none, but instead of it had a bottle of rum and a small bag of biscuit. I told him to bring these on shore, and, taking them, I gave each of my crew a swallow of the rum and a biscuit. This had the effect of moistening a little our parched mouths and tongues. I then opened the letter. It was from my warm and faithful friend Mr. Tucker, of Turk's Island, and it read as follows, omitting my name:

"To Captain ——, or any other unfortunate person or persons who may be found on any of the neighboring islands. Come as many as can safely and, should any be left, I will find means to convey those that remain."

The two men, who came in the boat, hesitated about taking all of us at once, as we were nine in number, and with themselves might overload the boat. We could not, however, bear the thought of leaving any behind. We therefore all got aboard, shoved off, and made sail. We had a fair wind, and a smooth sea, and at six o'clock arrived safely at the harbor we had left. Many persons ran to the beach to meet us as we landed, and among the rest was our deliverer, Mr. Tucker.

The next morning, my friend and deliverer gave me a brief history of what had taken place with himself and his fellow-inhabitants on the island, during the gale. Many of their houses were levelled to the ground, and some were blown into the sea. Their cisterns, their only dependence for water, were mostly destroyed. Even the cannon mounted on a small battery were dismounted, and most of the inhabitants were in great distress. Every vessel and boat, that floated about the island, were blown to sea or destroyed. Out of the twenty vessels that were at the island on which Mr. Tucker lived, when the gale came on, only six were heard ever from after. Five out of these six were wrecked on adjacent islands, and every soul on board three of these perished. The gale was said, by the oldest inhabitants, to be the most violent ever known in that region. We remained on the island ten or twelve days, and then, taking passage in a ship bound for New York, reached that city safely on the last of November.



A TUSSLE WITH A WILDCAT.

In 1781, Lexington, Ky., was only a cluster of cabins, one of which, near the spot where the courthouse now stands, was used as a schoolhouse. One morning, in May, McKinley, the teacher, was sitting alone at his desk, busily engaged in writing, when, hearing a slight noise at the door, he turned and beheld an enormous wildcat, with her fore feet upon the step, her tail curled over her back, her bristles erect, and her eyes glaring rapidly about the room, as if in search of a mouse.

McKinley's position at first completely concealed him, but a slight and involuntary motion of his chair attracted the cat's attention, and their eyes met, McKinley, having heard much of the powers of "the human face divine," in quelling the audacity of wild animals, attempted to disconcert the intruder by a frown. But puss was not to be bullied. Her eyes flashed fire, her tail waved angrily, and she began to gnash her teeth. She was evidently bent on mischief. Seeing his danger, McKinley hastily rose, and attempted to snatch a cylindrical rule from a table which stood within reach, but the cat was too quick for him.

Darting furiously upon him, she fastened upon his side with her teeth, and began to rend and tear with her claws. McKinley's clothes were soon in tatters, and his flesh dreadfully mangled by the enraged animal, whose strength and ferocity filled him with astonishment. He in vain attempted to disengage her from his side. Her long, sharp teeth were fastened between his ribs, and his efforts served but to enrage her the more. Seeing his blood flow very copiously from the numerous wounds in his side, he became seriously alarmed, and, not knowing what else to do, he threw himself upon the edge of the table, and pressed her against the sharp corner with the whole weight of his body.

The cat now began to utter the most wild and discordant cries, and McKinley, at the same time, lifting up his voice in concert, the two together sent forth notes so doleful as to alarm the whole town. Women, who are generally the first to hear and spread news, were now the first to come to McKinley's assistance. But so strange and unearthly was the harmony within the schoolhouse, that they hesitated long before venturing to enter. At length, the boldest of them rushed in, and, seeing poor McKinley bending ever the corner of the table, she at first supposed that he was laboring under a severe fit of the colic; but quickly perceiving the cat, which was now in the agonies of death, she screamed out, "Why, good heavens, Mr. McKinley, what is the matter?"

"I have caught a cat, madam!" he gravely replied, turning round, while the sweat streamed from his face under the mingled operations of fright, fatigue, and pain.

Most of the neighbors had now arrived. They attempted to disengage the dead cat; but so firmly were her tusks locked between his ribs, that this was a work of no small difficulty. McKinley suffered severely for a time from the effects of his wounds, but at length fully recovered, and lived to a good old age. He was heard to say, that of all the pupils that ever came to his school, the wildcat was the most intractable; that he would at any time rather fight two Indians than one wildcat.



AN INCIDENT IN FRONTIER LIFE

A daughter of Boone's, and a Miss Galloway, were amusing themselves in the immediate neighborhood of the fort, when a party of Indians rushed from a canebrake, and, intercepting their return, took them prisoners. The screams of the terrified girls quickly alarmed the family. Boone hastily collected a party of eight men, and pursued the enemy. So much time, however, had been lost, that the Indians had got several miles the start of them. The pursuit was urged through the night with great keenness by woodsmen capable of following a trail at all times. On the following day they came up with the fugitives, and fell upon them so suddenly and so furiously as to allow them no leisure for tomahawking their prisoners. The girls were rescued, without having sustained any other injury than excessive fright and fatigue. The Indians lost two men, while Boone's party was uninjured.



FEMALE INTREPIDITY.

In 1782, Wheeling was besieged by a large number of British and Indians. So sudden and unexpected was the attack, that no time was afforded for preparation. The fort, at the period of the assault was commanded by Colonel Silas Zane. The senior officer, Colonel Ebenezer Zane, was in a blockhouse some fifty or a hundred yards outside of the wall. The enemy made several desperate assaults to break into the fort, but at every onset they were driven back. The ammunition for the defence of the fort was deposited in the blockhouse, and there had not been time to remove it before the Indians approached.

On the afternoon of the second day of the siege, the powder of the fort was nearly exhausted, and no alternative remained, but for some one to pass through the enemy's fire to the blockhouse, in order to obtain a supply. When Silas Zane made the proposition to the men, asking if any one would undertake the hazardous enterprise, all at first were silent. After looking at one another for some time, a young man stepped forward, and said he would undertake the errand. Immediately, half a dozen offered their services in the dangerous enterprise.

While they were disputing as to who should go, Elizabeth, sister of the Zanes, came forward and declared, that she would go for the powder. Her brother thought she would flinch from the enterprise, but he was mistaken. She had the intrepidity to dare, and the fortitude to accomplish the undertaking. Her brother then tried to dissuade her from her heroic purpose, by saying that a man would be more fleet, and consequently would run less risk of losing his life.

She replied, that they had not a man to spare from the defence of the fort, and that if she should fall, she would scarcely be missed. Then divesting herself of such articles of clothing as would impede the celerity of her flight, she prepared to start.

The gate was opened, and Elizabeth bounded out at the top of her speed, and ran until she arrived at the door of the blockhouse. Her brother, Colonel Zane, hastened to open the door to his intrepid sister. The Indians did not fire a gun, but exclaimed, as if in astonishment, "Squaw! squaw! squaw!"

When she had told her errand, her brother took a tablecloth, fastened it around her waist, and poured into it a keg of powder. She then sallied back to the fort, in high spirits. The moment she was outside of the blockhouse, the whole of the enemy's line fired at her, but the shower of balls fell without doing her any injury. She reached the fort in safety, and the garrison was, in consequence, enabled successfully to repel their savage foe. Such an instance of female daring is worthy of all commemoration.



FEARFUL ENCOUNTER WITH ROBBERS.

The Madrid papers recite the particulars of a terrific scene which took place on the 14th of August, 1851, at the house of Don Diego Garcia, an old nobleman, who resided in the vicinity of that capital:

The night was dark and tempestuous. The rain poured down in torrents, and induced the night-watch, who had been reinforced since the recent augmentations of crime in the environs of the capital, to keep close to their quarters. The roads were completely deserted, and at long intervals only the shadow of a human figure flitted past the huge portals of Don Diego's mansion, in anxious haste toward its habitation.

Juan Munoz, the Don's old valet, had been sent to this city, by his master, and was now making the best of his way home. His errand to the capital had been to procure some medicine which his master had been ordered to take, he being at the time violently afflicted by the gout. Juan, as we have said, was picking his way, as best he could, through the deluged streets and roads, when, just as he came in sight of the mansion, he heard the voices of a number of men behind him, and supposing them to be a party of his fellow-servants who had been sent in search of him, since he had been much later than he expected to be, he drew back into an open recess to await their approach. He discovered that he was deceived in his expectations; the men were strangers to him, or, at least, he did not know their voices, but, while passing him, he plainly heard the name of his master pronounced by one of their number, and, stepping forward, he asked if they wished to see Don Diego that night. The men seemed perfectly stupefied by his sudden apparition, but they soon recovered from their surprise, and, after ascertaining that he was alone, he was politely asked to go before them and show the way. Scarcely had he proceeded a dozen yards; when a violent blow on the head laid him prostrate; a knife was then twice thrust into his breast, and the lifeless body was hurled into the middle of the road.

It was close upon midnight, when the wife of Don Diego, while tending her sick husband, was startled by a noise from the adjoining room. She immediately rang the bell, and was answered by the major domo, the only servant who had not retired to rest, being determined to await the return of Juan. As he entered, the door leading to the ante-chamber was also quickly opened, and on the threshold appeared five masked men, who were evidently unprepared to find more than one inmate in the sick chamber. Quick as thought the major-domo attempted to reach the bell-rope, that by a violent alarm he might awake the sleepers and obtain their aid, but quicker even than he was the leader of the masked band, who seized a pistol from his belt, and, with unerring aim, discharged it at the devoted servant. There was a faint cry: the old servant stretched out his hands for support, and then, with a heavy groan, fell to the floor, where death closed his eyes.

This unexpected catastrophe seemed to spur on the robbers to instant work. While one man was posted at each door, the three others insisted upon being informed by Don Diego where he kept his money and valuables; but the sick old man had sank into so complete a lethargy by the dreadful event which had passed under his eye, that he was unable to answer them. As rapidity of movement was, however, rendered peremptory to insure the safety of the band, the chief addressed the Donna for the same purpose, in answer to which, she evinced but little reluctance, and bade them to follow her. The robbers at once declared their readiness, and, after passing along the corridor, entered the dining saloon, where the Donna pointed out a large box, which, she said, contained the plate. Here another difficulty arose. The box, which in reality contained the plate, was securely locked, and the key nowhere to be found. Anxious to get at the rich booty, the leader, with an angry imprecation, put the muzzle of his heavy horse-pistol to the lock; a sharp report followed, and the lid thus unceremoniously opened offered no further obstacle to the rapacity of the invaders. Donna Ignazia took advantage of the joyful excitement of the band, and left the room to descend into the lower story of the mansion, where her hurried summons at the chamber doors of the servants were readily responded to by them, as they had already been awoke by the double report in their master's apartments. The tempest, which had raged so fearfully, had meanwhile ceased; the torrents of rain were followed by a clear night; the fury of the elements appeared as though, in momentary rest, they would gather strength for a fresh outbreak—nature's wrath had given place to the wrath of man.

The inanimate body of Juan Munoz had been discovered by a patrolling body of soldiery, who carried it to the guard-house. The stabs were found to be of minor consequence, and the blow on the head, although it had caused a very severe wound, had occasioned only a temporary loss of consciousness. It must be borne in mind, that two hours had nearly elapsed between the assault upon Munoz and the entrance into the house by the robbers, which time had probably been spent by them in various efforts to gain access. Strong restoratives, judiciously applied, soon brought back animation, and, shortly afterward, Munoz could give a confused narrative of what had befallen him. The officer on duty at once saw through the scheme, and gave orders to proceed to the mansion of Don Diego, which they reached at the precise moment when Donna Ignazia, with an armed body of her own servants, was leading them to the dining saloon. The summons of the officer at the front door was followed by a dead silence on the part of the robbers: but when they heard the measured tramp of the soldiery on the stair-case, they sought for means of instant flight. This, however, had been provided for; a portion of the military had surrounded the house, while the others, reinforced by the servants, approached. The only chance then left to the brigands was to cut their way through, or sell their lives as dearly as possible. In an instant the huge oaken doors of the saloon were closed and barred, the lights were extinguished, the windows opened, and everything made ready for the last desperate chance. Fortune favored them; for the soldiery, not anticipating a leap of their enemies from the high windows, withdrew their sentinels from there in order to make them guard the side and rear outlets of the mansion. Two of the bold ruffians had already made their descent by means of tablecloths, tied together, when the alarm was given. The soldiers rushed to the spot—a third robber was clinging to the frail chance for life, and was rapidly descending, but a well-directed shot bereft him of strength, and, after a few frantic efforts to retain his hold, he fell heavily to the ground. His two comrades made a firm stand: but vain was their boldness against the numbers of assailants, and in a few moments they fell, grievously wounded, into the hands of the victors.

Two more only remained of this desperate band, and the fact of their being shielded by strong bolts massive walls, rendered them no insignificant enemies. Ladders were placed against the windows, but the true aim of the keen-eyed brigands made four successive shots tell with appalling effect, since each of them laid low one of their assailants. At last an attack upon the doors was resolved upon, and soon the heavy blows of the ponderous axe resounded from the massive panels. One door gave way: there was a stunning crash, followed by reports of fire-arms, cries of agony, and the dull sound of falling victims. Again the numbers were successful, but in this instance the victims knew no mercy, and, when at last the tumult ceased, the mutilated corpses of the two brigands could hardly be recognized from three of their late assailants.

The man who had been shot while descending from the window was found to be quite dead, the ball having entered his heart. The two survivors were subsequently identified as Ramon Gomez, and Pietro Vaga, better known as "the Hunchback," two of the most notorious highwaymen and burglars, for whose apprehension a large reward had been offered.



SHIPWRECK OF THE MONTICELLO.

J.V. Brown, Esq., Editor of the Lake Superior Journal, who was on board the Monticello, gives the following graphic account of the disaster:

It becomes our painful duty to record the most perilous shipwreck that has ever occurred on Lake Superior, and having been a passenger on board the Monticello at the time, we are enabled to give all the particulars in relation to the loss of the vessel, and the hardships of the passengers and crew. We went on board the Ontonagon on the afternoon of the 22d September, 1851, on her return from Fond du Lac. She left the river at half-past five o'clock bound for the Sault, with about one hundred persons, twenty tons of copper from the Minnesota mine, and a few barrels of fish from La Pointe, and in coming out of the harbor one of the wheels struck a floating log very heavily, and it is supposed to have loosened the packing boxes around one of the shafts.—She lay on the bar a few minutes on her way out, but the sea at that time was light, and we cannot think it possible that she sprang a leak from the effects of the slight pounding on the light sand.



We had been out about half an hour, when the firemen discovered the water rising around the floors of the engine; they communicated the fact to Capt. Wilson, and it was made known to the passengers, but the leak was not thought to be serious, and created but very little alarm. The pump was put into operation, and on examination the captain and engineer seemed confident that the pump would keep her clear till we could run down to Eagle harbor, a distance of sixty miles; but it was soon discovered, that the water was fast gaining on the pump, and preparations were made immediately for raising water by means of barrels and buckets.

The wind was blowing at first from the westward, but soon changed to the northwest—it was fresh but fair, and aided by sails and all the steam that it was prudent to carry, she came on at a rapid rate, still keeping on her course, in hopes to make the harbor. The passengers and crew worked steadily at the pumps, but the water continued gradually to gain on them. The most of the copper and all the other freight was thrown overboard with a hearty good will—the wealth of the mine seeming of but little consequence at such a time. Every possible means were employed to raise water, and every passenger assisted to the utmost of his strength and ability to keep the sinking vessel afloat. Two pumps, three barrels, and a half dozen pails were constantly in motion, and still the water gained steadily, but surely, on their efforts.

We had now been out about three hours, the wind and waves constantly increasing, when it was found, there was little hope of reaching Eagle harbor; the water had risen nearly to the fires, and was fast gaining ground, notwithstanding all the exertions of those on board. After remaining on her course a few minutes longer, the boat was headed toward the land, and new efforts were put forth to encourage all on board to assist at the pumps and barrels. By this time there was three feet of water or more in the hold, and she moved and rolled heavily through the seas, the wood having to be shifted from one side of the vessel to the other, to keep her in trim.

One fire after the other was rolled into the water, and it became evident to the most hopeful that they would be extinguished entirely, and it was still thought, the wind would take her in under the land even if the steam should fail. It was not long before the fires were reported out—the engines worked lazily for a short time, the clicking of the valves became faint and less frequent, and finally, like the dying struggle of a strong man, it ceased altogether.

Wearied with incessant exertions at the pumps, many gave out and retired to the cabins, seeming to prefer rest to escape from the watery grave into which they were fast sinking. Some were even forced into the hold, to fill barrels and pails, and new efforts were put forth to induce the suffering crew and passengers to hold out an hour longer, with the assurance that we could reach land in that time. With this hope, and that influence which strong minds always exert under such circumstances, many took hold again of the pumps with a kind of desperate exertion, and for a time they even gained on the water. There was another circumstance which encouraged them to work. The boat being careened on one side by the sails, one of the fires was partially out of water, and a fire was kindled again by means of dry wood, oil, and the most combustible matter the boat afforded. This not only assisted our progress toward the land, but it stimulated the passengers to new exertions.

The fires were in this way kindled and extinguished several times, and all felt that they owed much to the irregular exertion of the engines for their preservation, especially as the wind for some time died away, so as to scarcely fill the sails. For two long hours the water-logged vessel drifted in, before soundings could be had. In this region it was well known, that the coast was rocky, and dangerous for landing, and the night was too dark to enable the pilot to distinguish one place from another. A heavy sea rolled in upon the shore, and it seemed like madness to attempt a landing under such circumstances. Accordingly, Captain Wilson decided to come to anchor, and endeavor to keep the vessel afloat till daylight; and as soon as we came into six fathoms water the anchors were let go, and she swung round heavily in the furious waves, that threatened speedily to complete the work of destruction.

Several insane attempts had been thwarted for cutting away the boats, which, had they succeeded, we doubt not, would have proved certain destruction to nine-tenths of all on board; for if the boats had not been swamped at once, they would undoubtedly have been dashed to pieces on the rock-bound shore, leaving others to swim ashore as best they might. The pumping and bailing were continued with the last energies of a noble crew—two or three hours more would bring the light of another day, and it was understood that an attempt would be made to land as soon as it was daylight.

The time wore tediously away, and the passengers and crew were too much exhausted to keep down the water, and still they labored to do so with what strength they had left. Some time before daylight the wind changed to the north; and commenced blowing hard directly upon the shore, and the sea increased rapidly, oftentimes washing into the hatchways where the men were at work bailing, and it became evident to all, that the vessel could be kept afloat only for a short time longer.

At five o'clock it was light enough to see that it was a bold rocky shore, against which the waves dashed high and furiously, but it was too late to choose a place for landing, and the captain ordered the anchors raised. Her bow swung around to the east and in fifteen minutes she struck heavily on the solid rock, about three hundred yards from the shore. The men kept at work pumping and bailing till she struck, when the waves at once swept in upon her deck and filled the hold.

The largest of the two yawls happened to be on the lee side, and it was soon lowered away, and with a line long enough to reach the land, the first and second mates, Messrs. Lucas and Barney, W.T. Westbrook, and one of the crew, started for the shore. The line was made fast to a tree, and they commenced the far more difficult and dangerous task of returning. The little boat seemed to be engulphed by every breaker that it met on its way, and none but strong and true hands could have saved the boat in this emergency, and no one unaccustomed to the dangers of the sea, can imagine the nerve necessary to manage a boat under such circumstances.

The smaller boat, after much difficulty and delay, was got around under the lee and bailed out, but it swamped the first trip ashore, and was not used afterward. By constant, and untiring exertions, the passengers and crew were all landed at half-past eight o'clock, and after securing the shattered boats, as best they could, on the steep side of the rocky shore, they gathered around the fires, to look upon the miserable plight of one another. All were drenched with the water in coming ashore, cold and hungry, worn out by the fatigues of the night and morning, they lopped down around the fires, the sorriest looking gathering that it had ever been our misfortune to witness.

All had been so anxious in seeing the passengers and crew landed safely, that they had not thought about providing for our future wants, and nothing in the shape of provisions or baggage had been brought ashore. After they had looked around them for a few moments, the boat was again manned and the wreck was again explored for provisions, and a few pounds of hard bread, part of a quarter of fresh beef and some boiled beef were brought in, which was as one remarked, a "poor show" for a lunch for so many sharp appetites. After having eaten this mouthful we proposed to start with as many as possible for Eagle river, which was judged to be about thirty-five miles distant, and a party of twenty-two in number set out.

It was noon when we started, with our clothes still wet and heavy, and little or nothing to eat. We worked our way slowly through the cedar swamp; over logs and under logs, up ravines and down ravines, a crooked, trackless, toilsome way, till the middle of the afternoon, when we met two of our fellow passengers on their way back to the wreck. They had been on some distance further, but worn out with the hardships of their journey and hunger, they had turned back disheartened, and advised us to do the same. But we decided to go on, and on we went, through the worst cedar swamps in the world, till the thick woods began to grow dark with the shades of evening, and till a number of the party became completely exhausted with fatigue and hunger. We then concluded to encamp for the night, although we could not have traveled in all the afternoon over five miles, or about a mile an hour.

Without an axe, a few sticks were collected, and two or three poor fires were kindled. All the bits of hard bread, and fresh beef, in all a scanty meal for one person's supper, was produced and rationed out to the twenty-two persons. Every one ate as sparingly as possible, and as we were without tents, we lay down on the cold ground in our wet clothes before the fire, and dozed and shivered with cold till daylight. As soon as we could see to travel, we proceeded on our toilsome way, and after walking about a mile we came to the trail that leads from Lake Superior to Portage Lake, and saw two or three Indians pushing out through the surf a bark canoe, which they soon jumped into and paddled away before the wind. We tried to induce them to return, in hopes to procure something from them to satisfy our craving hunger, but they scarcely deigned to look back.

Some of our party had been from this trail to Eagle river, and it was some consolation to meet with a land mark that was known. We now commenced walking along the beach, which was composed of large pebbles, covered in many places with logs and trees that had washed or tumbled in from off the overhanging banks, making it as tiresome walking as can well be imagined. Frequently, in order to keep the beach, we were obliged to walk within reach of the dash of the waves, and were drenched with the cold flood.

About two miles east of the Portage trail, we discovered near the edge of the bank, which was some ten feet above the lake, the remains of a human being. The clothes of a man, in a good state of preservation, half covered the bleaching bones, the sad, sickening, unburied relics of some poor "shipwrecked brother," who had here ended his voyage "o'er life's stormy main." He had evidently chosen this spot where he could die looking off upon the lake, from whence no succor came, and where he could be easily discovered by the passer by. A description was taken by one of our party of his clothes and the few articles found on them, and we learned on inquiring at Eagle river, that they were undoubtedly the remains of a Mr. Mathews, who got lost from the Algonquin mine a few weeks previous. A brother of the deceased repaired to the spot as soon as possible and brought down the remains for burial at Eagle harbor.

The morning had not far advanced when a number of our party began to lag behind, exhausted from the effects of hunger and weakness, and it was evident that some would have to be left behind, while some of the others might possibly reach Eagle river that day and send assistance. We confidently expected to find some provisions in a warehouse at Gratiot river, twelve miles from Eagle river, and all had hopes to reach there before night. A few of our party pushed forward as fast as possible, to procure food and fires for those behind, but great was our disappointment not to find a particle of provisions at that place.

We kindled a fire, and rested for a few minutes, till a number of our party came up, the larger number being still far behind. It now became more important than ever that some one should reach Eagle river, and seven of our number determined to make the trial. We had now twelve miles further to go, and in our miserable condition we traveled but slowly, but the trail grew better as we proceeded, and we came in sight of Eagle River about four o'clock in the afternoon, and under the circumstances, a more pleasant, inviting village we do not recollect ever to have seen before. Four or five of our party came through the same evening, and a few others of another party came in the next day with similar hardships.

On the Tuesday following, Capt. McKay with the schooner Algonquin, proceeded to the wreck, and brought off the captain, crew, and remaining passengers, and all that could be saved of valuable property.



A JUNGLE RECOLLECTION.

The hot season of 1849 was peculiarly oppressive, and the irksome garrison duty, at Cherootabad, in the south of India, had for many months been unusually severe. The colonel of my regiment, the brigadier, and the general, having successively acceded to my application for three weeks' leave, and that welcome fact having been duly notified in orders, it was not long before I found myself on the Coimbatore road, snugly packed, guns and all, in a country bullock cart, lying at full length on a mattress, with a thick layer of straw spread under it.

All my preparations had been made beforehand; relays of bullocks were posted for me at convenient intervals, and I arrived at Goodaloor, a distance of a hundred and ten miles, in rather more than forty eight hours.

Goodaloor is a quiet little village, about eleven miles from Coimbatore;—but don't suppose I was going to spend my precious three weeks there.

All loaded, and pony saddled, let us start: the two white cows and their calves; the mattress and blanket rolled up and carried on a Cooly's head Shikaree, horsekeeper, and a village man, with the three guns, while I, myself, bring up the rear. Over a few ploughed fields, and past that large banian tree, the jungle begins.

In a small clump of low jungle, on the sloping bank of a broad, sandy watercourse, the casual passer-by would not have perceived a snug and tolerably strong little hut—the white ends of the small branches that were laid over it, and the mixture of foliage, alone revealing the fact to the observant eye of a practiced woodman. No praise could be too strong to bestow on the faithful Shikaree; had I chosen the spot myself, after a weeks' survey of the country, it could not have been more happily selected.

To the deeply-rooted stump of a young tree on the opposite bank, one of the white cows had been made fast by a double cord passed twice around her horns. Nothing remains to be done: the little door is fastened behind me, the prickly acacia boughs are piled up against it on the outside, and my people are anxious to be off.

The poor cow, too, listens with dismay to the retreating footsteps of the party, and has already made some furious plunges to free herself, and rejoin the rest of the kine, who have been driven off, nothing loth, toward home. Watch her: how intently she stares along the path by which the people have deserted her. Were it not for the occasional stamp of her fore leg, or the impatient side-toss of the head, to keep off the swarming flies, she might be carved out of marble. And now a fearful and anxious gaze up the bed of the nullah, and into the thick fringe of Mimoso, one ear pricked and the other back alternately, show that instinct has already whispered the warning of impending danger. Another plunge to get loose, and a searching gaze up the path; see her sides heave. Now comes what we want—that deep low! It echoes again among the hills: another and another. Poor wretch! you are hastening your doom; far or near, the tiger hears you—under the rock or thicket, where he has lain since morning, sheltered from the scorching sun, his ears flutter as if they were tickled every time he hears that music; his huge, green eyes, heretofore half closed, are now wide open, and, alas! poor cow, gaze truly enough in thy direction; but he has not stirred yet, and nobody can say in what direction giant death will yet stalk forth.

The moon is up—all nature still; the cow, again on her legs, is restless, and evidently frightened. Oh! reader, even if you have the soul of a Shikaree, I despair of being able to convey in words a tithe of the sensations of that solitary vigil: a night like that is to be enjoyed but seldom—a red-letter day in one's existence.

Where is the man who has never experienced the poetic influence of a moonlight scene! Fancy, then, such a one as here described; a crescent of low hills—craggy, steep, and thickly wooded—around you, on three sides, and above them, again, at twenty miles' distance, the clear blue outline of the Neilgherry hills; in your front, the silver sand bed of the dry watercourse divides the thick and somber jungle with a stream of light, till you lose it in the deep shadows at the foot of the hills—all quiet, all still, all bathed in the light of the moon, yourself the only man for miles to come, a solitary watcher—your only companion the poor cow, who, full of fears, and suspicious at every leaf-fall, reminds you that a terrible struggle is about to take place within a few feet of your bed, and that there will be noise and confusion, when you must be cool and collected. Your little kennel would not be strong enough to resist a determined charge, and you are alone, if three good guns are not true friends.

Oh! that I could express sounds on paper as music is written in notes. No, reader, you must do as I have done—you must be placed in a similar situation, to hear and enjoy the terrible roar of a hungry tiger—not from afar off, and listened for, but close at hand, and unexpected. It was like an electric shock;—a moment ago I was dozing off, and the cow, long since laid down, appeared asleep; that one roar had not died away among the hills when she had scrambled on her legs, and stood with elevated head, stiffened limbs, tail raised, and breath suspended, staring, full of terror, in the direction of the sound. As for the biped, with less noise, and even more alacrity, he had grasped his "Sam Nock," whose polished barrels just rested on the lower ledge of the little peep-hole; perhaps his eyes were as round as saucers, and heart beating fast and strong.

Now for the struggle;—pray heaven that I am cool and calm, and do not fire in a hurry, for one shot will either lose or secure my well-earned prize.

There he is again! evidently in that rugged, stony watercourse, which runs parallel, and about two hundred yards behind the hut. But what is that? Yes, lightning: two flashes in quick succession, and a cold stream of air is rustling through the half-withered leaves of my ambush. Taking a look to the rear, through an accidental opening among the leaves, it was plain that a storm, or, as it would be called at sea, a squall, was brewing. An arch of black cloud was approaching from the westward, and, the rain descending, gave it the appearance of a huge black comb, the teeth reaching to the earth. The moon, half obscured, showed a white mist as far as the rain had reached. Then was heard in the puffs of air, the hissing of the distant but approaching downpour: more lightning—then some large heavy drops plashed on the roof, and it was raining cats and dogs.

How the scene was changed! Half an hour ago, solemn, and still, and wild, as nature rested, unpolluted, undefaced, unmarked by man—sleeping in the light of the moon, all was tranquillity; the civilized man lost his idiosyncrasy in its contemplation—forgot nation, pursuits, creed—he felt that he was Nature's child, and adored the God of Nature.

But the beautiful was now exchanged for the sublime, when that scene appeared lit up suddenly and awfully by lightning, which now momentarily exchanged a sheet of intensely dazzling blue light, with a darkness horrible to endure—a light which showed the many streams of water, which now appeared like ribbons over the smooth slabs of rod that lay on the slope of the hills, and gave a microscopic accuracy of outline to every object, exchanged as suddenly for a darkness, which for the moment might be supposed the darkness of extinction—of utter annihilation—while the crash of thunder over head rolled over the echoes of the hills, "I am the Lord thy God."

The storm was at length over, the nullah run dry again. Damp and sleepy, with arms folded and eyes sometimes open, but often shut, I kept an indifferent watch, when the cow, struggling on her legs, and a groan, brought me to my senses. There they were. It was no dream. A large tiger, holding her just behind the ears, shaking her like a fighting dog. By the doubtful light of the watery moon, did I calmly and noiselessly run out the muzzle of my rifle.

I saw him, without quitting his grip of the cow's neck, leap over her back more than once. She sank to the earth, and he lifted her up again. At the first opportunity, I pulled trigger. The left hand missed, I tried the right—it went off—bang!

Whether a hanging fire is an excuse or not, the tiger relinquished his hold and was off with a bound. The cow staggered and struggled, and, in few seconds, fell, and, with a heavy groan, ceased to move. The tiger had killed the cow within a few feet of me, and escaped scathless.

Night after night did I watch for his return. I had almost despaired of seeing him again, when, one night, about eleven o'clock, my ears caught the echo among the rocks, and then the distant roar—nearer—nearer—nearer; and—oh, joy!—answered. Tiger and tigress!—above all hope!—coming to recompense me for hundreds of night watchings—to balance a long account of weary nights in the silent jungle, in platforms on trees, in huts of leaf and bramble, and in damp pits on the water's edge—all bootless; coming—coming—nearer and nearer.

Music nor words, dear reader, can stand me in any stead to convey the sound to you; the first note like the trumpet of a peacock, and the rest the deepest toned thunder. Stones and gravel rattled just behind the hut on the path by which we came, and went, and a heavy step passed and descended the slope into the nullah. I heard the sand crunching under his weight before I dared to look. A little peep. Oh, heavens! looming in the moonlight, there he stood, long, sleek as satin, and lashing his tail—he stood stationary, smelling the slaughtered cow. No longer the cautious, creeping tiger, I felt how awful a brute he was to offend. I remembered how he had worried a strong cow in half a minute, and that, with his weight alone, my poor rickety little citadel would fall to pieces. As if the excitement of the moment was insufficient, the monster, gazing down the dry watercourse, caught sight of his companion, who, advancing up the bed of the nullah, stood irresolutely about twenty yards off. The bully, who was evidently the male, after smelling at the head, came round the carcass, making a sort of complaisant purring—"humming a kind of animal song," and to it he went tooth and nail.

As he stood with his two fore feet on the haunch, while he tugged and tore out a beef-steak, I once more grasped old "Sam Nock," and ran the muzzle out of the little port. The white linen band marked a line behind his shoulders, and rather low, but, from the continued motion of his body, it was some moments before eye and finger agreed to pull trigger—bang! A shower of sand rattled on the dry leaves, and a roar of rage and pain satisfied me, even before the white smoke, which hung in the still air, had cleared away, to show the huge monster writhing and plunging where he had fallen. Either directed by the fire, or by some slight noise made in the agitation of the moment, he saw me, and, with a hideous yell, scrambled up: the roaring thunder of his voice filled the valley, and the echoes among the hills answered it, with the hootings of tribes of monkeys, who, scared out of sleep, sought the highest branches, at the sound of the well-known voice of the tyrant of the jungle. I immediately perceived, to my great joy, that his hind quarters were paralyzed and useless, and that all danger was out of the question. He sank down again on his elbows, and as he rested his now powerless limbs, I saw the blood welling out of a wound in the loins, as it shone in the moonlight, and trickled off his sleek-painted hide, like globules of quicksilver. As I looked into his countenance, I saw all the devil alive there. The will remained—the power only had gone. It was a sight never to be forgotten. With head raised to the full stretch of his neck, he glared at me with an expression of such malignity, that it almost made one quail. I thought of the native superstition of singeing off the whiskers of the newly killed tiger to lay his spirit, and no longer wondered at it. With ears back, and mouth bleeding, he growled and roared in fitful uncertainty, as if he were trying, but unable, to measure the extent of the force that had laid him low.

Motionless myself, provocation ceased, and without further attempt to get on his legs, he continued to gaze on me; when I slowly lowered my head to the sight, and again pulled trigger. This time, true to the mark, the ball entered just above the breastbone, and the smoke cleared off with his death-groan. There he lay, foot to foot with his victim of last night, motionless—dead. My first impulse was to tear down the door behind, and get a thorough view of his proportions; but remembering that his companion, the tigress, had vanished only a short time ago close to the scene of action, I thought it as well to remain where I was; so, enlarging the windows with my hands, I took a long look, and then jovially attacked the coffee without reference to noise, and fell back on the mattress to sleep, or to think the night's work over. "At last, I have got him: his skin will be pegged out to-morrow, drying before the tent door." When my people came in the morning, they found me seated on the dead tiger. Coolies were sent for to carry the beast, and I gave the pony his reins all the way back to the tent.

FRASER'S MAGAZINE



ATTACK OF BOONSBOROUGH.

On the tenth of March, 1778, Daniel Boone, having been taken prisoner by the Indians, was conducted to Detroit, when Governor Hamilton himself offered one hundred pounds sterling, for his ransom; but so great was the affection of the Indians for their prisoner, that it was positively refused. Boone's anxiety on account of his wife and children was incessant, and the more intolerable as he dared not excite the suspicions of his captors by any indication of a wish to return home.

The Indians were now preparing for a violent attack upon the settlements in Kentucky. Early in June, four hundred and fifty of the choicest warriors were ready to march against Boonesborough, painted and armed in a fearful manner. Alarmed at these preparations, he determined to make his escape. He hunted and shot with the Indians as usual, until the morning of the sixteenth of June, when, taking an early start, he left Chillicothe and directed his steps to Boonesborough. The distance exceeded one hundred and sixty miles, but he performed it in four days, during which he eat only one meal. He appeared before the garrison like one risen from the dead. He found the fortress in a bad state, and lost no time in rendering it more capable of defence. He repaired the flanks, gates, and posterns, formed double bastions, and completed the whole in ten days.

On the eighth of August, the enemy appeared. The attack upon the fort was instantly commenced; and the siege lasted nine days, during which, an almost incessant firing was kept up. On the twentieth of August, the enemy retired with a loss of thirty-seven killed and a great many wounded. This affair was highly creditable to the spirit and skill of the pioneers.



THRILLING INCIDENTS OF BATTLE.

There is a man now living in East Dixfield, Oxford county, me, who actually caught in his mouth a ball discharged from a musket. He was at the battle of Bridgewater, in the war of 1812, and, while biting off the end of a cartridge, for the purpose of loading his gun, was struck by a ball, which entered on the left side of his face, knocking out eight of his teeth, cut off the end of his tongue, and passed into his throat. He raised it, went to the hospital, staid out the remainder of his enlistment, and returned home with the bullet in his pocket.

The New Orleans Picayune, one of whose editors was an eye-witness of the most of the leading battles in Mexico, copies the foregoing paragraph, and appends to it the following relation:

We can relate an incident even more strange than this. At the siege of Monterey, in 1846, and, while General Worth's troops were advancing to storm the small fort, known as La Soldada, a man, named Waters, an excellent soldier, belonging to Ben McCulloch's Rangers, caught a large grape-shot directly in his mouth. It was fully the size of a hen's egg, was rough, uneven in shape, and, in its course, completely carried out the four upper teeth of the ranger, and part of the jaw, cut off the four lower teeth, as with a chisel, split his tongue in twain, carried away his palate, went through the back of his head, and, striking a tendon, glanced down, and lodged under the skin on the shoulder-blade, where it was extracted by a surgeon, and safely placed in the pocket of Waters for future reference.

No man thought the wounded ranger could live, he could swallow neither food nor water. We saw him two nights afterward, in a room in the Bishop's Palace, which had been converted into a hospital, sitting bolt upright among the wounded and the dying—for the nature of his terrible hurt was such that he could not lie down without suffocating. His face was swollen to more than twice its ordinary size—he was speechless of course—his wants were only made known by means of a broken slate and pencil, and he was slowly applying a wet sponge to his mouth, endeavoring to extract moisture, which might quench the fever and intolerable thirst under which he was suffering. By his side lay young Thomas, of Maryland, a member of the same company, who was mortally wounded the morning after, and who was now dying. Wounded men, struck that afternoon in Worth's advance upon the Grand Plaza, were constantly being brought in, the surgeons were amputating and dressing the hurts of the crippled soldiers by a pale and sickly candle-light, and the groans of those in grievous pain added a new horror to the scene, which was at best frightful. We recollect, perfectly well, a poor fellow struck in both legs by a grape-shot, while advancing up one of the streets. He was begging lustily, after one of his limbs had been amputated, that the other might be spared him, on which to hobble through the world. Poor Thomas, as gallant a spirit as ever lived, finally breathed his last; we brought Waters a fresh cup of water with which to moisten his wounds, and then left the room to catch an hour's sleep; but the recollections of that terrible night will not soon be effaced from my memory.

The above incident occurred on the night of the 23d and morning of the 24th of September, 1846. During the early part of the month of February following, while passing into the old St. Charles, in this city, we were accosted with a strange voice by a fine-looking man, who seemed extremely glad to see us, although he had a most singular and unaccountable mode of expressing himself. We recollected the eye as one we had been familiar with, but the lower features of the face, although in no way disfigured, for the life of us, we could not make out.

"Why, don't you know me?" in a mumbling, half-indistinct, and forced manner, said the man, still shaking our hand vigorously. "I'm Waters."

And Waters it was, in reality, looking as well and as healthy as ever, without showing the least outward sign that he had ever caught a grape-shot in his mouth. A luxuriant growth of mustaches completely covered his upper lip, and concealed any scar the iron missile might have made; an imperial on his under lip hid any appearance of a wound at that point; and, with the exception of his speech, there was nothing to show that he had ever received the slightest injury about the face. His tongue, which was terribly shattered, was still partially benumbed, rendering articulation both difficult and tiresome; but he assured us he was every day gaining more and more the use of it, and, in his own words, he was soon to be "just as good as new"

It is needless to say that we were glad to see him—to meet one we had never expected to encounter again in such excellent plight. Any one who could have seen him sitting in that apartment of the Bishop's Palace, his face swollen, and, with a gravity of countenance, which would have been ludicrous, even to the causing of laughter, had it not been for his own precarious situation, and the heart-rending scenes around, would have been equally as much astonished and rejoiced, as we were, on again so unexpectedly beholding him.

A correspondent of the "Inquirer" has sent us the following, which is quite as remarkable as either of the foregoing:

Very extraordinary incidents have been published lately, of shot having been caught in the mouths of soldiers, in the course of battle, in the war of 1812, and in the Mexican war; but an incident, perhaps more remarkable, for the coolness of the individual on the occasion, occurred at the battle of Fort Drane, fought, in August, 1837, under the command of the late Col. B.K. Pierce. This was one of the most signal and desperate engagements of that bloody war. The Seminoles, under their renowned chief, Osceola, had taken a very commanding position in an extensive sugar field, near the stockade, strengthened on the east side by a dense hammock. Three desperate onsets were made during the battle, and the enemy were finally driven from the field to the protection of the hammock. During the hottest of the battle, a soldier belonging to the detachment under the command of Lieut. Pickell, whose position was a little in advance of the two wings, of the name of Jackson, having just fired, received a shot from a tall Indian, not twenty yards distant, which broke through the outer parts of his pantaloons, and lodged in his right-hand pocket. Feeling the slight sting of the half-spent ball, he thrust his hand in his pocket, drew out the bullet, and dropped it into the barrel of his musket, upon the charge of powder he had just before put in; then, with the unerring aim of a true marksman, leveled his piece, and, as quick as lightning, his adversary was measured upon the ground. The wound was fatal—the warrior survived the shot but a few minutes.

The above is one of the many incidents that occurred in the recent war with the Florida Indians which, for peril and brave feats, on the part of the American soldiers and officers, has scarcely ever been equaled. The above incident is stated as it actually occurred.



A FAMILY ATTACKED BY INDIANS.

On the night of the eleventh of April, 1787, the house of a widow in Bourbon county, Kentucky, became the scene of a deplorable adventure. She occupied what was called a double cabin, in a lonely part of the county. One room was tenanted by the old lady herself, together with two grown sons, and a widowed daughter with an infant. The other room was occupied by two unmarried daughters from sixteen to twenty years of age, together with a little girl.

The hour was eleven o'clock at night, and the family had retired to rest. Some symptoms of an alarming nature had engaged the attention of the young man for an hour, before anything of a decided character took place. At length hasty steps were heard in the yard, and quickly afterward several loud knocks at the door, accompanied by the usual exclamation, "Who keeps house?" in very good English.

The young man, supposing from the language that some benighted travelers were at the door, hastily arose, and was advancing to withdraw the bar that secured it, when his mother, who had long lived upon the frontier, and had probably detected the Indian tone in the demand for admission, instantly sprang out of bed, and ordered her son not to admit them, declaring that they were Indians.

She instantly awakened her other son, and the young men seizing their guns, which were always charged, prepared to repel the enemy. The Indians finding it impossible to enter under their assumed characters, began to thunder at the door with great violence, but a single shot from a loop-hole obliged them to shift the attack to some less exposed point, and, unfortunately, they discovered the door of the other cabin, which contained the three daughters. The rifles of the brothers could not be brought to bear on this point; and, by means of several rails taken from the yard fence, the door was forced from its hinges, and the girls were at the mercy of the savages. One was instantly secured, but the eldest defended herself desperately with a knife she had been using at the loom, and stabbed one of the Indians to the heart, before she was tomahawked.

In the meantime, the little girl, who had been overlooked by the enemy in their eagerness to secure the others, ran out into the yard, and might have effected her escape, had she taken advantage of the darkness, and fled; but instead of looking to her own safety, the terrified little creature ran round the house, wringing her hands, and crying that her sisters were killed.



Just then the child uttered a loud scream, followed by a few faint moans, and all was silent. Presently the crackling of flames was heard, accompanied by a triumphant yell from the Indians, announcing that they had set fire to that division of the house, which had been occupied by the daughters, and of which they held undisputed possession.

The fire was quickly communicated to the rest of the building, and it became necessary to abandon it or perish in the flames. The door was thrown open, and the old lady, supported by her eldest son, attempted to cross the fence at one point, while her daughter carrying her child in her arms, and attended by the younger of the brothers, ran in a different direction. The blazing roof shed a light over the yard but little inferior to that of day, and the savages were distinctly seen awaiting the approach of their victims. The old lady was permitted to reach the stile unmolested, but in the act of crossing, received several balls in her breast, and fell dead. Her son, providentially, remained unhurt, and, by extraordinary agility, effected his escape.

The other party succeeded in reaching the fence unhurt, but in the act of crossing were vigorously assailed by several Indians, who, throwing down their guns, rushed upon them with their tomahawks. The young man defended his sister gallantly, firing upon the enemy as they approached, and then wielding the butt of his rifle with a fury that drew their whole attention upon himself, and gave his sister an opportunity of effecting her escape. He quickly fell however under the tomahawks of his enemies, and was found at daylight, scalped and mangled in a shocking manner. Of the whole family, consisting of eight persons, only three escaped. Four were killed upon the spot, and one, the second daughter, carried off as a prisoner.

The neighborhood was quickly alarmed, and, by daylight, about thirty men were assembled, under the command of Colonel Edwards. A light snow had fallen during the latter part of the night, and the Indian trail could be followed at a gallop. It led directly into the mountainous country bordering on the Licking, and afforded evidences of great hurry and precipitation on the part of the fugitives. Unfortunately, a hound had been permitted to follow the whites, and as the trail became fresh, and the scent warm, she followed it with eagerness, baying loudly and giving the alarm to the Indians. The consequences of this imprudence were soon manifest. The enemy finding the pursuit keen, and perceiving the strength of their prisoner began to fail, instantly sunk their tomahawks in her head, and left her still warm and bleeding upon the snow.