Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Back Cover

Group Title: Home recreation
Title: Home recreation : a collection of tales of peril and adventure, voyages and travels, biography, manners and customs, poetry, and other entertaining sketches
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00001668/00001
 Material Information
Title: Home recreation : a collection of tales of peril and adventure, voyages and travels, biography, manners and customs, poetry, and other entertaining sketches
Series Title: Home recreation : a collection of tales of peril and adventure, voyages and travels, biography, manners and customs, poetry, and other entertaining sketches
Physical Description: Book
Language: English
Creator: Grandfather Merryman
Publisher: D. Appleton & Company
Geo. S. Appleton
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: 1850
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00001668
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: ltqf - AAA1714
ltuf - ALH4672
oclc - 14196459
alephbibnum - 002234253

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Half Title
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
    Table of Contents
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 23a
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        Page 26a
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        Page 39a
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        Page 148a
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    Back Cover
        Page 172
        Page 173
Full Text







Sitrm (ift-TSok


og ranHbfatbe jlnrrmmu.



Eateed, asoodia to Act of Com in the yu 1849, by


In th Clk's Oofi of the Ditriot Court of Ut United states for the
Southern Distrit of New-York.


IN writings for the amusement of the young, great
care should be taken in the choice of the matter sub.
mitted to their inspection. First impressions are the
easiest made; but they last the longest, and, there.
fore, a strenuous endeavor should be exerted to render
them good. Examples of virtue, when combined
with an interesting tale, fix themselves upon the mind
of the reader, and form a standard of merit by which
he insensibly regulates his conduct. This species of
moral and religious instruction is becoming more
popular, because its good effects are daily more seen
and appreciated.

6 Ps11 AO1.

My object has been to interest as well as amuse;
to excite the imagination through the softening medium
of the feelings. Sympathy is the surest destruction of
selfishness. Children, like the grown person, grow
the better for participation in the sufferings where

their own only share is pity: They are also the bet-
ter for the generous impulse which leads them to
rejoice in the hope and happiness of others, though

themselves have nothing in common with the objects

of their emotion. The very youngest ought to know
how much there is to endure in existence; it will
teach them thankfulness in their own more fortunate

lot; and meekness in bearing their own lighter bur.
dens. Early lessons of cheerful endurance cannot
be better taught than by example.

Wordsworth truly says "that, with the young
poetry is a passion." My aim in the poems scattered
through these pages has been to make one taste culti.

paIAct. 9

vate another, and to render the flowers scattered

around our daily path, and the loveliness of nature,

yet dearer, because associated with the early affections

and with snatches of song. To connect the external

object with the internal emotion is the sweetest privi.

lege of poetry.

Reader! full many a flower thon'lt find
Our moral wreath adorn,
That springs not in lie's sterile path-
The row without the thorn:

The nightshade's rich and regal hues,
Without the bane it bears ;
The bloom that fleets not with the nn;
The wheat without the tare.

In riper age and graver hours,
Thou'lt think upon the rhymes
Thou readest now, and sighing my,
Ah, those were happy times I


SHappy, ere Sorrow came to plant
The thorn, or Death to sever;
Ere eyes that beam'd so fondly once,
Alas! were closed for ever!

Ere stealing to my cheated ear,
Came Flattery's dulcet tone;
Ere coldness fell on once true hearts,
And blights upon my own."

0 my young friend! these bitter thoughts
Will come with Time's advance,
Surely as sin and sorrow are
Frail man's inheritance.

Then be thou warned, and early call
Upon His blessed name,
Who, for thy sake, endured of sin
The sorrow and the shame.

So shall, when age comes stealing on,
Those flowers of peace be thine,
Which, like the evening primrose, bloom
To gladden life's decline !
enaANrDFAua muYRA.
Philadelphis, 1849.


Home. 18

An Afay on Drummond's Iand.. 44
Adventure with Chinese Pirte 10
Los of the Tweed. 117
Perilous Incident on a Canadian River. 161
A Sea-Fowling Adventure. 189
Cnrious Adventure with a Seal. 9

The Great Dismal Swamp of America. .
Incidents of an Overland Journey round the
World; the Rocky Mountains. 172
Anecdotes of the Indian. 175
Incidentof a Whaling Voyage; a Gale at Sea 195
A Whale Chase. 200
Ross's Voyage in the Southern Ocean; Natives
of Terr del Fego 218
A Storm among the Icebergs. . 318


Memoir and Anecdotes of Goldsmith.

. 97

The Hippopotamus. 07
Anecdotes of the Vulture. 35

Thoughts of School-days. 62
Incident in the History of a Child. 142

Land and Water Sports of South Carolina.
Wild Sports of the Highlands.
A Wild Cat Hunt in Carolina.
The Excitements of Buffalo Hunting.
A Bull Hunt in the Falkland Islands.


A House, what is it ?
A New Riddle.

The Sailor. 27
The Orphan's Prayer. By Chromia.. 63
The Rainbow. By M. S.R. 89
A Picture of Life. By N.P. 106
A Story in Rhyme. By Clara Moreton. 167
The Butterfly. 2.38


The Way to be Rich. .
The French Barber Hero. 17
Affecting Anecdote of a Sandwich Islander. 186
Answer to New Riddlea. 29.



I srr down to write, I will not say a Preface, for
that sounds too grave; I will call it an Avat Propes,
for my little Book, which I most affectionately dedi.
cate to Young People. Its name will secure for it, at
least a passing notice, for it has a talismanic influence
in almost every heart. Home to the youthful is a lit.
tle world, within whose hallowed circle nothing but
affections and joys can enter. I cannot bear to tear
down the walls of the enchanted citadel, and expose
the world of strife and sorrow without, but would open
a window, that you may look out upon the cold region
around you, and thus learn to prize its fireside delights.
I would have you feel it to be the D6p6t, or starting
place for a long, long pilgrimage; and like a friend
who stands by to see you safely of, would help to pre-
pare you for the journey. Home.then is the place to


select your apparel for the road, to collect the many
requisites for the travel. If your luggage be too
heavy, you will have extra to pay, and besides, be
sadly incommoded. If, on the contrary, it be of too
light a character, you will be greatly annoyed all the
way, feeling your deficiency at every stage. 0 how
unfortunate it is, that we do not fully appreciate the
advantages of Home, until we are fairly off with loco-
motive speed on our journey of life, and have left for
ever its sacred bounds. To make it what it should
be, surely is the duty of all, for there are few indeed
who do not look back with something of regret to its
neglected opportunities. Home should be the nursery
for the purest and kindest affections-the school for
the intellect-the court for the refinement of man.
ners. It should be neither too grave, nor inordinately
gay. The buoyant and over-joyous feelings should
preponderate, and yet the heart should here also learn
to feel for others' woes."


aMs macitnt to 3ortons of 6stzmun.


"Chrtma I singing joy on al,
Briging gifts for great ad smaD,
Brightst day of all tI yur,
Welcome, Chritmu I welcome heI"

As this Souvenir will not probably be presented to
Syou before Christmas day, my young readers, I have
searched the stores of my memory, for a mite to add
to its varied contents; and have concluded that per.
haps what will best suit you at such a season, will be
the recital of the German mode of celebrating the com-
memorative festival of the holy Christ-child's birth;
thus enabling you to contrast your own method, with
that of a foreign clime.
Let me premise, that among the sober-minded
people of my "Vaterland," (Fatherland,) this is a


great holiday, and on this occasion they lay aside the
plodding routine of every-day life, and their profound
steadiness, and from the peasant to the peer, enter
with heartsome joyousness into the amusements, and
pursuits, which crown this period of the year. Fami.
lies are reunited, and those who have been estranged
by unkild feelings, are ofttimes once more joined in
friendly intercourse, and beneath the "roof tree,"
pass warm greetings, whilst loving words are whis.
pered; for

"This is the time when the gray old man
Leaps back to the days of youth;
When brows and eyes bear no disguise,
But flush and gleam with truth.
Oh! then is the time when the soul exults,
And seems right heavenward turning;
When we love and bless the hands we press,
While the Christmas log is burning."


Christma ev advance bright,
In a car of il'ry light,
Woven by the moon on high,
And lt down from yoeadr sky."

Weeks, nay even months before the auspicious
period arrives,-heads are occupied devising, and
hands ae busy in executing projects for the future


gratification of relatives, and friends-and not one Ia
the household, ydung or old, grave or gay, but has a
secret, which they most perseveringly preserve from
the prying eyes and curious ears of their companions;
the grand object in view being to create a surprise
on the eventful morning. The spending money is
carefully collected in a place of deposit by the chil.
dren, who gladly forego the pleasures of a gratified
appetite, in order to add to the hoarded pence. Par.
ticular attention is paid to behavior, for, according
to olden legends, the Christkingle (patron saint of
Christmas) will not bestow his favors upon froward
The week immediately preceding the festival, is
an extremely busy one. Fond parents join their
efforts to procure a greater fund of delight for their
Offspring than has ever before been offered them; and
every where is anxious consultation, and noisy pre.
paration. "Kuchens," (a cake peculiar to this
occasion,) puddings, and pies, send a delightful fra.
grance through the house, and not infrequently,
troublesome urchins introduce their doubtful fingers
into the luscious condiments, much to the discomfort
and annoyance of the good cook;-who frightens
them off, by a clutch of her well.floured hands.
At length the long.expected Christmas eve arrives,
and then the excitement is at its height, constantly


enflamed too, by sundry knocks at doors, and the con-
veying through entries of various boxes and covered
packages, into which prying eyes cannot penetrate,
but must remain in unblissful uncertainty, until the
Along the streets are arranged gaudy booths, dis-
playing all sorts of cookery, and tempting articles
suitable for presents; and from the windows of public
buildings, and private houses, stream floods of light,
disclosing to the gaze a motley crowd, and in it, some
figures most grotesquely dressed, imposing themselves
upon the ignorant, as representatives ofthe patron saint
of Christmas: some personating him in his character of
kindness, as the bestower of rewards upon good chil-
dren; and others, arrayed as the Bellsnickle," car-
rying bunches of rods,-thus making him appear as
the punisher of those giddy youths who have been
unmindful of his former bounty.
I must not forget to tell you, that evergreens in
profusion decorate the principal rooms of wealthy in.
habitants, whilst even the poorest cottager displays
this festive token on the window ledge, or over some
choice piece of furniture.
Germany is proverbially a land of melody, and at
this holiday time the very street boys chant a merry
strain of greeting, and through the still night" the
faithful watchmen enliven their rounds by carols of


praise, in behalf of the approaching Christmas day,
or breathe, with devout accents, hymns of adoration,
giving thanks for the coming of the blessed Christ.
child," whom angels heralded as the "day star from
on high."
Until children arrive at a certain age, they are
kept in ignorance as to what is the precise medium
through which they receive the gifts which render
them so happy. They are firm believers in that
Christkingle to whom I have referred, and whom they
regard as a mystical being, who enters their homes
by a species of magic, and who they must not venture
to offend, for fear of his withholding the accustomed
On this evening they are sent to bed at an early
hour, and with straining eyes try to pierce through
the darkness, thus hoping to discover the enchanted
personage who has formed the subject of so many day
and night dreams.
But ere the young folks retire to rest, they enter
the chamber which is to contain the wondrous Christ.
mas tree, and each one, in succession, places upon a
table a plate containing a slip of paper, on which is
written his name; the children are then soon en-
sconced in bed, and after listening in vain for the
Christkingle's coming, soon fall into gentle slumbers.
At length the weary eyes of the entire household

r^ - -.- -- -- ,. i
20 HOws aIO1T ATION.

are closed in sleep, and all is quiet until just before
the sun appears through the eastern gates of Heaven,
and then the chiming of bells, and music from the
church-tope, announces the arrival of the glad morn.
Soon busy little feet patter across the floors in
search of clothing, each endeavoring to outstrip the
other in the task of dressing, and then with careful
tread they steal towards their parents' rooms, awaking
them with the sound of tuneful chorus, and affection.
ate wishes for a happy day. The great secret of
their early rising, is, to surprise them, and thus gain
a present from each.
Once more I must digress from the subject to tell
you, my young friends, that throughout some of the
villages, pass, from friend to friend, and from stranger to
stranger, this greeting, Christus ist geboren," (Christ
is born,) and the answer is, "Christus ist warhaftig
geboren," (Christ is truly born); and those who are so
fortunate as to be first in offering to those they meet this
salutation, and accompanying good wishes, receive, in
return, a trifling gift. Even the poorest enjoy this plea-
sure and privilege, and if caught, give, if nothing else,
a kuchenn," (cake,) with a kreuzer (halfpenny)
placed in the middle of it.
But to return to the thread of our narrative. The
food parents who are thus wakened, eagerly arise to
embrace their beloved children; and as warm kisses


are lavished on these "deutsche kinder" as ever wl.
coned you, my young Americans.
After these greetings, the entire family assemble in
some room of the mansion-all, with the exception of
the mother, and there await a signal which shall bid
them approach the enchanted chamber, which is the
goal of their hopes and wishes. At length a bell is
heard to sound, and then, with eager haste, the young
folks run, pell-mell, tumbling over each other, in striv.
ing to gain the entrance.
Suddenly the door is opened by the kind mother,
and there, glittering with lighted waxen tapers, stands
the Christmas tree, upon a large table, well covered
with cakes and sweetmeats to tempt the palate, and
gifts of various kinds to please the fancy, Each one
selects his own plate, and finds it filled with choice
bonbons, whilst around it are placed the souvenirs and
presents belonging to his share. No one is forgotten;
each member of the family, including the domestics,
(who have a separate table,) finds himself remem.
bered. There is always an interchange of gifts from
every individual of the household, even from the
youngest to the oldest.
Oh how eagerly little hands strive to undo the
fastenings of packages, &c., so impatient that they
cannot wait to pick out the knots, but break and out
the cords at an alarming rate; and then appear to


their anxious gaze beautiful gilt bound books, pretty
toys for the girls, horses and martial weapons for the
boys, games of every species, bright penknives, neatly
furnished writing desks, jewelry, and, in short, such
a mixture of the useful and ornamental, that it would
be almost impossible to enumerate the contents of the
magic tree, or table.
Then, too, imagine the clapping of hands, and ex.
clamations of delight, uttered by glad young beings!
And what is more melodious to the ear than to listen
to children's voices, ringing out a gleeful measure,
unaffected by harsh sounds of discord, or words of
debasing passion!
Let me pause for a moment, my friends, to bid
you remember, not only to be amiable and loving
when surrounded by the blessings of life, and when
every wish meets with attention, but to strive, on al
occasion, to follow the example of the Divine Christ.
child, who condescended to dwell on earth, that we
might profit by the teachings of his holy presence;
and who gave to us, among many others, this beauti.
ful precept, Little children, love one another." A
forgiving and gentle disposition wil aid you to con-
quer, not only the petty trials of youth, but also the
sterner ones of maturer years-and will so gild the
horizon of life, that all men will call you blessed.
I must now dwell more particularly on the Christ.


mas tree, and give you some description of its ap-
pearance and formation, as it is the principal object of
interest on this festive occasion. It is not simply a
branch filled with green leaves, but a large and nicely
formed bush, rising from a hillock, covered with deli-
cate moss, having sometimes a few artificial flowers
peeping forth from amid the verdant bed. And ofttimes
it is made to appear as if standing in a small garden,
or inclosure, having pieces of glass introduced among
the turf in such a manner as to represent a lake or
stream of water, on which seem to sail small white
swans and ducks, formed of wood or sugar. A pretty
paling surrounds the whole, and with a few figures
of men and women scattered in various positions,
forms quite a picturesque scene. From the boughs
of the tree are usually suspended a quantity of sugar
animals, and variously colored flowers, with mint.
drops, interspersed with variegated tapers; and some-
times may be viewed through the foliage bright-eyed
dolls, destined for the younger members of the family.
This adds greatly to the interest.
In this country, the Christmas tree is frequently
composed of holly, and the clustering red berries form
a beautiful addition. Commemorative of its many
virtues, I will transcribe a verse from Miss Cook's
poem, entitled "The Christmas Holly," and I am sure
you will agree with me in thinking it very appro.

f .


SThe holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay-
Come, give the holly a song;
For it helps to drive stern winter away,
With his garment so sombre and long.
It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,
And is leaves of burnished green,
When the flower and fruits have long been dead,
And not even the daisy is seen.
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
That hangs over peasant and king;
While we laugh and carouse neathh its glittering boughs,
To the Chritmas holly we'll sing."

Through the course of the day, arrive grand.
parents, aunts and uncles, and gentle cousins, who
are all warmly greeted with good wishes, and kind
words, and are then speedily conducted to the won-
drous tree, where is usually found a gift for each.
A family dinner lends its substantial charms to the
scene of enjoyment, and the smoking board exhibits
smiling faces, and-marvellously large appetites.
In the evening a few friends join the revels in
honor of good old-fashioned Christmas, and as soon as
they have all arrived, they partake of a cup of fine
coffee, with a piece of cinnamon kuchenn," (a cake
universally eaten at this particular period). Games
are then introduced, to suit both young and old, rid.
dles are unravelled, kisses are stolen, and wondrous
adventures related of other days,-and after a parting,


and expressions of delight, they all separate, grateful
for the happiness, and the blessings bestowed upon
them on this memorable day.
I cannot conclude, without reminding you, my
dear young readers, that although you may on like
occasions, rejoice in the possession of happy homes,
indulgent parents, and innumerable comforts; yet,
some poor fellow-creatures, far from receiving addi.
tional luxuries, are without the necessaries of life.
It is more blessed to give, than to receive, dear friends;
and will you not, therefore, make your own hearts
happy, by the bestowal of some portion of your afflu.
ence for the benefit of others Never forget that
golden rule, do to others, as you would have them
do to you." By acting according to this precept, you
will bestow upon yourselves that priceless gift,--an
approving conscience.

"And while joy's echofalls
In gay and plenteous halls,
Let the poor and lowly share
The warmth, the sports, the fare;
For the one of humble lot
Most not shiver in his cot,
But claim a bonnteous meed from wealth and pride.
Shed kindly blessings round,
Till no aching heart be found;
And then all hail to merry Christmas tide!
msi coo's roEm.


Now tell me of my brother,
So far away at sea;
Amid the Indian islands,
Of which you read to me.

I wish that I were with him,
Then I should see on high
The tall and stately cocoa,
That rises mid the sky.

But only round the summit
The feathery leaves are seen;
Like the plumes of some great warrior,
It spreads its shining green.

And there the flowers are brighter
Than any that I know;
And the birds have purple plumage,
And wings of crimson glow.


There grow cinnamon and spices,
And, for a mile and more,
The cool sweet glades of evening
Bring perfume from the shore.

Amid those sunny islands
His good ship has to roam:
Amid so many wonders
He must forget his home.

And yet his native valley
How fair it is to-day !
I hear the brook below us
Go singing on its way.

Amid its water-lilies
He launched his first small boat-
He taught me how to build them,
And how to make them float

Though lovely are the countries
That lie beyond the wave,
He will not find among them
Our mother's early grave.

I fear not for the summer,
However bright it be;
My heart says that my brother
Will seek his home and me.


IT was during the month of August, 1837, that,
attended by my children, and by several friends,
whose inducements were change of air and the benefit
of sea-bathing, I made an excursion to Bay Point, a
small summer settlement, situated at the north-eastern
outlet of Port Royal Sound. There, for the first time,
I witnessed the sporting of those sea-monsters, the
Devil-fish, on the surface, and conceived the idea of
taking them with the harpoon.
In crossing from Bay Point to Hilton Head, on a
visit, I saw eight Devil-fish, one directly in the track
of my boat as I spanked away under a press of sail.
He thrust up both wings a foot above the surface, and
kept them steadily erect, as if to act for sails. I liked
not the cradle thus offered me, and veered the boat so
as just to miss him. He never budged, and I passed
so near as easily to have harpooned him, if the imple-
ments had been at hand.


The Devil-fish (in numbers thus unusual) had
doubtless run into the inlet to escape the gales; for,
from repeated observations, I am persuaded that fish
are provided with an instinct, by which they are fore-
warned of convulsions in their proper element.
The sight of these fish disturbed my rest, and I
felt uncomfortable, until I found myself planning an
attack, and providing myself with the needful appa.
ratus. A harpoon two inches wide in the barb, be.
tween two and three feet in the shank, (a regular
whaler,) was turned out from the work-shop. Forty
fathoms of half-inch rope was purchased and stretched.
To -one end the harpoon was firmly attached; the
other, passing through a hole cut in the bottom of a
tub in which the rope was carefully coiled, was to be
fastened to the forecastle. An eight-oared boat was
inspected, new thwarted and new thole-pinned; and
a clete nailed firmly on the forecastle to support the
right foot of the harpooner. A day was fixed, and
friends and sportsmen were invited to repair to the
field of action; but the weather was unpropitious, and
but two boats appeared.
At 6 o'clock, on the 16th of August, we started o
from Bay Point on our cruise for Devil-fish, In my
boat, manned by six oarsmen and a steersman, I was
accompanied by my son, a youth under eighteen. In
the second boat were G. P. E. and W. C., Esqrs.,


with a crew of four men. The armament of the
larger consisted, besides the harpoon, of a lance,
hatchet, and rifle; that of the smaller boat was two
bayonets fixed in long staves (the line for a second
harpoon having been swept away by the tide). We
stretched away before a fresh north-easter, for the
Bay gall on Hilton Head, and then struck sail and
made all snug for action.
We rowed slowly along between the Bay gall
breaker and the shore, on the early ebb, expecting to
meet the Devil.fish on their return from Skull Creek,
the scene of their high-water gambols. The smaller
boat, with outspread sails, stretched off and on, tra-
versing the same region, but on different lines. No
fish were seen. The ebb was half spent, and we
began to despair. I landed on the beach at Hilton
Head, yet kept the boat afloat and two hands on the
look-out. Before a quarter of an hour had elapsed,
"There!" cried our look-out man. I followed the
direction of his hand,-it pointed to Skull Creek
channel, and I saw the wing of the fish two feet
above water. There was no mistaking it,-it was a
Devil-fish. One shout summons the crew to their
post,-the oarsmen spring to their oars,-the red flag
is raised to signal our consort,-and we went roaring
on in the direction in which we had seen him. Once
again, before we had accomplished the distance, he
appeared a moment on the surface.


The place of harpooner I had not the generosity
to yield to any one; so I planted myself on the fore-
castle, my left leg advanced, my right supported by
the clete, my harpoon poised, and thirty fathoms of
rope lying loose on the thwart behind me. The
interest of the moment was intense; my heart throb.
bed audibly, and I scarce breathed while expecting
him to emerge from the spot yet rippled by his wake.
The water was ten fathoms deep, but so turbid that
you could not see six inches beneath the surface. We
had small chance of striking him while his visits to
the surface were so sudden and brief. There he is,
behind us!" Our oarsmen backed with all their
might. Before we reached the spot he was gone;
but soon reappeared on our right, whisking around us
with great velocity, and with a movement singularly
eccentric. He crossed the bow,-his wing only is
visible,-on which side is his body ? I hurled down
my harpoon with all my force. The staff came
bounding up from below, to show me that I had
missed. In the twinkling of an eye the fish flung
himself on his back, darted under the boat, and showed
himself at the stern, belly up. We' dashed at him
wherever he appeared, but he changed position so
quickly that we were always too late. Suddenly his
broad black back was lifted above the water directly
before our bow. Forward !" the oarsmen bend to


the stroke, but before we could gain our distance, his
tail flies up, and he is plunging downward for his
depths. I could not resist,-I pitched my harpoon
from the distance of full thirty feet. It went whiz-
zing through the air, and cleaved the water just be.
neath the spot where the fish had disappeared. My
companions in our consort (who had now approached
within fifty yards) observed the staff quiver for a
second, before it disappeared beneath the water. This
was unobserved by myself, and I was drawing in my
line to prepare for a new throw, when, lo! the line
stopped short! "Is it possible I have him,-the
Devil-fish is struck !" Out flies the line from the
bow,-a joyful shout bursts from our crew,-our con.
sort.is lashed to our stern.-E. and C. spring aboard,
-and here we go! driven by this most diabolical of
Thirty fathoms are run out, and I venture a turn
round the stem. The harpoon holds, and he leads
gallantly off for Middle Bank,-the two boats in
tow. He pushed dead in the eye of a stiff north.
easter. His motion is not so rapid as we expected,
but regular and business-like,-reminding one of the
motion of a canal-boat drawn by a team of stout
horses. We drew upon the line, that we might force
him to the surface and spear him. I found tha was
no fun. Behold me now reclined on the stern seat,


taking breath afer my pull, and lifting my umbrella
to repel the beat of the sun. It was very pleasant to
see the woods of Hilton Head recede, and the ham-
mocks of Paris Island grow into distinctness as we
moved under this novel, and yet unpa*ested, impelling
power I
A lance is plunged into him, but it is flung out of
his body, and almost out of the hand of the spears.
man, by the convulsive muscular efforts of the fish.
When drawn up, the iron is found bent like a reaping.
hook, and the staff broken in the socket.
He seems to gather velocity as he goes; he gets
used to his harness; a bayonet is plunged into his
body; another shudder of the fish, and the bayonet
snaps short off at the eye,-the blade remaining
buried in his body. A second is driven in, and that
is snapped off in the blade. At every blow we had
dealt him, his power seemed to have increased, and
he now swept down for Egg Bank, with a speed that
looked ominous. The tide was now flood,-the wind,
still fresh, had shifted to the east; six oars were put
out and pulled lustily against him, yet he carried us
rapidly seaward, against all these impeding forces.
He seemed to suck in fresh vigor from the ocean
water. Egg Bank was now but one hundred yards
to our left. Row him ashore, boys." The Devil.
fish refused, and drew the whole concern in the op.


posite direction. "Force him, then, to the surface."
He popt up unexpectedly under the bow, lifted one
wing four feet in the air, and, bringing it suddenly
down, swept off every oar from the starboard side of
the boat; they were not broken, but wrenched out of
the hands of the oarsmen as by an electric shock.
One man was knocked beneath the thwarts by the
rebound of an oar, and was laid almost speechless on
the platform,-quite hori de combat. Fresh hands
are brought from the smaller boat; the fish now leads
off with thirty fathoms of rope,-he steers for Joyner'a
Bank. Bay Point recedes, Egg Bank disappears,
Chaplin's Island lies behind us, and Hilton Head
again approaches; but it is the eastern face of the
island that now presents itself. The breakers of the
Gaskin Bank begin to loom in our horizon, and this
is done against wind, tide, and oar! A doubt of
capturing the fish began now to steal over our minds,
and show itself in our faces; our means of assailing
so powerful an antagonist were too inadequate; no-
thing remained but to bowse on him once more, and
endeavor to dispatch him with the weapons that
remained to us. Three fresh hands took the rope,
and, after giving him a long run to weary him to the
uttermost, we succeeded in drawing him to the sur.
face. He lay on his back without motion,-and we
looked on victory as certain. The socket of the


harpoon appeared sticking out from the belly of the
fish; the whole shank was buried in his body. We
saw neither tail, nor head, nor horns, nor wings,-
nothing but an unsightly white mass, undistinguished
by member or feature. After a moment's pause, to
single out some spot for a mortal blow, I plunged the
lance, socket and all, into the centre of this white
The negroes who held the line of the harpoon took
a turn round the gunwale, to prevent its slipping.
The boat lurched with the swell of the sea,-and the
moment the dead weight of the fish, unsupported by
the water, was felt, the harpoon tore out. An instant
before, I saw it driven to the socket in the body of the
fish; the next, it was held up in air, in the hands of
the negro, bent like a scythe. There was time, if
there had been presence of mind, to plunge it anew
into the fish, which floated a second or two on the sur-
face. The moment was lost! I will not attempt to
describe the bitter disappointment that pervaded the
party. For a moment only a faint hope revived; my
lance, secured by a cord, was still in his body,-it
might hold him! "Clear my line,boys!" Alas! the
weight of the fish is too much for my tackle,-the
line flies through my hand,-is checked,-the socket
of the lance is drawn through the orifice by which it
entered,-and the fah u gone! We spoke not a word,


but set our sails, and returned to the beach at Bay
Point. We felt like mariners who, after a hard con.
flict, had sunk a gallant adversary at sea, yet saved
not a single trophy from the wreck to serve as a me-
morial of their exploit.
Yet, keenly as we felt our disappointment, there
is not one of us who would willingly have been else.
wohere,-and the pleasurable excitement of our three
hours' run will be remembered to the end of our lives.
The sacount i closed with a threat of another attempt, which wa soon
carried Into eneution. On the day appointed, three boats appeared at the
rendezvous at Bay Point, fully equipped for the sport, ud oommenced a orunl
full of exciting incident and eminently uooesfal.

We were now moving leisurely along the Hilton
Head shore, looking out for our foe in one of his old
haunts, about a large trunk, which rose, with age and
barnacles, some ten or fifteen feet above water. Not
a sign of him was discovered. We looked in the
direction of Skull Creek, but he was obviously not
there, for the surface was as quiet as if he had never
ruffled it. A glance towards the sea at our backs
gave us as little satisfaction. In the meantime, it
was evident, from the watermarks on our left, that
the flood was far advanced, and that the bank would
soqp be too deep to reach him, if he came fishing upon
it. Impatience was visible in every countenance.
The day is fine enough," said P.; they ought


to be hereabouts, for the boys saw them only yester.
"I have my doubts," said another, "as to every
thing the rogues tell us, especially if a Devil-fish is in
the matter. You know their superstition."
Ah I gentlemen," exclaimed a third, rising from
his seat, and gaping with enmui, this comes of taking
things too late; you should have followed my advice,
and have come out earlier. As it is, I see we shall
have no sport."
"Look on your right!" shouted a voice from the
other boat.
The whole party were in an instant on their
feet. There they were, to be sure. One, two, three;
only a few hundred yards from us, rioting and tum.
bling fantastically over each other's wakes.
"Where is the harpoon V"-" the rifle"-" the
rifle!" exclaimed several voices at once.
Gentlemen, do be quiet," said P., as he leaped
on the forecastle, catching up, at the same time, the
harpoon, which lay on a coil of rope ready for use.
"I have seen some of this service before; pray go
aft, and let me have a clear swing."
A few brisk strokes brought us in the midst of the
playground of the Devil-fish, over a bank two or three
fathoms deep. No part of their bodies was, however,
to be seen; nothing but their broad, dingy flaps,


their coppered edges glancing to the sun, as they rose
and sunk in graceful parabolas through the turbid
brine. All besides was dark; it was not possible to
know where to strike. Their motions, too, were so
rapid and disorderly, and withal transiently percepti-
ble, that it required our utmost efforts to shift our boat
into available positions. But our facile princep-the
master-spirit of fishermen-was at the bow. An
opportunity at last offered, and away went the har-
poon, and in a twinkling, the smallest fish disappeared;
he had felt the touch of its keen edge, and instantly
took fright. Another followed his example, leaving
the bank in possession of one, who now seemed con-
cerned only to show how swiftly and nimbly he could
acquit himself. Instead of emerging, as before, at in-
tervals of a few yards, he took reaches of twenty or
thirty at a time-not one of them on the same line
with another-gyrating, as he went, into the most
fantastic attitudes. At last, the surface was all
quiet; every one held his breath. A heavy whirl
appeared at the head of the boat-what did it mean ?
But Piscator knew, and the harpoon once more took
flight, and, descending five or six feet into the water,
stood quivering there for a moment, and then
vanished, with the velocity of light.
S"Habet shouted a sort of linguist, (who was
always boring us with his scrap Latin, to make


amends, it was supposed, for his bad English,) as he
grasped the line, and huzzaed, until the shore re.
sounded with the music of his lungs. And it was but
too true. The Devil-fish, after his other frolics, had
vaulted entirely on his back, and came floating on the
tide, stomach upwards; his white form reflected along
the surface for several yards. A mark so palpable
could hardly escape the stroke of our weapon; it
entered his abdomen about the middle, and cut its way
right down nearly three feet into his vitals. The line
was clear for him to the extent of thirty fathoms;
but, after running fifteen or twenty, he went plumb
to the bottom, defying every effort at removal. At
length he gave way, and, after much tugging, rose
loggishly to the top-but daylight inspired him with
new strength, and he bounded off again at the height
of his speed. Our man of particles was now in a sore
dilemma. This "learned Theban" had been rude
enough to throw the line so carelessly about his feet,
that there was every prospect of his being speedily
caught in its flying tangles, and ducked soundly for
his pains. What was he to do? A leap or two
heavenward showed that would not answer; so, clear.
ing the forecastle at a bound, he lit in the body of the
Sboat, with no other harm done than some commotion
among the rigging, a cry of wonderment from the
oarsmen, and sundry ejaculations of thanksgiving to


Providence from himself. The line now slacked, and
the Devil-fish was obviously giving out. He yielded
freely to the hand, and, as the last scene in the drama
approached, the boats gathered around to witness his
expiring struggles. The line swayed, and up he rose,
his huge goggles peering out upon us, while his anten-
na dangled heavily about, in token of the extremes
exhaustion. One more effort at escape followed; but
it was too late-the lances were ready, and soon con-
summated the work of death; after which, we all
joined in merry procession towards the shore. We
drew the Devil.fish on the sands, and found him, on
measurement, to be fifteen feet in width.
This was a memorable day in the history of the Devil-fh. After strikin
another, which finally escaped, Pacator with his party went at a late hor to
the aneietace of their coneot, then made fast by the harpoon to a third o
great power, which had defeated all attempts at capture.

We threw ourselves on the course of the other
boat, some forty or fifty yards ahead.
Where is the Devil-fish ?" shouted P.
A sign with the hand directed us some distance
beyond, where we saw indistinctly the wings of the
Devil.fish, shooting alternately out to the height of
a foot or more. We were soon over him; but, with
all his skill, P. could not reach his body. Stroke
after stroke failed. The rocking of the boat, and the
exhaustion of the oarsmen, under their constant ex.


ertions to keep up with him, made things still worse.
Was he to escape from us, after all Strike, sir,
for the black side of his wing;" but the advice was
not wanted, for the harpoon was already deep in him.
As before, the Devil-fish now went directly for the
bottom; but we were in the channel, and that resource
could not avail him. He played about for some time,
but we finally succeeded in bringing him up within
six feet of us, where we pierced him with our lances
until life was gone. But no force could lift him
higher. By this time another boat had come from
the Point to our aid, which, with the two we had
already, it was thought, would be quite sufficient to
take our fish ashore. The sails were set, and the
oars put out to the number of eighteen; the wind,
too, was as fair as could be wished,-still there was
no headway. The Devil-fish was, indeed, unmanage-
able; and but for the force of the wind counteracting
the outward tendencies of the tide, we must have been
inevitably swept to sea, or have cut him loose to
save ourselves. Darkness, in the meantime, had set
in. The night was advancing, and we were yet
almost stationary. Our friends on shore, alarmed at
our situation, set up lights for us, which, owing to
their dispersion, did more to confound than guide us.
The stars came out; but nothing seemed to break the
. general darkness, except the agitation of the oars in


the water, and the rolling of the Devil.fish, as he now
and then emerged on a bed of fire to the surface. At
nine o'clock, we ran aground upon a shoal, which
proved to be Egg Bank. We were now at a stand,
and a council was called. It was impossible to get
the Devil-fish over the bank, for the tide was not
high enough; and the roar of the breakers behind us,
added to the rising of the wind, informed us too
plainly that we could not safely remain where we
were. Perhaps the Devil-fish might be anchored;
but no anchor was to be had; no buoy,-not even a
barrel, by which he might be designated the next
morning. The resource left us was a hard one; but
there was no choice,-we must abandon him,-we
could do no more. Before taking leave of him, how.
ever, we drew him up into three feet water. There
he lay, extending twenty feet by the wings, and his
other parts in proportion.; and the waves rippling in
pearly heaps around his black form, which stood eight
feet in diameter above the water. We cut our har.
poons, pushed our boats through a neighboring swash,
and, in a few moments, found ourselves surrounded
by the welcoming eyes of beauty.
It is not to be inferred, from the concluding pas-
sage of the narrative just quoted, that the fish was
eight feet in depth-but merely that, grounding in
three feet of water, such was his depth, that a por.


tion of his back, equal to eight feet in diameter, was
still left above water. I know not that I ever wit-
nessed any thing more strikingly picturesque than the
appearance of the Devil-fish just before he stranded.
The night was dark-the sea brilliantly luminous-
the breakers were roaring a short distance from us,
and the ground-swell, that at intervals lifted us up,
admonished us that we were in shoal water. Look.
ing behind us, we beheld the Devil.fish, which we
had in tow, mounted up on the crest of an advancing
wave. His wings outspread,-his dark outline dis.
tinctly marked, and separated from the surrounding
waters by a "starry belt" of phosphoric fire-he
seemed to our excited imaginations like some monster
Vampire, hovering above our heads, and threatening
to crush us beneath his wings There was scarcely
time for apprehension before he grounded, and that in
water sufficiently deep to keep our boats afloat.
To leap into the sea-to mount his back in tri-
umph, and shout a wild huzza! were impulses that
we all felt and obeyed. Our next thought was to
secure our retreat to the shore. We were embayed
among the flats: the wind was rising-the tide fall-
ing. If we grounded, and were caught in that situa-
tion by the next flood, our boats would be beaten to
pieces, and we should have but small chance for
our lives! The manner of our extrication has been
already told.


1nm Dr. Oshor's Adysntum l* the PMlU."

Tu.u was some firewood collected on the beach,
which had yet to be got off, as we were in actual
want of it. The natives were ofired some trifling
presents to bring it to the schooner; but acted so
dowly, that the captain got out of patience, and dis-
patched his boat with four men and the interpreter to
eoect' the desired object; gave them every caution
not to mix with the natives, but work quick, and get
off the wood at once; and if there should be any at.
tempt to attack them on the part of the natives, to
run to the water's edge, and the guns of the schooner
would cover them. I may here remark, that it is a
usual plan with almost all the islanders in the Pacific,
who are treacherously disposed, to obtain first as much
as they can by fair trade, and if the suspicions of the
captain of any vessel trading with them should be
lulled, so as to throw him off his guard by this appa.
rent honesty and safety, to take advantage of such a


state of things, and either out off a boat's crew, or
attempt to board and plunder the ship, if possible.
Trainer knew these people well; had no confidence
whatever in any of them: though he seemed to take
matters easy enough, he was well prepared for any
surprise that might be attempted; and he was doubly
particular in his means of defence, as the. interpreter
informed him that the natives (Wowma among the
rest) were laying plans to board the schooner, think.
ing, as she was small, the capture of her would be an
easy matter. Two boat loads of firewood were got
off, and the boat sent for the third and last. The
wood was about forty yards from the beach, and had
to be carried down by the men to the boat. A num.
ber of canoes were rapidly shoved into the water and
filled with men. This was the critical time, and we
all kept ready, and an anxious watch on the boat. In
a few minutes the four men on shore were observed
to run with all their might down to the water's edge,
followed by a crowd of armed natives. They had
scarcely time to get into the boat and push her off
from the beach when the natives were close on, and
throwing a number of spears at them, one of which
took effect on one of the men. However, the remain.
ing three got her off into deep water. The inter.
preter, who could not get into the boat, stole into the
water at another point, unperceived by the natives,


and swam off. They were all taken quickly on
board; but there was no time to hoist the boat up, as
the canoes, filled with armed men, were fast ap-
proaching. The seaman who was wounded in the
boat died in a few minutes after reaching the deck:
the spear had passed right through his chest. The
*men were all enraged at the lose of an excellent man
and an esteemed messmate, were burning for revenge,
and were waiting with impatient eagerness for the
order to slap at them. Trainer was at the gangway,
with his eye on the advancing fleet of canoes'; I was
with him. We were well prepared. The short car-
ronades were the most useful articles on the present
occasion, and were loaded with grape. The crew
were also armed.
Well," said the captain, "I have been here
several times, always treated them fairly and kindly;
and now, without cause, they have killed one of our
best men, and want to take my vessel and murder us
all. They shall catch it!" Thus spoke a really hu-
mane man; but he was irritated beyond all patience
by the treachery of the natives, and loss of his man.
"Now, my lads, are you ready ?" "Ay, ay, sir !"
"Remember, if we let these savages board us, not a
man will be alive in ten minutes!" "Never fear,
sir; we'll pay them !" On the canoes came: they
separated into two divisions, one advancing to the


bows, the other towards the stern. Trainer keenly
eyed them, whilst he made frequent exclamations,
such as, Well, you want the schooner, I suppose 1"
&c. The natives in the canoes were yelling and
screaming loudly enough, and brandishing their spears
with as threatening an aspect as they could make,
seemingly with the intention or for the purpose of
cowing us. They approached within twenty yards;
when the captain ordered the guns at the bow to be
pointed fair for the batch of canoes ahead, while he
arranged for those approaching the stern. Are you
ready men, fore and aft Ay, ay, sir." "Let
go, then." The two carronades discharged their fatal
showers of grape, and, before the smoke had rightly
cleared away, they were loaded and again fired among
the savages. "Load again, my lads," said the cap.
tain. There was scarcely any wind; and the smoke,
which hung low on the water, was a few minutes in
clearing away. The screaming of the wounded peo-
ple was appalling. Some canoes were sunk or cap.
sized, and numbers of natives were swimming tow-
ards the shore. Nevertheless, there were many of
them yet that kept their ground, and had the reckless
daring to make another bold push for the vessel's side.
" Fire!" said the captain again; and another volley
of grape flew amongst them. This discharge had not
the great effect of the former ones, as the canoes were


closer, and the contents of the guns had not distance
enough to scatter. The savages seemed to compre-
hend this, and in another moment were clinging to
the schooner's sides, endeavoring to board: but the
rapid use of muskets and pistols ultimately drove.
them away in indescribable confusion, with, I am
sorry to say, considerable loas. The whole affair was
caused by the natural treachery of the natives. The
part we played was unavoidable: in fact, our lives
were at stake, and there was only one unnecessary
shot fired after the final retreat of the natives. The
men who had charge of the bow-gun loaded it again
unperceived by the captain,'and, before they could be
stopped, fired it after the savages, who were making
for the shore. This parting shot was, as they said,
to revenge Tom Staples, the seaman who was speared.
There was no one on board the schooner hurt during
the affray, but the carpenter, whose arm was broken
by the blow of a heavy club, wielded by a huge
savage who was endeavoring to board. In fact, we
were very critically situated, as there were upwards
of a hundred stout natives clinging to the vessel's
sides and nettings, striving boldly to get in upon us.
The whole affair, from the time the boat's crew were
attacked on shore, until the savages were driven from
about the schooner, only lasted about twenty minutes,
and would never have occurred if there had been wind


enough to take the vessel out from her anchorage.
The rapidity with which the natives came off and at-
tacked, prevented us even trying to tow her out; so
that the calmness of the weather and their sudden
treachery compelled Captain Trainer to defend his
own vessel and the lives on board her.



I szND you a letter, to puzzle your brain,
If you don't find it out, 'twill prove very plain
That the mansion I speak of (although somewhat new),
Has been sadly neglected if furnished by you.

The house that I tell of is costly in price,
And the tenant to leave it you cannot entice;
For though he is only a tenant at will,
To the end of his days you will find him there still.

This house, it has windows so curiously made,
That no light can illumine its chambers 'tis said,
For the rays only enter an archway or room,
Whilst the inner apartments are shrouded in gloom.

But what is the strangest of all things to know,
The tenant, if sitting above or below,
Can, whenever he chooses, enjoy a rich treat,
By opening the windows, may look in the street.

A novUs, WHAT IS IT? 51

The door i in front, and its portals ae wide;
It is fasten'd by cords without nails to the side;
It neither has knocker, plate, handle, or bells,
And it needs to be opened to learn who there dwells.

This door is quite odd, and it needs no strange token;
It open will fly, if the silence is broken;
In times of rejoicing it stands open wide,
In sorrow, the laughing is on the wrong side.

If you enter this door, you must look sharp about;
You will find it quite hard to get safely out;
For 'tis studded with ivory, sharp like a knife,
And if it shuts quickly, 'twill cost you your life.

There are two curious windows, one on each side;
They are very capacious, and open quite wide;
No light can come in, but experience has found
They very well answer to let in the sound.

By those windows the tenant can readily hear
The least sound of danger which he has to fear;
For, by long experience, he has reason to know
That this is the side he must look for a blow.

In the front of the mansion a window is set,
Which is bridged at the top to keep out the wet;
Though generally open, it sometimes will close
When the tenant complains of a cold in his nose.


This curious bulk window, I've often been told,
Is strangely affected in winter by cold;
For at that hard season it feels many twinges,
Which almost, at times, force it off from its hinges.

By the blows of its master, 'tis frequently bruised,
For no window or door is more constantly used;
And the woes that it suffers, sure nobody knows,
For in joy or in sorrow 'tis sure to get blows.

This mansion, so costly, though kept by a sage,
Is sadly affected by sorrow and age;
For the snows of the winter its roof will soon whiten,
And the cracks in its arches no workman can tighten.
G. W. N.


I HxAv been thinking of the past, of the days of
childhood and of youth, of my school-girl days and
my school companions. How strange is the power of
association. Some slight and secret spring was acci.
dentally touched, and as the covering was removed
from the cell of memory, how many forms, long un-
thought of, presented themselves to my mind. Yes,
faces and features on which I had not looked for
years, have come before me in all the freshness,-I
had almost said, in all the reality of yesterday. Dear
friends of my childhood I welcome you all, and joy.
fully, though sadly. I roam over the past with you
once more. Among those whose forms memory has
conjured around me, is one, whose name has ever been
dear to me as the echo of far-off music,-and the
thought of whom has often, oh! how often, come
across my mind like a sunbeam lingering over the
ruins of the past.
Anna B. was very, very dear to me-she never


knew how dear, for in my childhood I never could
express-though I longed to do so-the intensity of
my affection for those whom I loved. I well remem-
ber how I used to dislike those conventional rules that
made my outward demeanor cold, when I longed to
give way to the deep emotions of my heart. I still
dislike them, for I am still governed by them to a
much greater extent than is desirable, though not so
much so as when at school. Schools are not generally
the best places for the development of the affections-
and of all schools, few could have' been less so than
that of Mrs. B., where every thing was reduced to
rule, and every word and action measured by the strict
standard of conventional propriety.
I have no fault to find with the school-I was very
happy there, and dearly did I love my teachers-but
did they ever guess it? No. For the same cold
rules prevented any demonstration of affection for
them, though certainly it would have been pleasing
to them to know that those on whom they had be.
stowed their patient labors, and whose intellects they
sought to cultivate, had appreciated those labors, and
in return for those intellectual gifts, had bestowed upon
them the warm affections of their youthful hearts.
Too often the connection between teachers and scho.
lars is considered by both parties as a mere business
matter. Mistaken notion, and most prejudicial to the


interests of both! I became intimate with many of
my schoolmates, and loved some of them dearly,
though I never was able to judge what measure of
affection I received in return. Circumstances pre-
vented my keeping up an after intimacy with those
whom I most loved, and I lost all knowledge of them
before many years had passed, thus proving, appa.
renaly, the truth of the adage, that school friendships
are not lasting, while deep in my heart are feelings
which prove that they endure long after all intercourse
is at an end.
Among those whose memory I cherish, was one
whose character I love to contemplate, and whose
mind must have been cast in no common mould.
There was something unschool-girl.like in our friend.
ship, and while our intimacy lasted, I did not know
how highly I esteemed,-perhaps that is more correct
than it would be to say, how dearly I loved her.
I had been detained from school by a long-con.
tinued illness, and when, after a lapse of some months,
I returned, I found that many changes had taken
place during my absence. The old familiar faces
were gone, and new ones were around me. I found
my own class entire, but it was the senior class, and
it at that time consisted of a few girls, who, like my.
self, had long been in the school, and with whom I
was closely connected,-not so much by choice as

r77 -


by similarity of pursuits, and long-oontinued habits.
Still we looked upon each other as intimate friends,
and were regarded as such by our schoolmates; con-
sequently we formed a little circle complete in itself,
-the new comers did not offer to join us, and as our
time at school was to be short, we made no overtures
to them; so that those who were strangers to me at
the commencement of the term, remained so, with
very few exceptions, till the close. There wa,, how.
ever, one important exception.
Soon after I had returned to my duties, I made
some inquiries respecting those who had arrived du.
ring my absence; but of all the information I then
gained, I remember nothing, except what related to
one individual:-" Do you see that pale girl at the
desk opposite to us ? She is from South Carolina, and
has come here to complete her education. I do not
know why, for she is a complete walking Dictionary
already. She is not like any other girl in the school,
but she is so studious, so precise, and so learned, that
we have all determined to have nothing to do with
her, unless it be to teaze her occasionally." This
remark left an impression on my mind, and I could
not but pity the poor stranger who was thus coolly
doomed to be either neglected or teazed; yet I felt no
desire to become acquainted with any thing so exces-
sively tiresome as a walking Dictionary; and so, if

. A


accident had not brought it about, I should never have
known any thing more of Laura T., for that was the
name of the delicate and fragile-looking girl, who had
no beauty to recommend her, save that her complex.
. ion was very clear, that her eyes were a beautiful soft
brown, very intelligent, though always languid and
sometimes heavy; and that she had a great profusion
of rich brown hair, which my critical schoolmates said
she did not arrange with taste. None would have
called her handsome-few thought her good-looking,
and not many interested themselves at all about her.
It is true, it soon became evident that she was a
favorite with Mrs. B. I supposed her fondness for
study explained that-and engrossed in my own pur-
suits, I thought no more of the young stranger, and
would soon have forgotten the name of the new comer,
but that this was not to be. She was destined to ex-
ert- an influence on my mind, of which I even yet
reap the benefit.
I was first brought into contact with her in the
French class. I was not surrounded there by a circle
of exclusives, for none of my usual companions stu-
died French at that time. Laura sat next to me, and
day after day I witnessed her diligence and her stren.
uous efforts to overcome the difficulties of the lan-
guage. I do not think her mind was brilliant, or even
quick-on the contrary, I think it was slow-I am


certain that it was sure. Yet I soon discovered that
it was not because study was light to her that she
loved it, but what she desired to obtain she spared no
pains to acquire. She was gentle, very gentle, not at
all proud of her acquirements, nor assuming any su-
periority on account of them. Quiet and retired, she
pursued the even tenor of her way, and while she was
full of gentleness to all, she sought intercourse with
none. Time passed on, and, excepting the ordinary
salutations of the day, nothing was spoken between
us. She was engrossed with her exercises and her
translations, and I was under the influence of the pre-
judice which had been instilled into my mind, and
roared not to incur ridicule by forming an acquaintance
with Laura. But how often did my conscience after-
ward reproach me for those prejudices.
One day, while waiting for our teacher, Laura
applied to me for information respecting some diffi-
culty in her lesson; and though amazed that she
should inquire of one whose acquirements I supposed
she deemed far inferior to her own, I yet answered
her question as well as 1 could. This led to other
remarks, and by the time our teacher entered, we
were engaged in a pretty animated conversation. I
was rather sorry that it was so, for though I was,
mot uni entionally, pleased with her, yet 1 dreaded
the result. She seemed very much disposed to com-


menace a degree of sociability between us; I did not
like to repel her advances, yet how could I let it be
known in my class that the shunned Miss T. and I
were on friendly terms 1 I felt that I must not place
myself in her way, for she had shown indubitable
signs of a disposition to become better acquainted with
me. I would not be rude to her, but, excepting du.
ring the French recitation, I would avoid her. It
seemed strange to me that she, who had hitherto been
so distant with all, should so resolutely seek me at
every opportunity; and I felt that it was no slight com-
pliment-yet, though I liked her better and better
every day, I was annoyed, because it placed me in a
peculiar position. I could not bear to assume a
friendly relation to her, while conscious that I was in
the daily habit of hearing her ridiculed by those whom
she regarded as my chosen friends. There was but
one alternative-I must either give up my former
companions, or withdraw entirely from her-from her,
the lonely one! How could I do it ? She was many
miles from her southern home ;-among her new as.
sociates she felt the need of a friend, and she had
selected me. How could I refuse to be such to her 1
I think our Preceptress observed what was going
on, for she talked much about Laura to me. She told of
her delicate health, of her studious habits, of her many
excellencies; she told me too that she was the only

ro- w - -. - -v1w -


child of a most tender mother-that on that delicate
being the hopes of many hearts were fastened-that
she had been sent to the North more to improve her
health than to complete her education. She said she
had an anxiety that rarely troubled a Teacher. She
feared that Laura studied too much, and that her only
difficulty was to. keep her from too close application.
If her aim was to make Laura an object of interest
in my eyes, she succeeded. I felt the superiority of
the being she described, and I determined, that if I
had to make a selection between a new friend and old
acquaintances, I would choose the former. I did so;
for a while I had to endure that martyrdom of ridicule
which school-girls can so illy bear, and about which I
have always been weakly sensitive. But the choice
was made. Laura and I were friends, and I can now
look back and see that that friendship, though it lasted
but a few months, has influenced all my future life.
She infused into me new tastes;-while she encour.
aged my love for poetry, she tried to regulate it; and
she induced me to pursue my studies more gravely
and systematically than I found agreeable to my na.
tural temperament. Her example and her teachings
caused me to mingle useful literature with the light
reading of which I was so fond. Always kind, gen.
tie, and even humble, she yet exercised a powerful
influence over me; and when I look back through the


vista of years, I can see that the seed of many a use.
ful habit, which has since grown and flourished, was
planted by her hand. I never felt for her that ardent
attachment that I felt for some of my.schoolmates. I
do not think of her with that warm glow of tenderness
which the memory of Anna B. and some few others
inspire,-but I look back to the short period of our
friendship as to an important and happy era in my
existence, and I dwell on her character even now with
an ever-increasing esteem. It was a remarkable cha.
racter. From a delicate and gentle Southern girl,
the only child of a wealthy widowed mother, raised
in luxury, waited on by submissive slaves, we would
not naturally look for such self-control, such a care-
fully disciplined mind, such self.denying integrity,
such earnestness of purpose and strength of resolu-
tion; yet all these she possessed, and to them she
added an unwearied application which assured her of
success in whatever she undertook. That she was fit.
ting herself for eminent usefulness in future life, who
can doubt The home to which she so earnestly
longed to return, would it not be made happier and
better by her presence ? If the promise was so fair,
what would its completion be --if such the dawning
morning, what the full light of day ?-if such the bud,
what would be the expanded flower ?
Again I was detained from school, and then I lost


sight of Laura. After a few years an opportunity of
gaining information respecting her offered itself, and
I made the necessary inquiries. The sad sequel was
soon told. She remained it school nearly as long as
it bad been designed that she should; but her health
failed suddenly: she became very weak during the
homeward journey, and when she arrived at S., her
native place, she could not walk from the boat to the
carriage. Sad was her return among those friends,
after whom her affectionate heart had yearned. On
her arrival at home she was laid on a bed, from
which she was never removed, until she was con.
veyed to her last, long home, by her father's side, in
the grave-yard.
The morning of her being did indeed perfect itself
into a bright day-the bud expanded itself into the
full-blown flower-the promise of her early life was
fulfilled-but it was in another world.
M. S. B.




HOLY FATHER, from on high,
List the orphan's feeble cry I
Our best earthly joys have fled,
And are numbered with the dead.
In our need, on Thee we call,
And before Thy footstool fall.

'Neath the cold clods of the vale
Rest the forms whose loss we wail;
Reft of all we held so dear,
We are desolate, and drear.
Be our Father, and our friend,
And from ills our paths defend I

Thou, the bruised reed canst bind,
Thou canst ease the troubled mind;
Heal our wounded hearts with balm,
Make us followers of "the Lamb I"
Light us with the Holy Dove;
Fill our souls with heavenly love I


And as time doth onward roll,
Aid us, Lord, to win that goal
Where the weary are at rest,
By no cumbrous clay opprest:
Soldiers of the Great I AM,"
May we win the crown," and "palm."

Thus beside our parents' grave,
Thy protecting power we crave.
'Neath Thy all-pervading sight,
Safe we'll dwell by day and night.
Father! list the orphan's prayer,
And let us Thy blessings share !


EvEaY body wishes to be rich. It is worth while,
then, to ask how people become rich.
In the large house on the top of the hill there lives
Mr. Barker, a very rich man. He has many ships,
and a large yard full of timber, and he rides in his
carriage every day to his country-house. He has
many servants, and he eats the best food, and drinks
the best wine that money can purchase. How is it
that he became rich I
I knew him when he was a poor man, and got his
living by working as a carpenter. But he was very
hard-working. He used to be hammering and planing
in his little carpenter's shop every morning before
I was up; and if he had much work to do, you might
hear his hammer late at night. I have seen his
neighbors, who had been sitting all the evening at the
tavern, open the upper half of his shop-door at night as
they returned, and there was he, working away by
the light of a candle, as merry as they, but much
more sober.
When he had saved about one hundred dollars by


his labor, he laid it out in the best kind of wood that
his work required, and young Mr. Hilyard, who was
adding some new rooms to the old Hall at the end of
the village, was so pleased with the appearance of
some of the wood, of which the carpenter had been
making a door for the clergyman's house, that he
walked into the shop and began to ask many ques-
tions. This ended in his employing Thomas Barker
to do the wood-work of his new rooms. One of the
rooms was to be fitted up for a library, and he was
very anxious to have all the work done in two months,
because he was going to be married to Mr. Stirling's
only daughter. Thomas worked night and day at his
new work, and all of it was done in time for the wed.
ding, and every body praised the new rooms.
Mr. Stirling was a learned man; and he admired
the work done in the library so much, that he em-
ployed Thomas to do work of the same kind in his
library at his large house at Stirling Park, and re-
commended him to many gentlemen in the country.
All the money that Barker could save from his
earnings, he laid out in wood, or in good tools to work
with; and at the end of another year he was worth
very nearly five hundred dollars. Just at that time
he had an opportunity of laying it all out to great
advantage, by which he might soon have doubled it;
but his old father became sick, and could no longer


support himself and his aged wife, as he had done,
by the work of his hands. So Barker laid out half
the money on a little annuity for his father and
mother, procuring for them, in this way, a small sum,
to be paid half-yearly, which would help to support
them; and he also took care, at the end of every
week, to make them a little present, to make up their
Sunday's dinner or their weekly expenses.
However, he laid out about two hundred and
fifty dollars to such advantage, that, by hard work
and good management, he was soon able to double it
again. It happened, just then, that the church was
to be new pewed, and the church wardens employed
him to do the work.
I must mention to you, that at the end of the sec-
ond year Thomas Barker would have been married;
but, recollecting that his father and mother could not
live on what he had been able to do for them, if he
was unable to do more, he and the young woman who
was to be his wife, agreed they would wait a little
longer. But business went on so steadily, that they
were not obliged to wait many months, for the church
pewing was well done, and well paid for as soon as
They have now been married five and twenty
years; and when I see them both at church, I always
think of the time when they first walked to church to-


gether after their wedding; the first Sunday that
ever the new pews were used.
In those five and twenty years great changes have
come -to them. For five years after their marriage
they lived in the house at the corner of the street, in
which Thomas had first set up. But when a man
begins to save money, be it ever so little, it is soon
found to increase very fast, and every year makes him
richer than he was the year before. So it was with
Thomas Barker; and his one hundred dollars, in the
course of five years, had become increased to between ;
four and five times as much.
Just at that time a piece of good fortune happened
to him which was very welcome. His wife had an
uncle, who had saved money on his farm, but who
never made his niece a present, not even on her wed-
ding.day, or when her eldest child was born; and no
one knew what he would do with all the money he
was supposed to have saved. Sometimes Thomas's
wife would say, when she saw her husband was tired
with his day's work, that, perhaps some day they
should be rich, and then he need not work any more;
but her husband used always to reply, that he never
wanted to be very rich, and that he should always be
content if he could live by his trade. And, indeed, I
have heard him say since, that he was never a hap-
pier man than during those five years. His house


was always clean and comfortable; his wife was
good-humored and sensible; his trade was good, and
he had always something to spare for his father and
mother, or, now and then to help a poor neighbor. I
believe he never let himself think about the old
farmer's money;, for he remembered that a boy, who
was learning to be a.carpenter, when he was an ap-
prentice, had reckoned so much upon the money he
was to have from a relation, that he neglected to
learn his trade, and turned out so idle, that his rela-
tion at last left him no money at all.
However, one evening, just as Barker had finished
a new window-frame for a young linen-draper, who
had set up a smart shop in the town, a man came
riding up to his door upon an old cart.horse, with a
message from the farmer, who was very ill, and
wished-to see his niece and her husband as soon as
Although it was a very bad night, the young
couple set off immediately, and found the old man sit.
ting by his fireside, propped up with pillows, in his
old wooden chair, and dropsical from head to foot.
He was breathing very heavily; his face was pale,
and looked very large; and he was altogether so
changed, that his niece hardly knew him. He
seemed, however, very glad to see them both come
in, and in a very few words explained that the doctor

b- --.- -, ,_

;~F~7- ~-~f'_T~




had told him he would not be long in this world, and
that he now felt how wrong he had been to think of
nobody but himself; he added, that he had worked
'hard, and had saved a little money, which he had
once thought of leaving to the county hospital; but
that, since his illness had began, he had been thinking
it was more charitable to leave his money to honest and
industrious people of his own blood. He said, that
although he had taken no notice of them, he had
known how they had been going on, and that he knew
Thomas's kindness to his father and mother. The
old man spoke with so much difficulty, that he was
often obliged to stop for breath whilst telling them
this. His niece tried to revive him, and gave him a
little of some wine which she had brought with her
for him, well knowing she should find her uncle's
house without any thing comfortable in it; for he had
always prided himself on living in the most miserable
way imaginable. When he had taken some of it, and
rested a little, he took hold of a hand of each of them,
and told them he had left them all he was worth; that
it was not much, but that it had all been honestly got,
and would prosper better with those that had a heart
to do good with it, than it had done even in his hands,
although, he said, he had never laid out a penny
without cause, and had never wronged any body of a

U1' A''~~ ~



The poor old man could not lie down in his bed,
on account of his dropsy; so Thomas and his wife
sat by him all the night. He hardly spoke after he
had thus told them his last will; but now and then
pressed their hands, and moved his lips without utter-
ing any thing distinctly; and before the morning he
breathed his last.
When the funeral was over, it was found that he
had left Thomas Barker what money he had in the
bank, and all his farming stock. The stock was not
worth much; but altogether, Barker, found that he
was richer by more than five thousand dollars.
Many of his neighbors now tried to persuade him
to give up his trade, and to build a house, and live in
it like a gentleman; or, in their words, to do nothing
at all for the rest of his life, and to mind nobody.
But this was not advice to be taken by Thomas Bar.
ker. He had often found, that when he had nothing
to do, he was inclined to be low-spirited, but that
whilst he was at work, he was always happy.
He also looked about him, and considered how
those passed their lives who, having made a little
money in trade, had left off business in the prime of
life. There was Robert Green, the grocer, who had
sold the good will of his shop to his eldest apprentice,
and had gone to live in a house he had built in a gar.
den at the end of the town; but he passed more than


half his time in his old shop; and on s Saturday,
which was the market day, he would occasionally
help to serve the customers. In fact, Mrs. Green
told Thomas Barker's wife, that her husband, although
he had been made an Alderman of the borough, often
wished himself behind the counter again, and did not
at all know how to get his time over. Then there
was James Howe, the saddler, who had saved money
by making saddles and harness, and had also left off
business; and he was known to be half his time at
the Dolphin. There might you see Mr. Howe, early
in the day, reading the newspaper, and taking a glass
of something comfortable. In the afternoon, again,
you would find him returned to the public-house;
and at night he was sometimes seen to walk home not
very sober. He was known, too, to have become
very cross to his wife since he left off his trade.
Mr. Barker now had sufficient capital to go into
the lumber business, and being a good judge of woods,
carpenters and builders nearly all bought of him, and
in the course of a few years, he was enabled to pur-
chase a large house, and still give his children an
excellent education. So you see the best way to be
rich, is by working industriously, and being attentive
to business, spending no more than is just necessary
to make you comfortable.

* "-f,


ST. Josn's Wild ports ofthe Highlands" s a work pesliuly attractive,
by the unaffected simplicity sad onest cordiality which pervade it The
author's hand is evidently more familiar with the rod and rile than with
the pea-he gives a blat oountry-gentlema sort of detail of Highland
port by field and food, sad has an observat eye to the habits of thelower
animals, and a kindly regard withal to the objects of the chase, which i
ever characteristic of the legitimate sportsman. We extract, with slight
abridgment, one of the most stirring incidents in the volume, the stalkag of

is t Juckle matt at unnmort.

MALCOLM, the shepherd of the shelling at the foot
of Benmore, reported his having crossed in the hill a
track of a hart of extraordinary size, and guessed it
must be "the muckle stag of Benmore." This was
an animal seldom seen, but which had long been the
talk and marvel of the shepherds for its wonderful
size and cunning. They love the marvellous, and in
their report the muckle stag" bore a charmed life;
he was unapproachable and invulnerable. I had heard
of him too, and, having got the necessary information,
resolved to try to break the charm, though it should
cost me a day or two.

L *.*.'.


Monday.-This morning, at sunrise,'Mr. St. John
with his rifle, Donald, an eccentric gillie, carrying his
double-barrel gun, and Bran, his deer-hound, took
their way up the glen to the shelling at the foot of
Benmore. After a fruitless beating of the glen, we
turned, at nightfall, to the shelling, rather disheart.
ened; but the shepherd cheered us by the assurance
that the hart was still in that district, and describing
his track, which he said was like that of a good.sized
heifer. Our spirits were quite restored by a meal
of fresh-caught trout, oat-cake, and milk, with a mo-
dicum of whisky, which certainly was of unusual
flavor and potency.
Tuesday.-We were off again by daybreak. I
will pass by several minor adventures, but one cannot
be omitted. Malcolm went with us to show us where
he had last seen the track. As we crossed a long
reach of black and broken ground, the first ascent
from the valley, two golden eagles rose out of a hol.
low at some distance. Their flight was lazy and
heavy, as if gorged with food; and on examining the
place, we found the carcass of a sheep half eaten, one
of Malcolm's flock. He vowed vengeance; and
merely pointing ,out to us our route, returned for a
spade to dig a place of hiding near enough the carcass
to enable him to have a shot at the eagles if they should
return. We held on our way, and the greater part


of the day, without any luck to cheer us, my resolu.
tion "not to be beat" being, however, a good deal
strengthened by the occasional grumbling of Donald.
Towards the afternoon, when we had tired ourselves
with looking with our glasses at every corrie in that
side of the hill, at length, in crossing a bare and
boggy piece of ground, Donald suddenly stopped, with
a Gaelic exclamation, and pointed-and there, to be
sure, was a full fresh foot-print, the largest mark of
a deer either of us had ever seen. There was no
more grumbling. Both of us were instantly as much
on the alert as when we started on our adventure.
We traced the track as long as the ground would al.
low. Where we lost it, seemed to point down the
little burn, which soon lost itself to our view in a
gorge of bare rocks. We proceeded now very cau.
tiously, and taking up our station on a concealed
ledge of one of the rocks, began to search the valley
below with our telescopes. It was difficult ground
to see a deer in, if lying; and I had almost given up
seeking, when Donald's glass became motionless, and
he gave a sort of grunt as he changed his posture, but
without taking the glass from his eye. "Ugh I'm
thinking yon's him, sir, I'm seeing his horns." I
was at first incredulous; but the doubt was short.
While we gazed, the stag rose and commenced feed.
ing; and at last I saw the great hart of Benmore!


He was a long way off, perhaps a mile and a half, but
in excellent ground for getting at him. Our plan was
soon arranged. I was to stalk him with the rifle,
while Donald, with my gun and Bran, was to get
round, out of sight, to the pass by which the deer
was likely to leave the valley. My task was appa-
rently very easy. After getting down behind the
rock, I had scarcely to stoop my head, but to walk up
within shot, so favorable was the ground and the
wind. I walked cautiously, however, and slowly, to
give Donald time to reach the pass. I was now with.
in three hundred yards of him, when, as I leant
against a slab of stone, all hid below my eyes, I saw
him give a sudden start, stop feeding, and look round
suspiciously. What a noble beast! what a stretch of
antler.! with a mane like a lion! He stood for a
minute or two, snuffing every breath. I could not
guess the cause of his alarm: it was not myself; the
light wind blew fair down from him upon me; and I
knew Donald would give him no inkling of his where.
about. He presently began to move, and came at a
slow trot directly towards me. My pulse beat high.
Another hundred yards forward, and he is mine!
But it was not so to be. He took the top of a steep
bank which commanded my position, saw me in an
instant, and was off, at the speed of twenty miles
an hour, to a pas wide from that where Donald was


hid. While clattering up the hill, scattering the
loose stones behind him, two other stags joined him,
which had evidently been put up by Donald, and had
given the alarm to my quarry. It was then that his
great size was conspicuous. I could see with my
glass they were full.grown stags, and with good heads,
but they looked like fallow-deer as they followed him
up the crag. I sat down, disappointed for the mo.
ment, and Donald soon joined me, much crestfallen,
and cursing the stag in a curious variety of Gaelic
oaths. Still it was something to have seen "the
muckle stag," and nil desperandum was my motto.
We had a long and weary walk to Malcolm's sheil.
ing; and I was glad to get to my heather-bed, after
arranging that I should occupy the hiding-place Mal.
colm had prepared near the dead sheep next morning.
Wednesday.-After dispatching the plundering
eagles in fine style, our hero and his redoubted gillie
again set forth in quest of the muckle hart." Our
line of march to-day was over ground so high, that
we came repeatedly into the midst of ptarmigan.
On the very summit, Bran had a rencontre with an old
mountain fox, toothless, yet very fat, which he made
to bite the dust. We struck at one place the tracks
of the three deer, but of the animals themselves we
saw nothing. We kept exploring corrie after corrie
till night fell; and as it was in vain to think of

-1 3


returning to the shelling, which yet was the nearest
roof, we were content to find a sort of niche in the
rock, tolerably screened from all winds; and having
almost filled it with long heather, flower upwards,
we wrapped our plaids round us, and slept pretty
Thursday.-A dip in the burn below our bivouac
renovated me. I did not observe that Donald fol.
lowed my example in that; but he joined me in a
hearty attack on the viands which still remained in
our bag, and we started with renewed courage. About
mid-day we came on a shelling beside a long narrow
loch, fringed with beautiful weeping birches, and
there we found means to cook some grouse, which I
had shot to supply our exhausted larder. The shep-
herd, who had no Sassenach," cheered us by his
report of the deer" being lately seen, and describe.
ing his usual haunts. Donald was plainly getting
disgusted and homesick. For myself, I looked upon
it as my fate that I must have that hart; so on we
trudged. Repeatedly that afternoon we came on the
fresh tracks of our chase, but still he remained invi.
sible. As it got dark, the weather suddenly changed,
and I was glad enough to let Donald seek for the
bearings of a whisky bothy," which he had heard
of at our last stopping.place. While he was seeking
for it, the rain began to fall heavily, and through the


darkness we were just able to distinguish a dark ob.
ject, which turned out to be a horse. The lads
with the still will be no far off," said Donald. And
so it turned out. But the rain had increased the
darkness so much, that we should have searched in
vain, if I had not distinguished at intervals, between
the pelting of the rain and the heavy rushing of a
black burn that ran beside us, what appeared to me
to be the shrill treble of a fiddle. I could scarcely
believe my ears. But when I communicated the in-
telligence to Donald, whose ears were less acute, he
jumped with joy. "It's a' right enough, sir; just
follow the sound. It's that drunken deevil Sandy
Ross; ye'll never haud a fiddle frae him, nor him
frae a whisky.still." It was clear the sound came
from across the black stream, and it looked formidable
in the dark. However, there was no remedy. So
grasping each other's collar, and holding our guns
high overhead, we dashed in, and staggered through
in safety, though the water was up to my waist, run.
ning like a mill-race, and the bottom was of round
slippery stones. Scrambling up the bank, and follow.
ing the merry sound, we came to what seemed a mere
hole in the bank, from which it proceeded. The hole
was partially closed by a door woven of heather; and,
looking through it, we saw a sight worthy of Teniers.
On a barrel in the midst of the apartment-half hut,


half cavern-stood aloft, fiddling with all his mighty
the identical Sandy Ross, while round him danced
three unkempt savages; and another figure was stoop-
ing, employed over a fire in the corner, where the
whisky-pot was in full operation. The fire, and a
sliver or two of lighted bog-fir, gave light enough to
see the whole, for the place was not above ten feet
square. We made our approaches with becoming
caution, and were, it is needless to say, hospitably re-
ceived; for who ever heard of Highland smugglers
refusing a welcome to sportsmen ? We got rest, food,
and fire-all that we required-and something more;
for long after I had betaken me to the dry heather in
the corner, I had disturbed visions of strange orgies
in the bothy, and of my sober Donald exhibiting
curious antics on the top of a tub. These might have
been the productions of a disturbed brain; but there
is no doubt that, when daylight awoke me, the smug-
glers and Donald were all quiet and asleep, far past
my efforts to rouse them, with the exception of one,
who was still able to tend the fire under the large
black pot.
Friday.-From the state in which my trusty com-
panion was, with his head on a heap of ashes, I saw
it would serve no purpose to awake him, even if I
were able to do so. It was quite clear that he could
be good for nothing all day. I therefore secured

F- .;*. -r* '' 'rW7-'-r ''r..TCr


some breakfast and provisions for the day, (part of
them oat-cake, which I baked for myself,) tied up
Bran to wait Donald's restoration, and departed with
my rifle alone. The morning was bright and beauti-
ful; the mountain streams overflowing with last
night's rain. I was now thrown on my own re-
sources, and my knowledge of the country, which,
to say the truth, was far from minute or exact.
"Benna-skiach" was my object to-day, and the cor-
ries which lay beyond it, where at this season the
large harts were said to resort. My way at first was
dreary enough, over a long slop of boggy ground, en-
livened, however, by a few traces of deer having
crossed, though none of my "chase." I at length
passed the slope, and soon topped the ridge, and was
repaid for my labor by a view of glen, and wood, and
water so beautiful, that I sat down to gaze at it,
though anxious to get forward.
While I lay above the lake, the day suddenly
changed, and heavy wreaths of mist came down the
mountain sides in rapid succession. They reached
me soon, and I was inclosed in an atmosphere through
which I could not see twenty yards. It was very cold,
too, and I was obliged to move, though scarcely well
knowing whither. I followed the course of the lake,
and afterwards of the stream which flowed from it,
for some time. Now and then a grouse would rise


close to me, and, flying a few yards, light again on a
hillock, crowing and croaking at the intruder. The
heron, in the darkness, came flapping his great wings
close past me; I almost fancied I could feel the
movement they caused in the air. Nothing could be
done in such weather, and I was not sure that I
might not be going away from my object. It was
getting late, too, and I had made up my mind that my
most prudent plan was to arrange a bivouac before it
became quite dark. My wallet was empty, except a
few crumbs, the remains of my morning's baking.
It was necessary to provide food; and just as the
necessity occurred to me, I heard, through the mist,
the call of a cock grouse as he lighted close to me.
I contrived to get his head between me and the sky,
as he was strutting and croaking on a hillock close at
hand; and aiming at where his body ought to be, I
fired my rifle. On going up to the place, I found I
had not only killed him, but also his mate, whom I had
not seen. It was a commencement of good luck.
Sitting down, I speedily skinned my birds, and took
them down to the burn to wash them before cooking.
In crossing a sandy spot beside the burn, I came upon
--could I believe my eyes--" the track." Like
Robinson Crusoe in the same circumstances, I started
back, but was speedily at work taking my inform.
tion. There were prints enough to show the hart had


crossed at a walk, leisurely. It must have been
lately, for it was since the burn had returned to its
natural size, after the last night's flood. But nothing
could be done till morning, so I set about my cooking;
and having, after some time, succeeded in lighting a
fire, while my grouse were slowly broiling, I pulled
a quantity of heather, which I spread in a corner, a
little protected by an overhanging rock; I spread my
plaid upon it, and over the plaid built another layer
of heather. My supper ended, which was not epicu.
rean, I crawled into my nest under my plaid, and, in
spite of a rapid change from a dull foggy sky to a
clear keen frost, was soon sound asleep.
Saturday.-Need I say my first object was to go
down and examine the track anew. There was no
mistake. It was impossible to doubt that "the muskle
hart of Benmore" had actually walked through that
bur a few hours before me, and in the same direction.
I followed the track and breasted the opposite hill.
Looking round from its summit, it appeared to me a
familiar scene, and, on considering a moment, I found
I overlooked, from a different quarter, the very same
rocky plain and the two black lochs where I had seen
my chase three days before. I had not gazed many
minutes, when I saw a deer lying on a black hillock
which was quite open. I lay down immediately, and
with my glass made out at once the object of all my



wandering. My joy was somewhat abated by his
position, which was not easily approachable. My
first object, however, was to withdraw myself out of
his sight, which I did by crawling backwards down a
little bank, till only the tips of his horns were visible,
and they served to show me that he continued still.
As he lay looking towards me, he commanded with
his eye three-fourths of the circle; and the other
quarter, where one might have got in upon him under
cover of the little hillock, was unsafe, from the wind
blowing in that direction. A burn ran between him
and me, one turn of which seemed to come within two
hundred yards of him. It was my only chance; so,
retreating about half a mile, I got into the burn in
hidden ground, and then crept up its channel with
such caution, that I never allowed myself a sight of
more than the tips of his horns till I had reached the
nearest bend to him. There, looking through a tuft
of rushes, I had a perfect view of the noble animal,
lying on the open hillock, lazily stretched out at
length, and only moving now and then to scratch his
flank with his horns. I watched him for fully an
hour, the water up to my knees all the time. At
length he stirred, gathered his legs together, and
rose; and arching his back, he stretched himself just
as a bullock does when rising from his night's lair.
My heart throbbed, as turning all round he seemed to


try the wind for his security, and then walked straight
to the burn, at a point about one hundred and fifty
yards from me. I was much tempted, but had resolu-
tion to reserve my fire, reflecting that I had but one
barrel. He went into the burn at a deep pool, and,
standing in it up to his knees, took a long drink. I
stooped to put on a new copper cap and prick the nip.
ple of my rifle; and on looking up again, he was
gone! I was in despair, and was on the point of
moving rashly, when 1 saw his horns again appear a
little farther off, but not more than fifty yards from
the burn. By and by they lowered, and I judged he
was lying down. "You are mine at last," I said;
and I crept cautiously up the bed of the burn till I
was opposite where he had lain down.
I carefully, and inch by inch, placed my rifle over
the bank, and then ventured to look along it. I could
see only his horns, but within an easy shot. I was
afraid to move higher up the bed of the burn, where
I could have seen his body; the direction of the wind
made that dangerous. I took breath for a moment,
and screwed up my nerves; and then with my cooked
rifle at my shoulder, and my finger on the trigger, I
kicked a stone, which splashed into the water. He
started up instantly; but exposed only his front to.
wards me. Still he was very near, scarcely fifty


yards, and I fired at his throat just where it joins the
head. He dropped on his knees to my shot; but was
up again in a moment, and went staggering up the
hill. Oh for one hour of Bran! Although he kept
on at a mad pace, I saw he was becoming too weak
for the hill. He swerved, and turned back to the
burn, and came headlong down within ten yards of
me, tumbling into it apparently dead. Feeling con-
fident, from the place where my ball had taken effect,
that he was dead, I threw down my rifle, and went up
to him with my hunting-knife. I found him stretched
out, and, as I thought, dying; and I laid hold of his
horns to raise his head to bleed him. I had scarcely
touched him when he sprang up, flinging me back.
wards on the stones. It was an awkward position.
I was stunned by the violent fall; behind me a steep
bank of seven or eight feet high; before me was the
bleeding stag, with his horns levelled at me, and cut-
ting me off from my rifle. In desperation I moved,
when he instantly charged, but fortunately tumbled
ere he quite reached me. He drew back again like
a ram about to butt, and then stood still with his head
lowered, and his eyes, bloody and swelled, glaring
upon me. We stood mutually at bay for some time,
till, recovering myself, I jumped out of the burn so
suddenly, that he had not time to run at me, and from


the bank above I dashed my plaid over his head and
eyes, and threw myself upon him. I cannot account
for my folly, and it had nearly cost me dear. The
poor beast struggled desperately, and his remaining
strength foiled me in every attempt to stab him in
front; and he at length made off, tumbling me down,
but carrying.with him a stab in the leg which lamed
him. I ran and picked up my rifle, and then kept
him in view as he rushed down the burn on three legs
towards the loch. He took the water, and stood at
bay up to his chest in it.
As soon as he halted, I commenced loading my
rifle, when, to my dismay, I found that all the balls I
had remaining were for my double-barrel, and were a
size too large for my rifle. I sat down and com-
menced scraping one to the right size, an operation
that seemed interminable. At last I succeeded; and
having loaded, the poor stag remaining perfectly still,
I went up within twenty yards of him, and shot him
through the head. He turned over and floated, per.
fectly dead. I waded in and towed him ashore, and
then had leisure to look at my wounds and bruises,
which were not serious, except my shin-bone, which
was sciaped from ancle to knee by his horn. I soon
had cleaned my quarry, and stowed him away as
safely as I could, and then turned down the glen at a


gay pace. I found Donald, with Bran, reposing at
Malcolm's shelling; and for all reproaches on his
misconduct, I was satisfied with sending him to bring
home "the muckle hart of Benmore," a duty which
he performed before nightfall.


OH how I love the Rainbow with its graceful, arching form,
When it bends in beauty o'er us as dies away the storm;
Reclining againstt the stern dark cloud in its brightly calm
It seems like Mercy's messenger, come to smile away earth's
For it tells us of the Gracious One whose word can never
And bids us calmly trust in Him whatever storms assail--
Oh! who can deem the God of storms, a God of angry wrath,
While the bow of hope illumines the darkness round his
path 7

I have ever loved the Rainbow, since but a little child,
And, for its sake, the summer storm, however dark and wild;
I loved to look upon the clouds driven fiercely through the
For I trusted that I soon should see the rainbow painted
I knew that there would come a time when the bright sun
would be shining,
I knew that to the blackest cloud there was a silver lining,


I knew that when the sun shone out, I'd see the brilliant
I could not tell the reason why, but I knew it would be so.

And may I not from childhood's faith, e'en now a lesson
For has not life, to each and all, its storm-clouds dark and
May not o'er every human heart terrific thunders roll;
Are there not moments when all light is hidden from each
soul ?
Full oft would fall upon our souls the thick folds of despair,
Could we not look beyond the storm and see the sunshine
Could we not see the silver glow, behind that sable cloud,
Which seems to veil all hope and joy, as in a funeral shroud.

But as the world without us has its storms, and then its bow,
With the hidden world within us, 'tis often even so:
Our hearts are weak within us, our outward prospects drear,
And faith lies dormant, and our hearts are full of doubt and
But the hour of gloom will vanish, bright joy will shine
Or if not joy, still dearer hope will yet resume its reign;
And we may trust, though tempests rage His love will aye
Who gives to us this brilliant pledge, that His word is ever
M. R. S.


Ten wild at, from its desperate fghtil and enuing. Sibrds a vry excting
sport to th hunter. When overtaken by the dogs, svenl of them au fn-
quetly killed by it, and Mr. Anudbon gives some aedoat of its b-
tiety Ji eludin puruit, which woold do credit to beyond himself. Oa
of them ii, that e makes for ome half-dried swamp or pond, and res into
the moit or stiky lay, seeming to be aware that te stocking with whieh
his legs would b defended when e came out, would penvet the eet be-
ing deposited from hi feet, sad dullthe trail. A shmwd oojeotum that I
but not, a we think, partiuladly plausible, for i a few bounds the mie
would berubbed offthe ol of his feet, and lsnvme hma badlyoffa ver.

ARRANGEMENTS for the cat-hunt are made over night.
Two or three neighbors form the party, each one
bringing with him all the hounds he can muster.
We have seen thirty of the latter brought together on
such occasions, some of which were not inferior to
the best we have examined in England ; indeed, great
numbers of the finest fox-hounds are annually im.
ported into Carolina. At the earliest dawn, the party
is summoned to the spot previously fixed on as .the
place of meeting, A horn is sounded,-not low and
with a single blast, as is usual in hunting the deer,


lest the timid animal should be startled from its bed
among the broom-grass, and bound away out of the
drive, beyond the reach of the hunter's double.barrel,
loaded with buck-shot; but with a loud, long, and
oft-repeated blast, wakening the echoes that rise from
the rice-fields and marshes, and are reverberated from
shore to shore of the winding sluggish river, until lost
among the fogs and shadows of the distant forest.
An answering horn is heard half a mile off, and
anon comes another response from a different quarter.
The party is soon collected; they are mounted, not
on the fleetest and best-blooded horses, but on the most
sure-footed (sometimes "old field Tackies"), which
know how to avoid the stump.holes on the burnt
grounds of the pine lands, which stand the fire of the
gun, and cannot only go with tolerable speed, but are,
to use a common expression, "tough as a pine-knot."
The hunters greet each other in the open-hearted man-
ner characteristic of the Southern planter. Each
pack of dogs is under the guidance of a colored driver,
whose business it is to control the hounds, and en.
courage and aid them in the hunt. The drivers ride
in most cases the fleetest horses on the ground, in or.
der to be able, whilst on a deer-hunt, to stop the dogs.
These men, who are so important to the success of the
chase, are possessed of a good deal of intelligence
and shrewdness, are usually much petted, and, re-

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