distinct traces of corrugation. Wherever 'scratched' by his now elongated finger-nails, a whitish dandruffy surface was exhibited. The poor fellow had fared badly in the blockhouse; and three weeks of positive famine had played sad havoc with his outward man. Starvation, however, but little affected his spirits. Throughout all, he had preserved his jovial mood, and his light humour often roused me from my despondency. While gnawing the corn cob, and washing down the dry maize with a gourd of cold water, he would indulge in rapturous visions of 'hominy and hog-meat,' to be devoured whenever it should please fate to let him return to the 'ole plantayshun.' Such delightful prospects of future enjoyment enabled him the better to endure the pinching present for anticipation has its joys. Now that we were free, and actually heading homeward; now that his visions were certain soon to become realities, Jake's jovialty could no longer be kept within bounds; his tongue was constantly in motion; his mouth ever open with the double tier of 'ivories' displayed in a continuous smile; while his skin seemed to be rapidly recovering its dark oily lustre. Jake was the soul of our party, as we trudged wearily along; and his gay jokes affected even the staid old hunters, at intervals eliciting from both loud peals of laughter. For myself, I scarcely shared their mirth-only now and then, when the sallies of my follower proved irresistible. There was a gloom over my spirit, which I could not comprehend. It should have been otherwise. I should have felt happy at the prospect of returning home-of once more beholding those who were dear-but it was not so. It had been so on my first getting free from our block-house prison; but this was only the natural reaction, consequent upon escape from what appeared almost certain death. My joy had been short-lived: it was past and gone; and now that I was nearing my native home, dark shadows came over my soul; a presentiment was upon me that all was not well. I could in no way account for this feeling, for I had heard no evil tidings. In truth, I had heard nothing of home or of friends for a period of nearly two months. During our long siege, no communication had ever reached us; and at St Marks we met but slight news from the settlements of the Suwanee. We were returning in ignorance of all that had transpired there during our absence-if aught had transpired worthy of being known. companions noticed my dejection, and, in their rude but kind way, rallied me as we rode along. They failed, however, to make me cheerful like themselves. I could not cast the load from my heart. Try as I would, the presentiment lay heavy upon me, that all was not well. Alas, alas! the presentiment proved true-no, not true, but worse-worse than my worst apprehensions -worse even than that I had most feared. The news that awaited me was not of marriage, but of death-the death of my mother-and worse than death-horrid doubt of my sister's fate. Before reaching home, a messenger met me-one who told an appalling tale. The Indians had attacked the settlement, or rather my own plantation-for their foray had gone no further: my poor mother had fallen under their savage knives; my uncle too; and my sister? She had been carried off! I stayed to hear no more; but, driving the spurs into my jaded horse, galloped forward like one suddenly smitten with madness. CHAPTER LXXIII. A SAD SPECTACLE. My rate of speed soon brought me within the boundaries of the plantation; and, without pausing to breath my horse, I galloped on, taking the path that led most directly to the house. It was not the main road, but a wood-path here and there closed up with bars.' My horse was a spirited animal, and easily leaped over them. I met a man coming from the direction of the house-a white man-a neighbour. He made motions as if to speak-no doubt, of the calamity. I did not stop to listen. I had heard enough. My eyes alone wanted satisfaction. I knew every turn of the path. I knew the points where I should first come in sight of the house. I reached it, and looked forward-Father of mercy! there was no house to be seen! Half-bewildered, I reined up my horse. I strained my eyes over the landscape-in vain-no house. Had I taken the wrong road, or was I looking in the wrong direction? No-no. There stood the giant tulip-tree, that marked the embouchure of the path. There stretched the savanna; beyond it the home-fields of indigo and maize; beyond these the dark wood-knoll of the hommock; but beyond this last there was nothing-nothing I could recognise. The whole landscape appeared to have undergone a change. The gay white walls-the green jalousies This ignorance itself might have produced uncer--the cheerful aspect of home, that from that same tainty, doubt, even apprehension; but it was not the spot had so often greeted me returning hungry and sole cause of my presentiment. Its origin was differ- wearied from the hunt-were no longer to be seen. ent. Perhaps the recollection of my abrupt departure The sheds, the negro-cabins, the offices, even the -the unsettled state in which I had left the affairs of palings had disappeared. From their steads I beheld our family-the parting scene, now vividly recalled thick volumes of smoke ascending to the sky, and -remembrances of Ringgold-reflections upon the rolling over the sun till his disc was red. The wicked designs of this wily villain-all these may have heavens were frowning upon me. contributed to form the apprehensions under which I was suffering. Two months was a long period; many events could happen within two months, even in the Barrow circle of one's own family. Long since it had been reported that I had perished at the hands of the Indian foe; I was believed to be dead, at home, wherever I was known; and the belief might have led to ill results. Was my sister still true to her word, so emphatically pronounced in that hour of parting? Was I returning home to find her still my loved sister? Still single and free? or had she yielded to maternal solicitation, and become the wife of the vile caitiff after all? With such conjectures occupying my thoughts, no wonder I was not in a mood for merriment. My From what I had already learned, the spectacle was easy of comprehension. It caused no new emotion either of surprise or pain. I was not capable of suffering more. Again putting my horse to his speed, I galloped across the fields towards the scene of desolation. As I neared the spot, I could perceive the forms of men moving about through the smoke. There appeared to be fifty or a hundred of them. Their motions did not betoken excitement. Only a few were moving at all, and these with a leisurely gait, that told they were not in action. The rest stood in groups, in lounging attitudes, evidently mere spectators of the conflagration. They were making no attempt to extinguish the flames, which I now observed mingling with the smoke. A few were rushing to and fro-most of them on horseback-apparently in the endeavour to catch some horses and cattle, that, having escaped from the burnt enclosure, were galloping over the fields neighing and lowing. One might have fancied that the men around the fire were those who had caused it; and for a moment such an idea was in my mind. The messenger had said that the foray had just taken place-that very morning at daybreak. It was all I had heard, as I hurried away. It was yet early-scarcely an hour after sunrisefor we had been travelling by night to avoid the hot hours. Were the savages still upon the ground? Were those men Indians? In the lurid light, amidst the smoke, chasing the cattle-as if with the intention of driving them off-the conjecture was probable enough. But the report said they had gone away: how else could the details have been known?-the murder of my mother, the abduction of my poor sister? With the savages still upon the ground, how had these facts been ascertained? Perhaps they had gone, and returned again to collect the booty, and fire the buildings? For an instant, such fancies were before my mind. They had no influence in checking my speed. I never thought of tightening the rein-my bridle-arm was not free; with both hands I was grasping the ready rifle. Vengeance had made me mad. Even had I been certain that the dark forms before me were those of the murderers, I was determined to dash forward into their midst, and perish upon the body of a savage. I was not alone. The black was at my heels; and, close behind, I could hear the clattering hoofs of the hunters' horses. We galloped up to the selvidge of the smoke. The deception was at an end. They were not Indians or enemies, but friends who stood around, and who hailed our approach neither with words nor shouts, but with the ominous silence of sympathy. I pulled up by the fire, and dismounted from my horse: men gathered around me with looks of deep meaning. They were speechless-no one uttered a word. All saw that it was a tale that needed no telling. I was myself the first to speak. In a voice so husky as scarcely to be heard, I inquired: Where?' The interrogatory was understood-it was anticipated. One had already taken me by the hand, and was leading me gently around the fire. He said nothing, but pointed towards the hommock. Unresistingly I walked by his side. As we neared the pond, I observed a larger group than any I had yet seen. They were standing in a ring, with their faces turned inward, and their eyes bent upon the earth. I knew she was there. At our approach, the men looked up, and suddenly the ring opened-both sides mechanically drawing back. He who had my hand conducted me silently onward, till I stood in their midst. I looked upon the corpse of my mother. Beside it was the dead body of my uncle, and beyond the bodies of several black men-faithful slaves, who had fallen in defence of their master and mistress. My poor mother!-shot-stabbed-scalped. Even in death had she been defeatured! me. Though I had anticipated it, the spectacle shocked My poor mother! Those glassy eyes would never smile upon me again-those pale lips would neither chide nor cheer me more. I could control my emotions no longer. I burst into tears; and, falling upon the earth, flung my arms around the corpse, and kissed the cold mute lips of her who had given me birth. CHAPTER LXXIV. то THE TRAIL The My grief was profound-even to misery. remembrance of occasional moments of coldness on the part of my mother-the remembrance more especially of the last parting scene-rendered my anguish acute. Had we but parted in affection—in the friendly confidence of former years-my loss would have been easier to endure. But no; her last words to me were spoken in reproach--almost in anger-and it was the memory of these that now so keenly imbittered my thoughts. I would have given the world could she have heard but one word-to know how freely I forgave her. My poor mother! all was forgiven. Her faults were few and venial. I remembered them not. Ambition was her only sin-among those of her station, alınost universal-but I remembered it no more. I remembered only her many virtues-only that she was my mother. Never until that moment had I known how dearly I loved her. It was no time to indulge in grief. Where was my sister? I sprang to my feet, as I gave wild utterance to the interrogatory. It was answered only by signs. Those around me pointed to the forest. I understood the signs-the savages had borne her away. Up to this hour I had felt no hostility towards the red men; on the contrary, my sentiments had an opposite inclination. If not friendship for them, I' had felt something akin to it. I was conscious of the many wrongs they had endured, and were now enduring at the hands of our people. I knew that in the end they would be conquered, and must submit. I had felt sympathy for their unfortunate condition. It was gone. The sight of my murdered mother produced an instantaneous change in my feelings; and sympathy for the savage was supplanted by fierce hostility. Her blood called aloud for vengeance, and my heart was eager to obey the summons. As I rose to my feet, I registered vows of revenge. I stood not alone. Old Hickman and his fellowhunter were at my back, and fifty others joined their voices in a promise to aid me in the pursuit. Black Jake was among the loudest who clamoured for retribution. He too had sustained his loss. Viola was nowhere to be found-she had been carried off with the other domestics. Some may have gone voluntarily, but all were absent-all who were not dead. The plantation and its people had no longer an existence. I was homeless as well as motherless. There was no time to be wasted in idle sorrowing; immediate action was required, and determined upon. The people had come to the ground armed and ready, and a few minutes sufficed to prepare for the pursuit. A fresh horse was procured for myself; others for the companions of my late journey; and after snatching a breakfast hastily prepared, we mounted, and struck off upon the trail of the savages. It was easily followed, for the murderers had been mounted, and their horses' tracks betrayed them. They had gone some distance up the river before crossing, and then swam their horses over to the Indian side. Without hesitation, we did the same. The place I remembered well. I had crossed there before-two months before-while tracking the steed of Oçeola. It was the path that had been taken by the young chief. The coincidence produced upon me a certain impression; and not without pain did I observe it. was in places less conspicuous, and the finding it delayed our advance. It led to inquiry. Had any one seen the savages?-or noted to what band they belonged? Who was their leader? Yes. All these questions were answered in the affirmative. Two men, lying concealed by the road, had seen the Indians passing away-had seen their captives, too; my sister-Viola-with other girls of the plantation. These were on horseback, each clasped in the arms of a savage. The blacks travelled afoot. They were not bound. They appeared to go willingly. The Indians were 'Redsticks'-led by Oceola. Such was the belief of those around me, founded upon the report of the men who had lain in ambush. It is difficult to describe the impression produced upon me. It was painful in the extreme. I endeavoured not to believe the report. I resolved not to give it credence, until I should have further confirmation of its truthfulness. Oçeola! O heavens! Surely he would not have done this deed? It could not have been he? The men might have been mistaken. It was before daylight the savages had been seen. The darkness might have deceived them. Every feat performed by the Indians-every foray made-was put down to the credit of Oçeola. Oçeola was everywhere. Surely he had not been there? Who were the two men-the witnesses? Not without surprise did I listen to the answer. They were Spence and Williams! To my surprise, too, I now learned that they were among the party who followed me-volunteers to aid me in obtaining revenge for my wrongs! Strange, I thought; but stranger still that Arens Ringgold was not there. He had been present at the scene of the conflagration; and, as I was told, among the loudest in his threats of vengeance. But he had returned home; at all events, he was not one of the band of pursuers. I called Spence and Williams, and questioned them closely. They adhered to their statement. They admitted that it was dark when they had seen the Indians returning from the massacre. They could not tell for certain whether they were the warriors of the 'Redstick' tribe, or those of the Long Swamp.' They believed them to be the former. As to who was their leader, they had no doubt whatever. It was Oceola who led them. They knew him by the three ostrich feathers in his head-dress, which rendered him conspicuous among his followers. These fellows spoke positively. What interest could they have in deceiving me? What could it matter to them, whether the chief of the murderous band was Oçeola, Coa Hajo, or Onopa himself? Their words produced conviction-combined with other circumstances, deep painful conviction. The murderer of my mother-he who had fired my home, and borne my sister into a cruel captivity-could be no other than Oçeola. All memory of our past friendship died upon the instant. My heart burned with hostility and hate, for him it had once so ardently admired. CHAPTER LXXV. THE ALARM. There were other circumstances connected with the bloody affair, that upon reflection appeared peculiar and mysterious. By the sudden shock, my soul had been completely benighted; and these circumstances had escaped my notice. I merely believed that there had been an onslaught of the Indians, in which my mother had been massacred, and my sister borne away from her home-that the savages, not satisfied with blood, had added fire-that these outrages had been perpetrated in revenge for past wrongs, endured at the hands of their pale-faced enemies-that the like had occurred elsewhere, and was almost daily occurring-why not on the banks of the Suwanee, as in other districts of the country? In fact, it had been rather a matter of wonder, that the settlement had been permitted to remain so long unmolested. Others-far more remote from the Seminole strongholds-had already suffered a like terrible visitation; and why should ours escape? The immunity had been remarked, and the inhabitants had become lulled by it into a false security. The explanation given was that the main body of the Indians had been occupied elsewhere, watching the movements of Scott's triple army; and, as our settlement was strong, no small band had dared to come against it. But Scott was now gone-his troops had retired within the forts-their summer quarters-for winter is the season of campaigning in Florida; and the Indians, to whom all seasons were alike, were now free to extend their marauding expeditions against the trans-border plantations. This appeared the true explanation why an attack upon the settlement of the Suwanee had been so long deferred. During the first burst of my grief, on receiving news of the calamity, I accepted it as such: I and mine had merely been the victims of a general vengeance. But the moments of bewilderment soon passed; and the peculiar circumstances, to which I have alluded, began to make themselves apparent to my mind. First of all, why was our plantation the only one that had been attacked ?-our house the only one given to the flames?-our family the only one murdered? These questions startled me: and natural it was that they did so. There were other plantations along the river equally unprotected-other families far more noted for their hostility to the Seminole racenay, what was yet a greater mystery, the Ringgold plantation lay in the very path of the marauders; as their trail testified, they had passed around it to reach our house; and both Arens Ringgold and his father had long been notorious for bitter enmity to the red men, and violent aggressions against their rights. Why, then, had the Ringgold plantation been suffered to remain unmolested, while ours was singled out for destruction? Were we the victims of a particular and special vengeance? It must have been so; beyond doubt, it was so. After long reflection, I could arrive at no other conclusion. By this alone could the mystery be solved. And Powell-oh! could it, have been he?-my friend, a fiend guilty of such an atrocious deed? Was it probable? was it possible? No-neither. Despite the testimony of the two men-vile wretches I knew them to be-despite what they had seen and said-my heart refused to believe it. What motive could he have for such special murder? -ah! what motive? True, my mother had been unkind to him-more than that, ungrateful; she had once treated him with scorn. I remembered it well-he, too, might remember it. But surely he, the noble youth-to my mind, the beau idéal of heroism-would scarcely have harboured such petty spite, and for so long?-would scarcely have repayed it by an act of such bloody retribution? No-no-no. Besides, would Powell have left untouched the dwelling of the Ringgolds? of Arens Ringgold, one of his most hated foes-one of the four men he had sworn to kill? This of itself was the most improbable circumstance connected with the whole affair. Ringgold had been at home-might have been entrapped in his sleep-his black retainers would scarcely have resisted; at all events, they could have been overcome as easily as ours. Why was he permitted to live? Why was his house not given to the flames? Upon the supposition that Oçeola was the leader of the band, I could not comprehend why he should have left Arens Ringgold to live, while killing those who were scarcely his enemies. New information, imparted to me as we advanced along the route, produced new reflections. I was told that the Indians had made a hasty departurethat they had, in fact, retreated. The conflagration had attracted a large body of citizen soldiery-a patrol upon its rounds-and the appearance of these, unexpected by the savages, had caused the latter to scamper off to the woods. But for this, it was conjectured other plantations would have suffered the fate of ours-perhaps that of Ringgold himself. The tale was probable enough. The band of marauders was not large-we knew by their tracks there were not more than fifty of them-and this would account for their retreat on the appearance even of a smaller force. The people alleged that it was a retreat. This information gave a different complexion to the affair-I was again driven to conjectures-again forced into suspicions of Oçeola. Perhaps I but half understood his Indian nature; perhaps, after all, he was the monster who had struck the blow. Once more I interrogated myself as to his motive-what motive? Ha! my sister, Virginia— O God! could love -passion The Indyens! Indyens! Indyens!' COUSIN ROBERT. O COUSIN ROBERT, far away How many years since we two met? O Cousin Robert, buried deep You own whole leagues-I, half a rood You have your lacs of gold rupees, Your tall barques dot the dangerous seas, And it would cause nor start, nor sigh, That name-however wide it rings, I oft think, when alone, I rather would have seen it graved Upon a church-yard stone Upon the white sunshiny stone Where Cousin Alick lies; Ah, sometimes, woe to him that lives! And blessed he that dies! O Cousin Robert, hot, hot tears, A young man's face-so like, so like A young man's hand, so firm to hold, So resolute to dare. I thought you good-I wished you great; To know you good, to make you great, To tear the plague-spot from that heart, Would give-all that's now mine to give, O Robert, Robert, some that live Better the blind faith of our youth Than doubt, which all truth braves: O Robert, Robert, life is sweet, Is stabbed with sudden pain: And as in peace this holy eve I close our Christmas-doors, And kiss good-night o'er sleeping headsSuch bonny curls! like yours I fall upon my bended knees With sobs that choke each word'On those who err and are deceived Have mercy, O good LORD!' THE INK OF THE ANCIENTS. In a letter from Mr Joseph Ellis, of Brighton, addressed to the Society of Arts' Journal, he states that, by making a solution of shellac with borax, in water, and adding a suitable proportion of pure lamp-black, an ink is producible which is indestructible by time or by chemical agents, and which, on drying, will present a polished surface, as with the ink found on the Egyptian papyri. He made ink in the way described, and proved, if not its identity with that of ancient Egypt, yet the correctness of the formula which has been given him by the late Mr Charles Hatchett, F.R.S. Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by WILLIAM ROBERTSON, 23 Upper Sackville Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers. No. 230. PULAR LITERATURE Science and Arts. CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBER S. SATURDAY, MAY 29, 1858. OUR LOST PET. THE besoin d'aimer is perhaps one of the least mean of human weaknesses. Many are the troubles it causes to all of us, and yet we would fain not quite get rid of it, and are, on the whole, rather more respectable people with it than without it. For the unfortunate man to whom even his wife is only PRICE 1d. bloomed in our household for ten years. My heart softens as I recall her. Her memory is green still; and I may yet, for a newer generation, write a Biography of our Rose. Since her day, we have both had several pets, en passant-confiding cats who followed us home through London streets, as they always have a trick of doing; eccentric cats who, changing their natures, would go shooting in the forests, 'point' the game, and bring it to the master with an unfailing faithfulness; sea-borne cats, cherished during half a voyage, and then missed-after which rumoured to have been seen floating away, helplessly mewing, for a quarter of a mile astern. Yet we never had but one pet who at all supplied the place of the never-forgotten Rose. Of him I am now about to tell. A little better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse; for the forlorn old maid who, dying without heirs, endows her twelve parrots with enough to make the fortune of more than one poor family, it is at least a degree better to be fond of something, be it only a brute beast, than nothing. And many a brute beast is capable of being raised, by education, attention, and kindness, to an affectionate rationality which He was the first-born of his mother, but in nowise makes it quite as pleasant company, alas! as a great | like her—she being the ugliest, stupidest, and most many human beings. This is not meant to be an essay in defence of pets-often most intolerable nuisances to everybody but the possessor-pet dogs (perhaps the most unbearable), pet birds, fowls, rabbits, monkeys-and the long line of domesticated quadrupeds and bipeds, down to the featherless biped, the child-pet, or the charity-pet, whose lot is the most cruel-kind of any. I am only going to tell a very plain and simple story about a lost pet of ours, who cost us the usual amount of pain which all who are guilty of the afore-named human weakness must consent to endure. untender of feline animals. Her very kittens she would carry into damp corners and under grates, and there forsake them, to be trodden to death or shovelled unwittingly on the back of the fire: nay, with some she is reported to have done as the New Zealand husband did with the wife whom he couldn't keep and was too fond of to part with-she is reported to have eaten them. Peace to her manes! Nothing in her life ever became her like the leaving of it. But her son was quite a different character. His beauty was his least merit. In kittenhood he had such winning ways that he was continually asked to tea in the parlour; cradled in apron-pockets, We-that is, myself and the sharer in my loss-gowns, and shirt-fronts; taught to walk on the table, are not universally benevolent. We do not take to our bosoms every walking, hopping, and creeping thing. We are eclectic in our tastes, and though we hope we would treat civilly and kindly every creature alive, still, we have never had any particular interest in more than one sort of pets, and that is cats. I hope the gentle reader will not here immediately lay down this paper in a mood of calm contempt; or if he has done so, may I respectfully request him to take it up again? I assure him that he shall meet with nothing insanely extravagant, or sentimentally maudlin; that his prejudices will be treated with deference, and himself regarded as a person who is simply mistaken-nothing more. He never could have had a pet cat. We have had-many: the fact that a cat's nine lives do not equal one human being's, necessitating that plural. Otherwise, we would have kept faithful to this day unto our first favourite 'Muff'-fallen in with at the age of three-or his successor, our veritable first-love, Rose; Rose, the flower of cats, who and educated with a care and distinction which could not but make him the most gentlemanly of cats. And such he grew. There was a conscious 'fineyoung-fellowism' in the very arch of his back, and curve of his handsome tail. His tail, we always said, was his weak point-a pardonable vanity. He seemed to take a conscious pride in it, as a fashionable Antinous might in his curls, his hands, or his whiskers. For his morals, they were as unexceptionable as his appearance. He was rarely heard to mew, even for his dinner; and as for theft, I remember the sublime indignation of his first friend and protector, the cook, when one day I suggested shutting the pantry-door: 'He steal! He never would think of such a thing!' Have I sufficiently indicated his mental and moral perfections? Add to these a social and affectionate disposition, remarkable even in parlour-educated cats, and a general suavity of manner which made him considerate to the dog, and patronisingly indifferent to the fowls-and what more need be said of him, except his name? |