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were thrown off, and amid the confusion produced by random firing and savage yells, our little party of nine rushed through the crowd and succeeded in gaining the fort. Boone was slightly wounded.

A brisk fire commenced on both sides, and was kept up nine days. The Indians, now despairing of success in open warfare, with the advice of Duquesne, set themselves about digging a trench, in order to turn the current of the river, let waler into the fort, and thus drive out the occupants. Boone, soon apprized of their movements by the discoloration of the water, cut a counter trench to interrupt their design. At length, on the thirteenth day, sick of a game so unprofitable, they suddenly disappeared. We are told that the Indians lost two hundred, among whom were thirty-seven chief warriors ; while the whites had only two men killed and four wounded. One can judge with what perseverance the Indians prosecuted this siege, when told that the whites gathered one hundred and twenty-five pounds weight of bullets that had been shot at them.

During Boone's confinement at Old Chilicothe, his wife, having given up all hope of ever seeing him again, returned to her friends in North Carolina, He followed her thither, and moved a second time to Kentucky, a younger brother accompanying him. Soon after their arrival, (Oct. 1780,) as they were returning from a scouting expedition, they were fired upon by a party of Indians. Boone's brother fell dead by his side. He shot the foremost Indian, then seizing his brother's rifle, leveled another and ran. His only chance of escape was to distance them. They trailed him with a dog three miles. Meanwhile, he reloaded his rifle and availed himself of an opportunity to shoot the dog. Thus he made good his escape and reached Boonesborough in safety. The history of the savages for the next six months is a tale of stratagems, burnings, captures, and murders, all of which we omit, and come to speak of the attack made upon Bryant's station, a strong hold near Lexington, by five hundred Indians under the command of the villains Girty and McKee. When these wretches had matured their plans, the Indians were summoned to Girty's cabin, who spoke to them of their once beautiful hunting-grounds, filled with buffaloes and deer, the intrusion of his white brethren, the blood of the red man that had stained the earth, and the vengeance which they must have. He then gave them instructions as to their march and the mode of attack. His harangue was answered by yells from hundreds of savage mouths, and the dead march was begun, “ Simon Girty with ruffled shirt and soldier-coat taking the lead.”

On the night of the fifteenth of August they commenced the attack. Boone was never caught napping-he was ready, and gave them a warm reception—so warm that they soon retreated with a heavy loss. The next morning Girty approached the fort near enough to be heard, mounted a stump, and with a flag of truce in hand cried, “ if you surrender promptly no blood shall be shed; but if you will not, know then that our cannons and reinforcements are near at hand. We will battle down your pickets as we did at Riddle's and Martin's station ; every man of you shall be slain.” Here he was iuterrupted by some one crying out from the fort, “ shoot that rascal.” “I am under a flag of truce," replied Girty ; " do you know who it is that speaks to you ?" Whereupon our hero answered, “ know you? yes, we know you well. Know Simon Girty? Yes; he is the renegado cowardly villain who loves to murder women and children, especially those of his own people! Know Girty? Yes; his father must have been a panther. I have a worthless dog that kills sheep; instead of shooting him, I have named him Simon Girty. You expect cannons and reinforcements, do you ? Cowardly wretches like you, that make war upon women and children, would not dare to touch them off, if you had them. We expect reinforcements too, and a sufficient number to give a short account of the murderous crew that follows you. Even if you could battle down our pickets, I, for one, hold your comrades in too much contempt to shoot a rifle at them. I would not waste powder and lead upon you. Should you ever enter our fort, I am ready for you. We have roasted a number of hickory switches, with which we mean to whip you and your naked cut-throats out of the country." Amid the shouts of the Indians and the jeers of the whites, Girty descended from the stump. After another fruitless attempt, the savages departed, leaving thirty of their number slain.

Boone, with a force of one hundred and seventy-five men, under the command of Colonels Todd and Trigg, Majors Harland and Bulger, Captains Gordon and McBride, pursued and overtook them at a remarkable bend in Licking river. The savages at first fled precipitately. The pursuers crossed the river where the enemy rallied, formed in line and waited the attack. They joined battle. The contest continued only fifteen minutes. Boone was compelled to retreat with a loss of sixty men. He was the only officer surviving, and his second son was among the dead. They suffered severely during the flight. Some were killed as they entered the river, others as they swam, and others still as they ascended the opposite bank. Col. Logan, with a large force, reached the place of action, but too late. Had he arrived a liule sooner, the defeat might have been a victory. Boone, in company with Gen. Clark, again commenced the pursuit

. The Indians, apprized of the superior force of the whites by their runners, fled in confusion. The whites hurried through their towns, killed a number of the enemy, took a few prisoners, destroyed their provisions, and swept the country with desolation. The Indians now gave up all hope of successfully contending against the colonists.

With the return of peace, Boone betook himself again to his darling passion. But a cloud came over his happiness. American enteprise pressed upon him, and he was defrauded of his lands by some trick of ihe law. Fired by stories of grizzly bears, buffaloes, beavers, and otters that were to be found in Missouri, he resolved to remove thither. It was a matter of surprise to see this aged veteran, whose locks had grown white in his country's service, wending his way to a new country. The ferryman, as he set him across the river at Cincinnati, asked him why he was leaving the comforts of home for the wilderness?

“ Too much crowded, too much crowded,” said he ; “ I want more elbow room." He reached Missouri and settled about fifty miles above St. Louis. Here was the "paradise for a hunter.” The people lived in primitive simplicity. The country was then in possession of the French and Spanish. Boone's character for integrity and courage was soon known. He received a grant of two thousand acres from the Spanish authorities, and was appointed commandant over the district of St. Charles, which office he held until Missouri was purchased by our government. He complained of being again crowded, but was too old to move, nor was there any place to go to. He continued to be a hunter and trapper till the very day of his death. He died without a struggle, with no disease but old age, in his eighty-eighth year, full of sylvan honor and renown. It is related that he was found dead in the woods, with his wife in his arms. Such an end was equally appropriate and natural to the life of a man, whose adventurous name will live forever in the annals of border civilization.

After the lapse of nearly a quarter of a century since the hero of our sketch rested from his labors, the remains of both hin and his wife were brought back to his own beloved Kentucky. On the thirteenth of September, 1845, myriads of human beings crowded upon the beautiful eminence, from which about seventy years before he had looked in upon the promised land. The thundering tread of buffaloes no longer resounded at its base, but the busy hum of industry had filled the silence. No longer over a boundless prairie

“ The wild grass waved in long and lofty billows,

Tossing white flowers like foam on many a crest :"

but works of art and taste, the homes of enlightened men, beautified the great plain below. Still was there an atmosphere of solitude about the spot selected for the final resting place of the great pioneer. Nature had here been allowed to retain her own charms, and the spirit of the departed hero could easily be imagined to be hovering over so lovely a place. And as we can believe that the tastes and desires of men are exalted when freed from the contaminations of a sensual world, would not his pure soul rejoice in the prospect of human happiness, now visible there, more than his earthly hopes had brightened at the same scene when it was but a hunter's paradise ? There was the harvest of the seed he had sown and nourished at the expense of his blood and the loss of those most dear to him. The solemn crowd who were present at his second interment, were only his children, for he had provided for them this home of theirs. His wife was with him. It was indeed fit that the devoted, courageous, enduring wife of his bosom should sleep at his side. The dead march sounded. The long train moved on. In front with its military escort was borne the hearse that contained the dust of the noble dead, drawn by four white horses. Flowers and evergreens, fit emblems of one who loved them well, were scattered profusely over it. Men, renowned for bravery, for



eloquence, for station, and for character, walked as pall-bearers to the illustrious departed. The Sabbath Schools poured the bright faces of childhood along the crowded paths. Women, in the charms of dignity and loveliness, were also there. The orator arose. The virtues of the illustrious dead were unfolded, dwelt upon, and extolled. Prayers and praises went up to heaven for the gift of great and good men, who had honored and blessed their race. The coffin was lowered, and thousands of his posterity united in casting the tokens of their last farewell upon all that remained of Daniel Boone—"earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” He has returned-HOME.

So Napoleon returned to France; but it was the warrior returning to the toy of his vain ambition. Boone returned to the land he had discovered, defended, and almost created. Napoleon came back to those whom he had deprived of fathers, brothers, and children, amid the silent curses of factions and the enthusiasm of national vanity. Boone came amid the learful gratitude of thousands, with one accord invoking benisons on his name and memory. Napoleon came dead, where he could not have been received living. Boone was a voluntary wanderer, brought home under his pall by those who would gladly have welcomed him living with festal wreaths and shouts of joy.


“ Above the reach of time or storm,

Playmate of the blessed ones up yonder,

She amid the flowers of light doth wander,
Godlike 'mid the Gods, undying Form.”

SCHILLER, translated by Dwight.

The Spiritual, in this world, is inseparably bound up in the Material. Mind is encased in matter. Every thing that affects the case, affects likewise what it contains. If the body is gratified, so is the mind. If the body suffers, the mind suffers too. If the body is diseased, and battered, and broken down, the mind also becomes shattered, its energy and vitality destroyed. It must go where the body goes-stay where the body stays—come in contact with whatever surrounds the body. The soul has not the power to abstract itself from the matter in which it is enveloped. It cannot be everywhere, and see and hear every thing, as spirit, unfettered spirit, must and does. Even if at times it is able to transport itself away from the flesh, and commune with things invisible, it is soon called back by corporeal desires and feelings, and forced to attend to the actual and present. Thus mind and body have an absolute and unconditional union—a union which can never be dissolved so long as life continues.

Mind is not only shut up in matter, but each individual mind has its own prison-house, in which it is closely confined. Each stands alone

and isolated, and would remain in solitary confinement for life, if it could not communicate with other minds by means of outward signs. There can be in this world no such thing as intercourse of spirit with spirit. The mind is entirely dependent for the power to make koown its thoughts, choices, volitions, upon the material creation around it. of itself it is utterly helpless. If it has an idea which it would share with others, it must endeavor to indicate this idea by embodying it in some physical and personal act, or look abroad over the natural world to find some form which will express it. Hence the forms of the material creation, and the forms of outward and personal action, become the necessary expressions of thought. The mind must employ these or none. Spiritual signs have no existence. Matter inust surnish all symbols. The world of inward thought has a necessary connection with the world of outward form. In the one is found the essence, in the other the sign. The one produces ideas, the dictates of that invisible power, the soul ; the other affords the means by which these ideas are brought out into the actual and visible world, are made known to all minds, and stand imperishable for all future generations.

Yet, though man is compelled to resort to the external world for forms under which to express his ideas, it will be found that nature has furnished a far better supply of these than might at first view be conjectured. Man is not obliged to look out among a chaos of forms— mere arbitrary creations of matter—and pick out one by which, with much trouble, and twisting, and turning, he may, perhaps, be able to communicate a thought. If it were so, the Anti-Formalist would indeed be right-the more we spiritualized the better, and we could not do too much in trying to make the mind independent of the body. But it is not so. Every thing in the outward world is adapted to express some particular idea. Man has only from a multitude of signs to select the one he requires. That thus matter and mind have a real and definite connection, and were created with express reference to each other, is no new or visionary notion. It has been the impression of the greatest intellects, and is supported by strong evidence. “Metaphors," says Richter, “ are proofs of the fundamental unity of the intellectual and material worlds." These figurative expressions of abstract truths are not arbitrary, but are founded upon some real resemblance between the thing that signifies and the idea that is signified. What can be the nature of this resemblance between an abstract truth and an external type, we cannot tell; but that it exists, we know. For example, we can conceive of no connection between spirit and a blast of wind, expression and a squeezing out, comprehension and a taking hold of; yet there must be a real connection, for all the terms expressing the conceptions and operations of the mind are, in like manner, derived from external objects and physical acts. These forms of expression, too, are not conventional, hit upon by caprice or accident, and adopted by mutual consent, but are found in all languages, are common to all tribes and peoples upon the earth, as though the result of some great and general law governing both mind and matter. If a new metaphor, a new idea under a new figure, be presented to our minds, we understand it at

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