From this time, his pen was to be his sole dependence. He had already tried its point in an article which appeared in the Nassau Monthly, which was edited by a committee of students. This paper was called "Imagination, and the Soul," and had attracted considerable attention both in the College and in the Seminary. Arrived in New York, his first night was spent at "Minnie's Land," the residence of Audubon, whose acquaintance he had previously formed during the last Rocky Mountain tour of the old Naturalist, for whose character, from a similarity of tastes, he had nourished a most enthusiastic admiration. He listened to the counsel of the venerable sage with affectionate respect. Among other things, Audubon urged upon him to dedicate the best years of his life to the study of the natural history of South America, which he only regretted the want of years to grapple with. Finding himself at New York utterly without acquaintances who could aid him, he resolved upon introducing himself, and a manuscript which he had prepared, to Mr. Bryant the poet, for whom he had conceived from his writings a high personal admiration, which was fully confirmed by his interview. He found Mr. Bryant at the office of the Evening Post; the poet smiled upon his eager enthusiasm, a self-confidence which had in it a touch of despair, and kept his manuscript for perusal. The result, the next day, was a letter of introduction to Winchester the publisher, who immediately engaged from the young writer a series of papers on "Texan Adventure" to be published in his flourishing, newspaper, the New World. On the failure of Winchester in his bold but rash conflict with the Harpers, Mr. Webber was again thrown out of employment, but was soon engaged in writing a number of sketches and other papers for the Democratic Review. The most important of these was called Instinct, Reason, and Imagination, and published under the sobriquet of C. Wilkens Eimi. About this time, the story of the Shot in the Eye, one of the best known of his productions, was written. The manuscript was delivered to Mr. O'Sullivan, and after being in his possession for several months, was misplaced and lost sight of by him, and, after a long search, supposed to be irrecoverably lost. The story was then re-written for the Whig Review, and appeared in its second number. But having been unexpectedly found by Mr. O'Sullivan, it was published simultaneously in the Democratic Review, without the knowledge of Mr. Webber. His connexion with the Whig Review as as sociate editor and joint proprietor, continued for over two years, in which time the magazine ran up to an unprecedented circulation for one of its class. The Shot in the Eye, Charles Winterfield Papers, Adventures upon the Frontiers of Texas and Mexico, with a long paper on Hawthorne, are the principal articles by him which will be remembered by the earlier readers of the Review, although a great amount of critical and other miscellaneous matter was comprised within the sum of his editorial labors. About this time, Mr. Webber was a contributor Mr. Webber's next enterprise was one on a mammoth scale, projected by him in connexion with the two sons of John J. Audubon, the orni thologist. The design was to issue a magnificent monthly of large size, to be illustrated in each number by a splendid copperplate colored engraving, taken from a series of unpublished pictures by the elder Audubon, and to be edited by Mr. Webber. Only the first number was ever completed, and it was never published, owing to the many discouragements growing out of the protracted illness of John Woodhouse Andubon, and his immediate departure, while convalescing, with a view to the permanent restoration of his health, by overland travel to California. The immense expense which it was found would attend the prosecution of the work had also its effect in deterring its issue. Among the contributors to this first number were Hawthorne, Whipple, Headley, Street, Constable, Wallace, &c. The leading paper, Eagles and Art, was by Mr. Webber. In the meantime he continued to write occasionally for the Democratic Review, Graham's Magazine, &c. In March, 1849, simultaneously with the discovery of gold in California, appeared the Gold Mines of the Gila, all but a few cODcluding chapters of which he had written several years previously. This work was considered by the author rather as a voluminous prospectus of an enterprise of exploration to the gold region, once attempted during his Texan experiences, and now again projected in the Centralia Exploring Expedition, than as a formal book. To the chivalrous appeal, dedicated to the ladies of America, and addressed to its young men for their cooperation in the dangerous effort to resolve by examination the mystery of the unknown region lying between the river Gila and the Colorado of the West, there was a ready response. The required number of young men from all parts of the country had expressed their readiness to participate in the enterprise, under the leadership of Mr. Webber. Preparations were very far advanced, and the journey to New Orleans commenced, when, on arriving at Washington, he was met by the news of the loss of all the horses of the expedition, which had been collected at Corpus Christi to await their arrival. The Camanches carried off every animal, and, as they had been collected from the mountains at great trouble and as peculiarly adapted for this service, the loss proved irretrievable. The news of the ravages of the cholera along the whole line of the South-western border completed the defeat of the projected rendezvous. Mr. Webber instantly commenced a new movement, by which he hoped to effect this purpose. The experiences of this year of the utter insufficiency of the means of transportation across the great desert to the gold regions, as limited to the horse, ox, and mule, of the country, offered an opening for urging upon the government the project of employing the African and Asiatic camel for such purposes. The vast endurance, capacity for burden, and speed, together with the singular frugality of this animal, seemed to him to indicate its introduction as the great deside ratum of service in the South-west. This object has been assiduously pursued by Mr. Webber since 1849, and it may be mentioned as an instance of his perseverance, that he succeeded in obtaining from the last legislature of New York a charter for the organization of a camel company, and that the Secretary of War has warmly recommended the project to Congress in an official report. In the meantime, the literary labors of Mr. Webber have by no means been suspended. His marriage, which occurred in Boston in 1849, had furnished him with an artistic collaborator in his wife. With her assistance, as the artist of many of its abundant illustrations, the first volume of The Hunter Naturalist was completed, and published in the fall of 1851 by Lippincott, Grambo & Co. The prosecution of this work, to be continued through a series of volumes, was impeded by the author's serious illness, in spite of which, however, he succeeded in getting out, during the year 1852, two new books-Spiritual Vampirism, in which the heretical isms of the day are made the subject of dramatic and withering exposure, and Tales of the Southern Border, both of which were published by Lippincott & Co. In the fall of 1853 the second volume of the Hunter Naturalist-Wild Scenes and Song Birds -appeared from the press of G. P. Putnam & Co. Of this Mrs. Webber was also the Natural History illustrator. Mr. Webber's style is full, rapid, and impulsive, combining a healthy sense of animal life and outof-door sensation, with inner poetical reflection. His narrative is borne along no less by his mental enthusiasm than by the lively action of its stirring Western themes. As a critic, many of his papers have shown a subtle perception with a glowing reproduction of the genius of his author. A NIGHT HUNT IN KENTUCKY-FROM WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. Now the scene has burst upon us through an opening of the trees!-There they are! Negroes of all degrees, size, and age, and of dogs Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, All are there, in one conglomerate of active, noisy confusion. When indications of the hurried approach of our company are perceived, a great accession to the hubbub is consequential. Old Sambo sounds a shriller note upon his horn, the dogs rise from independent howls to a simultaneous yell, and along with all the young half-naked darkies rush to meet us. The women come to the doors with their blazing lamps lifted above their heads, that they may get a look at the "young masters," and we, shouting with excitement, and blinded by the light, plunge stumbling through the meeting current of dogs and young negroes, into the midst of the gathering party. Here we are suddenly arrested by a sort of awe as we find ourselves in the presence of old Sambo. The young dogs leap upon us with their dirty fore-paws, but we merely push aside their caresses, for old Sambo and his old dog Bose are the two centres of our admiration and interest. Old Sambo is the "Mighty Hunter before"-the moon! of all that region. He is seamed and scarred with the pitiless siege of sixty winters! Upon all matters appertaining to such hunts, his word is" law,” while the "tongue" of his favorite and ancient friend Bose is recognised as "gospel." In our young imaginations, the two are respectfully identified. Old Sambo, with his blanket "roundabout"-his cow's-horn trumpet slung about his shoulders by a tow string-his bare head, with its greyish fleece of wool-the broad grin of complacency, showing his yet sound white teeth-and rolling the whites of his eyes benignantly over the turmoil of the scenewas to us the higher prototype of Bose. He, with the proper slowness of dignity, accepts the greet of our patting caresses, with a formal wagging of the tail, which seems to say-" O, I am used to this!" while, when the young dogs leap upon him with obstreperous fawnings, he will correct them into propriety with stately snarling. They knew him for their leader!-they should be more respectful! From Now old Sambo becomes patronizing to us, as is necessary and proper in our new relations! his official position of commander-in-chief, he soon reduces the chaos around us into something like subjection, and then in a little time comes forth the form of our night's march. A few stout young men who have obeyed his summons have gathered around him from the different huts of the Quarter-some with axes, and others with torches of pine and bark. The dogs become more restless, and we more excited, as these indices of immediate action appear. Now, with a long blast from the cow's horn of Sambo, and a deafening clamor of all sizes, high and low-from men, women, children, and dogs, we take up the line of march for the woods. Sambo leads, of course. We are soon trailing after him in single file, led by the glimmer of the torches far ahead. Now the open ground of the plantation has been passed, and as we approach the deep gloom of the bordering forest Those perplexed woods, The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passengereven the yelpings of the excited dogs cease to be heard, and they dash on into the darkness as if they were going to work-while we with our joyous chattering subsided into silence, enter these "longdrawn aisles" with a sort of shiver; the torches showing, as we pass in a dim light, the trees-their huge trunks vaulting over head into the night, with here and there a star shining like a gem set into their tall branching capitals-while on either side we look into depths of blackness as unutterably dreary to us as thoughts of death and nothingness. Oh, it was in half trembling wonder then, we crowded, trampling on the heels of those before, and, when after awhile the rude young negroes would begin to laugh aloud, we felt that in some sort it was profane. But such impressions never lasted long in those days. Every other mood and thought gives way to the novelty and contagious excitement of adventure. We e are soon using our lungs as merrily as the rest. The older dogs seem to know perfectly, from the direction taken, what was the game to be pursued for the night. Had we gone up by the old Field where the Persimmon trees grow, they would have understood that "possums" were to be had; but as old Sambo led off through the deep woods towards the swamps, it said "coons" to them as plain as if they had been Whigs of 1840. The flush of blood begins to subside as we penetrate deeper into the wood, and as we hear old Sambo shout to his staff officers and immediate rear guard, "Hush dat 'ar jawing, you niggers, dar," we take it for granted that it is a hint, meant not to be disrespected by us, that silence is necessary, lest we should startle the game too soon and confuse the dogs. All is silence now, except the rustle of our tramp over the dried autumn leaves, and occasional patter of the feet of a dog who ranges near to our path. Occasionally a white dog comes suddenly out of the darkness into view and disappears as soon, leaving our imagination startled as if some curious sprite had come "momently" from out its silent haunts to peep at us. Then we will hear the rustling of some rapid thing behind us, and looking round, see nothing; then spring aside with a nervous bound and fluttering pulse, as some black object brushes by our legs -"Nothin' but dat dog, Nigger Trimbush," chuckles a darkie, who observed us-but the couplet,— And the kelpie must flit from the black bog pit, flashes across our memory from the romance of su perstition, with the half shudder that is the accompaniment of such dreamy images. Hark, a dog opens-another, then another! We are still in a moment, listening-all eyes are turned upon old Sambo, the oracle. He only pauses for a minute. Dem's de pups-ole dogs aint dar!" A pause. "Pshaw, nothin but a ole har!"-and a long, loud blast of the horn sounds the recall. We move on-and now the frosty night air has become chilly, and we begin to feel that we have something to do before us. Our legs are plied too lustily on the go-ahead principle for us to have time to talk. The young dogs have ceased to give tongue; for like unruly children they have dashed off in chase of what came first, and as the American hare ("Lepus Americanus") is found nearly everywhere, it was the earliest object. Just when the darkness is most deep, and the sounds about our way most hushed, up wheels the silver moon, and with a mellowed glory overcomes the night. The weight of darkness has been lifted from us, and we trudge along more cheerily! The dogs are making wider ranges, and we hear nothing gives an occasional whoop of encouragement. We of them. The silence weighs upon us, and old Saml would like, too, to relieve our lungs, but he says, "nobody mus holler now but dem dat de dog knows: make 'em bother!" We must perforce be quiet; for "de dog" means Bose, and we must be deferential to his humors! Tramp, tramp, tramp, it has been for miles, and not a note from the dogs. We are beginning to be fatigued; our spirits sink, and we have visions of the warm room and bed we have deserted at home. The torches are burning down, and the cold, pake moon-light is stronger than that they give. One after another the young dogs come panting back to us, and fall lazily into our wake. Hang coon hunts in general!-this is no joke; all cry and no wool!" Hark! a deep-mouthed, distant bay! The sound is electrical; our impatience and fatigue are gone! All ears and eyes, we crowd around old Samba. The oracle attitudinizes. He leans forward with one ear turned towards the earth in the direction of the sound. Breathlessly we gaze upon him. Hark another bay; another; then several join in. The old man has been unconsciously soliloquizing from the first sound. Golly, dat's nigger Trim!" in an under tone, "he know de coon!" Next sound. "Dat's a pup; shaw!" Pause. "Dat's a pup, agin! Oh, niggers, no coon dar!" Lifting his outspread hand, which he brings down with a loud slap upon his thigh; "Yah! yah! dat's ole Music; look out, niggers!" Then, as a hoarse, low bay comes booming to us through a pause, he bounds into the air with the caperish agility of a colt, and breaks out in ecstasy, "Whoop! whoop! dat's do ole dog; go my Bose!" Then striking hur riedly through the brush in the direction of the sounds, we only hear from him again, "Yah! yah! yah! dat's a coon, niggers! Bose dar!" And away we rush as fast as we can scramble through the underbrush of the thick wood. The loud burst of the whole pack opening together, drowns even the noise of our progress. The cry of a full pack is maddening music to the hunter. Fatigue is forgotten, and obstacles are nothing. On we go; yelling in chorus with the dogs, Our direction is towards the swamp, and they are fast hurrying to its fastnesses. But what do we care! Briars and logs; the brush of dead trees; plunges half leg deep into the watery mire of boggy places are alike disregarded. The game is up! Hurrah! hurrah! we must be in at the death! So we scurry, led by the maddening chorus Old -while the babbling echo mocks the hounds. Suddenly the reverberations die away. Sambo halts. When we get into ear-shot the only word we hear is "Tree'd!" This from the oracle is sufficient. We have another long scramble, in which we are led by the monotonous baying of a single dog. We have reached the place at last all breathless. Our torches have been nearly extinguished. One of the young dogs is seated at the foot of a tree, and looking up, it bays incessantly. Old Sambo pauses for awhile to survey the scene. The old dogs are circling round and round, jumping up against the side of every tree, smelling as high as they can reach. They are not satisfied, and Sambo waits for his tried oracles to solve the mystery. He regards them steadily and patiently for awhile; then steps forward quickly, and beats off the young dog who had "lied" at the "tree." The veterans now have a quiet field to themselves, and after some further delay in jumping up the sides of the surrounding trees, to find the scent, they finally open in full burst upon the trail. Old Sambo exclaims curtly, as we set off in the new chase, "Dat looks like coon! but cats is about !" Now the whole pack opens again, and we are off after it. We all understand the allusion to the cats, for we know that, like the raccoon, this animal endeavors to baffle the dogs by running some distance up a tree, and then springing off upon another, and so on until it can safely descend. The young dogs take it for granted that he is in the first tree, while the older ones sweep circling round and round until they are convinced that the animal has not escaped. They thus baffle the common trick which they have learned through long experience, and recovering the trail of escape, renew the chase. Under ordinary circumstances we would already have been sufficiently exhausted, but the magnetism of the scene lifts our feet as if they had been shod with wings. Another weary scramble over every provoking obstacle, and the solitary baying of a dog is heard again winding up the "cry." When we reached the "tree" this time, and find it is another "feint," we are entirely disheartened, and all this excitement and fatigue of the night reacting upon us leaves us utterly exhausted, and disinclined to budge one foot further. Old Sambo comes up-he has watched with an astute phiz the movements of the dogs for some time. Thought dat ware a ole coon from de fust! Dat's a mighty ole coon!" with a dubious shake of his head. Ole coon nebber run dat long!" Another shake of the head, and addressing himself to his “staff:” “ Ole coon nebber run'ed dis fur, niggers!" Then turning to us-"Massas, dat a cat!-'taint no coon!" The dogs break out again, at the same moment, and with peculiar fierceness, in full cry. "Come 'long, niggers!-maby dat's a coon-maby 'taint!" and off he starts again. We are electrified by the scenes and sounds once more, and "follow, still follow," forgetting everything in the renewed hubbub and excitement. Wea rily now we go again over marsh and quagmire, bog and pond, rushing through vines, and thickets, and dead limbs. Ah, what glimpses have we of our cozy home during this wild chase! Now our strength is gone-we are chilled, and our teeth chatter-the moon seems to be the centre of cold as the sun is of heat, and its beams strike us like arrows of ice. Yet the cry of the dogs is onward, and old Sambo and his staff yell on! Suddenly there is a pause! the dogs are silent, and we hold up! "Is it all lost?" we exclaim, as we stagger, with our bruised and exhausted limbs, to a seat upon an old log. The stillness is as doop as midnight-the owl strikes the watch with his toowhoo! Hah! that same hoarse, deep bay which first electrified us comes booming again through the stillness. "Yah! yah! dat ole coon am done for! Bose got he, niggers-Gemmen, come on!" The inspiring announcement, that Bose had tree'd at last, is balm to all our wounds, and we follow in the hurry-scurry rush to the tree. Arrived there, we find old Bose on end barking up a great old oak, while the other dogs lie panting around. "Dare he am," says old Sambo. "Make a fire, niggers!" There is but a single stump of a torch left; but in a little while they have collected dried wood enough to kindle a great blaze. Which nigger's gwine to climb dat tree?" says old Sambo, looking round inquiringly. Nobody an swers. The insinuations he had thrown out, that it might be a cat, have had their effect upon the younger darkies. Sambo waits, in dignified silence, for an answer, and throwing off his horn, with an indignant gesture, he says,— You d-n pack of chicken-gizzards, niggers!— climb de tree myself!" and straightway the wiry old man, with the activity of a boy, springs against the huge trunk, and commences to ascend the tree. Bose gives an occasional low yelp as he looks after his master. The other dogs sit with upturned noses, and on restless haunches, as they watch his ascent. Nothing is heard for some time, but the fall of dead branches and bark which he throws down. The fire blazes high, and the darkness about us, beyond its light, is unpenetrated even by the moon. We stand in eager groups watching his ascent. He is soon lost to our view amongst the limbs; yet we watch on until our necks ache, while the enger dogs fidget on their haunches, and emit short yelps of impatience. We see him, against the moon, far up amongst the uppermost forks, creeping like a beetle, up, still up! We are all on fire-the whole fatigue and all the bruises of the chase forgotten! our fire crackles and blazes fiercely as our impatience, and sends quick tongues of light, piercing the black throng of forest sentinels about us. Suddenly the topmost branches of the great oak begin to shake, and seem to be lashing the face of the moon. "De cat! de cat! look out down dar!" The dogs burst into an eager howl! He is shaking him off! A dark object comes thumping down into our midst, and shakes the ground with its fall. The enger dogs rush upon it! but we saw the spotted thing with the electric flashing of its eyes. Yells and sputtering screams-the howls of pain--the gnashing growls of assault-the dark, tumbling struggle that is rolled, with its fierce clamors, out from our fire-light into the dark shadows of the wood, are all enough to madden us. We all rush after the fray, and strike wildly into its midst with the clubs and dead limbs we have snatched, when one of the body-guards happens to think of his axe, and with a single blow settles it! All is over! We get home as we may, and about the time the dapple grey coursers of the morn we creep cautiously into our back window, and sleep not the less profoundly for our fatigue, that we have to charge our late hour of rising, next day, upon Bacon or the Iliad, instead of the "Night Hunt." HENRY AUGUSTUS WISE. HENRY A. WISE, the son of George Stuart Wise, an officer of the United States Navy, was born at Brooklyn, New York, in May, 1819. He is descended on his father's side from an old English royalist family, several of whom were taken prisoners after the "Penruddock rebellion," and sent to Virginia about the year 1665. At the age of fourteen, young Wise, through the influence of his cousin the present governor of Virginia, was appointed a midshipman, and received his first baptism in salt water under the auspices of Captain John Percival, the Jack Percy of his "Tales for the Marines," with whom he served for five years. Many of the scenes portrayed in his recent sketches were no doubt derived from his early experiences. After passing his examination, he served in the naval squadron on the coasts of Florida during the Seminole war; and later on his promotion to a lieutenantcy, in the Pacific, in California and Mexico during the war. On his return to the United States he married the daughter of the Hon. Edward Everett. He has recently completed a cruise in the Mediterranean, where he filled the part of flag-lieutenant to the squadron. H.A. Wise In 1849 Lieut. Wise published Los Gringos.* The title of the book is taken from the epithet used in California and Mexico to describe the descendants of the Anglo-Saxon race, and is nearly equivalent to that of Greenhorn in our own language. As far as concerns the author, however, never was the epithet more misapplied; for in the varied scenes and adventures he describes, he is entirely au fait; and whether on ship or ashore, "chasing the wild deer" or being chased by the grizzly bear, shooting brigands or dancing fandangoes, swimming with the Sandwich Island girls or "doctoring" interesting young ladies in fits, he is equally at home. "Style," says Buffon, "is the man himself," and we could not have a truer picture of the gay and gallant young officer than he has given in his book. Los Gringos was followed in 1855 by Tales for the Marines, a lively, spirited volume of adventure, humorous, sentimental, and melodramatic, on shipboard, off the coast of Africa, and in Rio Janeiro. Sailors, pirates, slavers, smugglers, senoritas, caymans, boa constrictors, all bear a part in the conduct of an amusing series of adventures, some of which are sufficiently marvellous to try the faith of the proverbially easy of belief class of the service to whom they are especially addressed. Lieut. Wise possesses a keen eye for the humorous and the picturesque, and writes in an off-hand and spirited style. We present one of the scenes of his sketches. A party of desperadoes, with whom bloody encounters have previously taken place, are surprised by a detachment from the U. S. corvette Juniata. AN ATTACK-FROM TALES FOR THE MARINES. Mr. Spuke at this epoch was busy on a little tour of inspection, around the cargoes of the lighters, punching his steel-like knuckles into the sacks of sugar, dipping his claws of fingers into the bung holes of the pipas of rum to test the strength by sucking his digits afterwards, then smelling pinches and handfuls of coffee berries, in all which business pursuits he appeared quite at home. Upon his own boat coming on shore again with his copper treasure, he joined the Maltese, and with the assistance of the boy and the black oarsman, the bags were carried up about fifty yards on the beach, midway between the water and the cane huts. This was no sooner effected than a signal was given to the cornet, and down from their concealment in the bushes ran the squad of sojers, while the fat officer, rushing up, laid his hand on the blue coat with bright brass buttons, which hung over the back Los Gringos; or, An Inside View of Mexico and California, with Wanderings in Peru, Chili, and Polynesia. Baker and Scribner. 12mo. pp. 453. of Mr. Spuke. This was the first intimation that individual had of the ambuscade; but, jerking lin self free, he exclaimed,— "By spikes! what on airth air yu abeout?" The suddenness and violence of the movement nearly twitched the officer off his legs. When Mr. Spuke glanced round, and beheld the militia, with their bayonets at a charge, he seemed to recover himself at once; and striding over the sacks of metal, with his legs wide apart, he said, "Wal, ye darn'd Portingees, what air ye up tu! This here is my property, and ther custom-house permits is right and reg'lar-ask them dons theerall honist folks-no idee on gittin quit of payin the fees." Here he beckoned to the factors, who, with Mag, came to the spot; and there they stood, in a lump, just as the cutter of the Flirt was dashed alongside of the schooner. I could not have stood it any longer; but just then Hazy exclaimed, "Now, my friends, it is our turn!" while the padron roared out in Portuguese, "Seize, or shoot down those villains, if they stir an inch. I arrest them for smuggling counterfeit coin." And I screamed to Mag, "Yes, you hag, and I've an account to settle with you for the affair in that den in Rio." The Maltese was the first who made a bolt; but he had not moved a yard before Hazy's cockswain, Harry Greenfield, fetched him a tap with the gig's brass tiller, which laid him out, as meek as milk, on the strand. When the combination burst with its real force upon Spuke and his female companion, the latter squinted furtively around, to see, perhaps, if a chance for escape presented itself; but observing all retreat cut off, her ugly mug began to assume a pale-blue, ashes-of-roses hue; and she put her hand in her bosom and partially exposed her tapering knife. "Drop that, you piratical she-devil, or Ill She must have looked full into the muzzle of the bigmouthed ship's pistol I pointed at her, before she re moved her hand from the weapon; and then only to carry the gin jug to her hideous mouth; but she did not utter a word. Not so, however, with Mr. Spake; he saw the game was up, and that not only his vessel was seized, and his liberty about to be cramped for an indefinite period, but, worse than all, he was to lose all his hard-earned gains. Taking up the words as they were uttered by the padron, and losing all his drawly, nasal twang, he said, in a cold, deliberate tone, O, ho! there's been s¡ yin' goin' on, and I'm to be robbed, eh? Now, I'm an Ameriken, clear grit! and you, dam yer, my countryman," shaking his hand aloft at Hazy, "air standin' by to see me imposed upon by these cussed merlatters, when it's your dooty to pertect me. But, by spikes! let me see the first feller as 'll ris his finger jint to seize Elnathan Spuke." With this, he bared his great slabs of arms to the shoulders; and there he stood, a powerful, towering giant,-glaring with the wrinkled, compressed lips, open nostril, and fierce, cunning eye of a tiger, ready for a spring. "Arrest him, soldiers !" shouted the now excited padron; and the cornet drew his sword. Before, however, the blade was well out of its sheath, the fellow at bay gave him a tremendous kick in the stomach, which sent him fairly spinning up off the sand; and then he fell with a groan, completely hors de combat. At the moment the soldiers, who, as I told you, seemed by no means veterans in war, advanced, with fixed bayonets, upon the smuggler. Evading the first two men, he gave a sudden bound, |