The whites found in a moment that they had committed a great mistake in launching as they did. In the first place, there was not an oar in the boat, and thus, not being able to “paddle their own canoe,” they were also deprived of the ability to paddle one belonging to some one else. Besides this, the river was dark as Styx, and the whole sky and air were of the same inky blackness, and not one in the boat had the remotest idea of where they were going—whether it was to pitch over some falls, down some rapids or into the bank.

“I’m going to set down and consider which is the biggest fool, Haldidge, you or me, in starting out in this canoe which we borrowed for a short time.”

So saying, Seth made his way to the stem of the canoe when he rested himself—not upon the bottom of it, as he expected, but upon something soft, which emitted a grunt audible to all, as he did so.

“My gracious! what’s under me?” he exclaimed, reaching his hand down and feeling around in the dark. “A live Injin as sure as my name is Seth Jones. Ah, you copper-headed monkey!”

It was as said. An Indian had stretched out on his back with his feet dangling over the edge of the canoe, and Seth, without the faintest suspicion of his presence, had seated himself square upon his breast. As may be supposed, this was not relished at all by the startled savage, and he made several strenuous efforts to roll him off.

“Now, just lay still,” commanded Seth, “for I’ve an idea that I can’t find a more comfortable seat.”

The savage was evidently so thoroughly frightened that he ceased his efforts and lay perfectly quiet and motionless.

“Have you got a real Indian here?” asked Haldidge, as he came to Seth.

“To be sure I have; just feel under me and see if I hain’t.”

“What you going to do with him?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you going to let him off? Let’s pitch him overboard.”

“No, you won’t, Haldidge. I’ve two or three good reasons for not doing such a thing. In the first place, there ain’t no need of it, the poor imp hasn’t hurt us; and, for all I detest his whole cowardly race, I don’t believe in killing them except when they’ve done you some injury or are trying to. The most important reason, however, is that I don’t want my seat disturbed.”

“He is a cussed fool to let you sit on him that way. I’d give you a toss if I was in his place that would send you overboard.”

“Not if you knew what was best for you. Thunder!”

Perhaps the Indian understood the words of the hunter. At any rate, he made an attempt to carry out his suggestion, and well nigh did it, too. Just as Seth gave vent to the exclamation recorded, he pitched headlong against Haverland, knocking him over upon his back, and falling upon him. At the same instant the savage sprang overboard and swam rapidly away in the darkness.

“That’s a mean trick,” said Seth, as he recovered his sitting position, “I was just setting on him to keep the rain off. Jest like the ungrateful dog!”

The attention of all was now directed to the progress of the canoe. Drifting swiftly onward through the darkness, no one knowing whither, their situation began to assume a terrible form. There was no power in their hands to guide it, and should they run into any of the trees which had caught in the bottom, or upon a rock, they would be instantly swamped. But there was no help for it and each one seated and braced himself for the shock which might come at any instant.

It was while they were proceeding in this manner, that they all heard the bottom of the canoe grate over something, then tremble for a moment, and suddenly came to a stand still. The stem swung rapidly round and commenced filling.

“Overboard men, all of you! We’re sinking!” commanded Haldidge.

Each sprang into the water which was not more than two feet deep, and the canoe, thus lightened of its load, instantly freed itself and floated off in the darkness.

“Don’t move till I take a few soundings,” said Seth.

He naturally supposed that to reach the shore, he must take a direction at right angles with the current. A few steps showed him that he was not in the river itself, but was walking in that portion which had overflowed its banks.

“Follow on boys; we’re right!” he called out.

Bushes and grass entangled their feet, and the branches overhead brushed their faces as they toiled out of the water. A few moments and they were upon solid land again. The canoe had carried them across the river, so that this troublesome task was finished.

“Now if we only had a fire,” said Haverland.

“Yes; for Ina must be suffering.”

“Oh! don’t think of me!” replied the brave, little girl, cheerfully.

Seth discovered with his customary shrewdness that the storm had been very slight in this section, and the wood was comparatively dry. By removing the leaves upon the surface of the ground, there were others beneath which were perfectly free from dampness. A quantity of these were thrown in a heap, a number of twigs found among them, placed upon the top, and some larger branches piled upon these in turn. After great difficulty, Seth managed to catch a spark from his steel and tinder, and in a few moments they had a rousing, roaring genial fire.

“That’s fine,” said Graham. “But won’t it be dangerous, Seth?”

“Let it be then, I’m bound to dry my skin to night if there’s any vartue in fire.”

But the Indians didn’t choose to disturb them, although it was rather a reckless proceeding upon their part. It was more than probable, as Seth Jones remarked, that their pursuers had lost their trail, and would experience some difficulty in regaining and following it.

Morning at last broke upon the hungry, miserable, hopeful fugitives. As the light increased they looked about them and discovered that they had encamped at the base of a large, heavily wooded hill. It was also noticed that Haldidge, the hunter, was absent. While wondering at this, the report of his rifle was heard, and in a few moments he was seen descending the hill, bending under the weight of a half-grown deer. This was hastily dressed, several good-sized pieces skewered and cooked in the flame, and our five friends made as hearty and substantial a meal as was ever made in this world.

“Before starting upon our journey again,” said Haldidge, “I want you all to go to the top of the hill here with me and see what a fine view we shall have.”

“Oh! we’ve no time for views!” replied Seth.

“I am afraid there is little spare time,” added the woodman. “But this is particularly fine, and I think you will be well pleased with it.”

The hunter was so urgent that the others were finally obliged to consent. Accordingly they commenced the ascent, Haldidge leading them, and all anxiety, smiles, and expectation.

“See how you like that view!” said he, pointing off to the west.

The fugitives gazed in the direction indicated. The prospect was one indeed which, just at that time, pleased them more than could have any other in the universe; for below them about half a mile distant, was the very village toward which they had been so long making their way. It looked unusually beautiful that morning in the clear sunshine. A score of cabins nestled closely together, and the heavy smoke was lazily ascending from several chimneys, while here and there a settler could be seen moving about. At one corner of the village stood the block-house, and the gaping mouth of its swivel shone in the morning sun like burnished silver. One or two small boats were visible in the water, their ashen paddles flashing brightly as they were dipped by strong and active hands. The river down which the woodman and his wife and sisters had escaped, flowed at the foot of the village, and its windings could be traced by the eye for miles. Here and there, scattered over the country for miles could be seen an enterprising settler’s cabin, resembling in the distance a tiny bee-hive.

“You haven’t told me how you are pleased with the landscape?” said the hunter.

“Ah, Haldidge, you know better than to ask that question,” replied Haverland in a shaking voice. “Thank God that He has been so merciful to us!”

They now commenced descending the hill. Not a word was exchanged between them, for their hearts were too full for attendance. A strange spell seemed to have come over Seth Jones. At sight of the village, he had suddenly become thoughtful and silent, refusing even to answer a question. His head was bent down. Evidently his mind was engrossed upon some all-absorbing subject. Several times he sighed deeply, and pressed his hand to his heart, as though the tumultuous throbbing there pained him. The expression of his face was wonderfully changed. That quizzing, comical look was entirely gone, while wrinkles at the eyebrows and base of the nose could be seen no more. His face appeared positively handsome. It was a wonderful metamorphosis, and the question passed around unexpressed: “is that Seth Jones?”

All at once, he seemed to become sensible that the eyes of others were upon him, and that he had forgotten himself. That old, peculiar expression came back to his face, and a few steps of the old straddling gait were taken, and Seth Jones was himself again!

The sentinels in the block-house had discovered and recognized the fugitives, and when they arrived at the palisade which surrounded the village, there were numbers waiting to receive them.

“I will see you all again!” said Haldidge, separating from the others and passing toward the upper end of the settlement.

After pausing a few moments to answer the inquiries of their friends, Haverland led the way toward the cabin where he had left his wife and sister. Here he found the good settlers had erected and presented him with a house. As he stepped softly to the door, intending to give his wife a playful surprise, she met him. With a low cry of joy, she sprang forward and was held in his arms, and the next instant she and Ina were clasped together and weeping.

“Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Oh, my dear, dear child, I thought you lost forever.”

Graham and Seth stood respectfully to one side for a few moments. The latter cleared his throat several times and brushed his arm across his forehead in a suspicious manner. As the mother regained herself, she turned and recognized Graham, and greeted him warmly.

“And you, too,” she said, taking Seth’s hand and looking up into his face, “have been more than a friend to us. May Heaven reward you, for we never can.”

“There! by gracious! don’t say no more!—boohoo! ahem! I believe I’ve caught a cold being so exposed to the night air!”

But it was no use; the tears would come; and Seth, for a few seconds, wept like a baby, yet smiled even through his tears. They all entered the house.

“Our first duty is to thank God for his mercy. Let us all do it,” said the woodman.

All sank devoutly upon their knees, joining in fervent thanksgiving to the great Being who had shown his goodness to them in such a marvellous manner.

The settlers, with true politeness of heart, forebore to intrude until they judged the family were desirous of seeing them. After they had arisen from their knees, Mary, the sister of Haverland, entered. Graham chanced to glance at Seth that moment, and was startled at the emotion he exhibited. He flushed scarlet, and trembled painfully, but, by a strong effort recovered himself in time to greet her. She thanked him again and commenced conversing, when she saw that he was embarrassed and ill at ease. A flash of suspicion crossed her fine calm face, and it became pale and flushed by turns. What a riot emotion was making in her heart only she herself knew:—her face soon became passive and pensive; and a pathos gleamed from her sad eyes which sent Seth quickly out of doors to commune with the mysteries of his own thoughts.

The cabin was crowded until near midnight with congratulating friends. Prominent among these, was the man who officiated in the capacity of minister for the settlement. He was a portly, genial, good-natured man, of the Methodist persuasion, and a preacher for the times—one who could plow, reap, chop wood, and lead the settlers against their foes when he deemed it necessary, or preach and practice the gospel before them.

It was a glad—a happy reunion—a night that was long remembered.

---

Just one week after the reunion, the little party was seated in Haverland’s home, composed of Ina, Seth Jones, the woodman, Mrs. Haverland, and Mary. Seth sat in one corner conversing with Ina, while the other three were also together. There was a happy look upon each face. Even the sweet melancholy beauty of Mary was lightened up by a smile. She was beautiful—queenly so. Her hair, black as night, was gathered behind, as if to restrain its tendency to curl; but in spite of this, a refractory one was constantly intruding itself. A faint color was visible in her cheeks, and her blue eye had in it something of a gleam of the common joy and peace.

Seth had remained most of the time with the woodman. Several times he had asked Mary Haverland to walk with him, and yet, upon each occasion, when about to start, he become painfully nervous and begged to be excused. And then his language was so different at times. Often he would converse with words so polished and well chosen, as to show unmistakably that he was a scholar. Perhaps the reader has noticed this discrepancy in his conversations. It attracted attention, and strengthened many in their belief that for some unknown reason he was playing a part.

At the present time, there was a nervousness in his manner; and, although he was holding a playful conversation with Ina, his eyes were constantly wandering to the face of Mary Haverland.

“And so you and Graham are going to be married to-morrow night?” he asked.

“You know, Seth, that we are. How many times are you going to ask me?”

“Do you love him?” he asked, looking her steadily in the face.

“What a question! I have always loved him, and always will.”

“That’s right; then marry him, for if man ever loved woman, he loves you! And, Alf; while I think of it,” he spoke in a louder tone, “what has that big, red-haired fellow been hanging around here so much, for the last day or two?”

“You will have to ask Mary,” laughed the woodman.

“Oh! I understand; there’ll be two weddings to-morrow night, eh? That’s so, Mary?”

“Not that I know of; I have no expectation of becoming a wife for any one.”

“Hain’t eh? Why the man seems to love you. Why don’t you marry him?”

“I am afraid Mary will never marry,” said Haverland. “She has rejected all offers, though many were from very desirable men.”

“Queer! I never heard of such a case.”

“Her love was buried long ago,” replied Haverland, in a lower tone, to Seth.

After a moment’s silence, Seth arose, took his chair, and seated himself beside her. She did not look at him, nor did any one else. He sat a moment; then whispered:—

“Mary?”

She started. Her eyes flashed like meteors in his face a moment; then she turned as pale as death, and would have fallen from her chair, had not Seth caught her in his arms. Haverland looked up in amazement; the whole family were riveted in wonder. Seth looked up from the face of the fainting woman, and smiled as he said: “She is mine, forever!”

“Merciful heaven! Eugene Morton!” exclaimed Haverland, starting to his feet.

“It is so!” said the one addressed.

“Have you risen from the dead?”

“I have risen to life, Alf, but have never been with the dead.”

Instead of the weak, squeaking tone which had heretofore characterized his speech, was now a rich, mellow bass, whose tones startled Mary into life again. She raised her head, but he who held her, would not permit her to arise. He pressed her fervently to his bosom. The ecstasy of that moment, only the angels in heaven could fathom.

Haldidge and Graham entered, and the man in his true character, arose to his feet—a tall, dignified, graceful, imposing person.

“Where is Seth?” asked Graham, not noticing the apparent stranger.

“Here is what you have heretofore supposed to be that individual,” laughed the person before him, enjoying greatly their astonishment.

“Seth, truly, but not Seth, either,” exclaimed they both, with astonishment written on their faces.

“With a few words,” he commenced, “all will be plain to you. I need not tell you, friends, that my character, since my advent among you, has been an assumed one. Seth Jones is a myth, and to my knowledge, no such person ever existed. My real name is Eugene Morton. Ten years ago, Mary Haverland and I pledged our love to each other. We were to be married in one year; but, when a few months of that time had elapsed, the Revolutionary War broke out, and a call was made upon our little village, in New Hampshire, for volunteers. I had no desire, nor right to refuse. Our little company proceeded to Massachusetts, where the war was then raging. In a skirmish, a few days after the battle of Bunker Hill, I was dangerously wounded, and was left with a farmer by the wayside. I sent word by one of my comrades to Mary, that I was disabled, but hoped to see her in a short time. The bearer of that message probably was killed, for it is certain, my words never reached her; though a very different report, did. We had a man in our company, who was a lover of Mary’s. Knowing of my misfortune, he sent her word that I was killed. When I rejoined my company, a few months after, I learned that this man had deserted. A suspicion that he had returned home, impelled me to obtain leave of absence to visit my native place. I there learned that Haverland, with his wife and sister, had left the village for the West. One of my friends informed me that this deserter had gone with them, and, it was understood, would marry Mary. I could not doubt the truth of this report, and, for a time, I feared I should commit suicide. To soften this great sorrow, I returned at once, joined our company, and plunged into every battle that I possibly could. I often purposely exposed myself to danger, soliciting death rather than life. In the winter of 1776, I found myself under General Washington, at Trenton; I had crossed the Delaware with him, and, by the time it was fairly light, we were engaged in a desperate fight with the Hessians. In the very heat of the battle, the thought suddenly came to me, that the story of Mary’s marriage was untrue. Singularly enough, when the battle was over, I did not think any more of it. But in the midst of the following engagement at Princeton, the same thought came to me again, and haunted me from that time, until the close of the war. I determined to seek out Mary. All that I could learn, was, that Haverland had emigrated ‘out this way.’ If she had married the deserter, I knew it was under a firm belief that I was dead. Consequently I had no right to pain her by my presence. For this reason, I assumed a disguise. I discolored my now long untamed hair. It so changed my whole appearance, that I hardly knew myself. My youthful color was now changed into the bronze of war, and sorrow had wrought its changes. It was not strange then, that any old friend should not know me, particularly when I could so successfully personate the ‘Green Mountain Boy,’ in voice and manner. My identity was perfectly secure, I knew, from detection. I came in this section, and after a long and persevering hunt, one day I found Haverland cutting in the wood. I introduced myself to him as Seth Jones. I found Mary. The report which had reached me of her marriage was false, she was still true to her first love! I should have made myself known then, had not the danger which threatened Haverland, come upon him almost immediately. As his family were then tormented by the fate of Ina, I thought my recognition would only serve to embarrass and distract their actions. Besides, I felt some amusement in the part I was playing, and often enjoyed the speculation I created, by giving you, as it were, a glimpse now and then into my real nature, I varied my actions and language, on purpose to increase your wonder.” He here paused and smiled, as if at the recollection of his numerous ludicrous escapades. He continued: “I have little more to add. I congratulate you, Graham, on the prize you have won. You are to be married to-morrow night. Mary, will you not marry me at the same time?”

“Yes,” replied the radiant woman, placing her hands in his. “You have my hand now, as you have had my heart through all these long, sorrowing years.”

Morton kissed her forehead tenderly.

“Now, congratulate me,” said he, with a beaming face.

And they gathered around him, and such shaking of hands, and such greetings, we venture to say, were never seen before. Our friends experienced some difficulty at first, in believing that Seth Jones was gone forever. They even felt some regrets that his pleasing, eccentric face had passed away; but, they had gained in his place, a handsome, noble-hearted man, of whom they were all proud.

The next day was spent in preparations for the great double wedding that was to take place that evening. Messengers were sent up and down the river, and back into the woods, there was not a settler within twenty miles, who had not been invited. At nightfall, the company began to collect. Some came in boats, some on horseback, and others on foot. A double wedding rarely took place in the backwoods, and while this occasion was too full of romance to be slighted by any, old or young.

When the lights were produced in the woodman’s house, there was a motley assemblage without and within. You could have heard old and middle-aged men talking about the prospect of the crops, and looking up to the sky, and wisely predicating the probabilities of a change in the weather, or discussing, in anxious tones, the state of feeling among the Indians along the frontier; you could have heard—as they would be termed now-a-days—“gawky” young men as sagely discoursing upon the same subjects, venturing a playful thrust now and then, at one of their number about some “Alminy,” or “Serapheemy,” sweetheart.

The woodman’s house had been much enlarged for the occasion. A long shed amply sufficient to contain all the guests, was built alongside, and connecting with it. After participating in a bountiful meal in this, the tables were removed, and preparation made for the marriage.

A sudden hush fell upon the assemblage. All eyes turned toward the door, through which Eugene Morton and Edward Graham, each with his affianced leaning upon his arm entered.

“Ain’t they purty?”

“Don’t they look bootiful?”

“Golly! if they ain’t some, then there’s no use in talking!”

Such and similar were the whispered remarks of admiration at the couple. Mary Haverland was dressed in a plain, light colored dress, without any ornament, except a single white rose in her hair, which now fell in dark masses over her shoulders. Her beauty was of the truly regal type. She was very happy, yet seemed as if in a world of her own.

Horton was clad in gray homespun, which well became his graceful form. His whole appearance was that of the gentleman, which he was—a brave soldier, a true-hearted man.

Ina, the sweet, young heroine, was fascinating. Her dress was of the purest white. Her curls clustered around her shoulders, and were confined at the temples by a simple wreath of blue violets. There was a contrast between Ina and Mary, and yet it would have been a difficult task to have judged which was the most beautiful—the pure, queenly, trusting woman, or the purity and innocence of the young maiden. Graham was a worthy participant in the drama, and pleased all by his goodness and intelligence.

In a few moments, a portly gentleman, with a white neckcloth, and all aglow with smiles, entered the room. Morton and Mary arose and stood before him, and amid the most perfect silence the ceremony commenced. The questions were put and answered in a firm voice, audible to every one in the room.

“What God hath joined together let not man put asunder.”

And every voice said “Amen!” as they reseated themselves.

Haldidge, who had stood as groomsman to Morton, now signaled with a quiet smile for Graham to take his position. The young hero did, and Ina, blushing deeply, and leaning on the arm of her bridemaid, followed, and the ceremony commenced.

While this was proceeding, an interesting affair was occurring on the opposite end of the room. A large, bony, red-faced young man, sat holding and squeezing the hand of a bouncing buxom girl, and indulging in several expressive remarks.

“I swow, if they don’t look purty. Wonder how the gal feels?”

“Why happy, of course,” replied his companion.

“By jingo, I bet he does; I know I would.”

“You would what?”

“Feel glorious if I was in his place.”

“What! marrying Ina Haverland?”

“No—I mean—ahem!—why, somebody else—that is—yes, somebody else.”

“Who else do you mean?” asked the girl, looking him steadily in the face.

“Why—ahem!—why, you! darn it, now you know, don’t you?”

“Sh! Don’t talk so loud, Josiah, or they’ll hear you.”

“S’posen you was in her place, Sal; how would you feel?”

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” she asked reprovingly.

“No, darnation, I don’t care. Say, Sal, how would you feel?”

“Do you mean if I was standing out there with you, and the minister talking so to us?”

“Yes—yes; why don’t you tell me?”

“You know well enough, Josiah, without asking me no such question.”

Josiah commenced meditating. Some desperate scheme was evidently troubling him, for he scratched his head and then his knees, and then laughed, and exclaimed to himself, “I’ll do it, by George!” Then turning toward the girl, he said:

“Sal, let’s you and I get married, won’t you?”

“Why, Josiah?” and she hung her head and blushed charmingly.

“Come, Sal, the old folks won’t care. Let’s do it, won’t you?”

“Oh, Josiah!” she continued, growing nervous and fidgety.

“Come, say quick, for the dominie is near done, and he’ll go home. Say yes; Sal, do.”

“Oh, dear! oh, my stars!—YES!”

“Good, by jingo! Hurry up there, Mr. Preacher.”

At this point, the good minister ceased his benediction upon the couples, and their friends commenced crowding around them. The minister started, not to go home, but to leave the room for a moment, when Josiah noticed it, and fearing that he was going called out:

“Say, squire—you, dominie, I mean, just wait, won’t you here’s another job for you.”

“Ah! I am glad to hear it!” laughed the minister, turning round. “Are you the happy man?”

“Wal, I reckon so, and I cac’late as how, Sal Clayton there is the happy gal.”

All eyes were turned toward the speaker, and he stood their smiles unflinchingly. His face was of a fiery red, and a large, flowing necktie hung disregarded over his breast.

“Go in, Josiah; that’s you!” exclaimed several patting him on the shoulder.

“Get out all of you, till I’m through. Come up here, Sal; no use scroochin’ now.”

The females bore the blushing one forward, until she was near enough for Josiah to get hold of her hand.

“Now go ahead, squire—you—minister, I mean, and don’t be too thundering long about it, for I want to get married most terribly.”

The company gave way, and the two stepped forward, and in a few moments were pronounced man and wife. When Josiah saluted his bride, the smack was a telling one, and the congratulations of Morton and Graham were nothing to those which were showered upon the happy man.

Now the sport commenced. An old ranger suddenly made his appearance, bearing a violin under his arm—“a reg’lar old cremony,” as he termed it. The word was given to “make ready for the dance!” The old folks disappeared and entered the house, where, with the minister, they indulged in conversation, story-telling, nuts, apples, and cider.

The fiddler coiled himself upon the top of a box, and commenced twisting the screws of his instrument, and thumbing the strings. The operation of “tuning” was evidently a painful one, for it was noticed that at each turn of the screw, he shut one eye and twisted his mouth.

The violin was at length tuned, the bow was given two or three sweeps across a lump of rosin, and then drawn across the strings, as if it said “attention!” As the couples were forming, the violinist slid partly down off the box, so that one foot could beat upon the sanded floor, and then, giving his head a jerk backward, struck up a reel that fairly set every heart dancing. The floor was immediately filled with the young folks. Tall, strapping fellows plunged around the room, like skeletons of india-rubber, their legs bowed out, and sometimes tripping over each other. Rousing, solid girls bounded around, up and down like pots of jelly, and “all went merry as a marriage-bell.”

By and by the old folks made their appearance “just to see the boys and gals enjoy themselves.” The fiddler at this moment shot off on the “Devil’s Dream.” A timid elderly lady stepped up to him, and touching him softly on the shoulder, asked:

“Isn’t that a profane tune?”

“No, it’s Old Hundredth with variations—don’t bother me,” replied the performer, relieving his mouth of a quantity of tobacco juice at the same time.

“Supposing we try it for a moment, aunt Hannah,” said the minister with a sly look.

The two stepped out on the floor, the fiddler commenced another tune, and they disappeared in the whirling mass. In a few moments nearly all of the old folks who had come just to “see them a minute,” followed, and the way in which several elderly gentlemen and ladies executed some of the reels of a half-century’s memory, was a lesson to the younger folks.

The company kept up their revelry until far beyond midnight. But by and by they commenced withdrawing. It was proposed by several to visit the different bridegrooms in bed, but fortunately the good taste of the others prevailed, and they departed quietly homeward.

Slumber, with the exception of the sentinels at the block-house, fell upon the village. Perhaps the Indians had no wish to break in upon such a happy settlement, for they made no demonstration through the night. Sweetly and peacefully they all slept; sweetly and peacefully they entered upon life’s duties on the morrow; and sweetly and peacefully these happy settlers ascend and went down the hillside of life.

---

MR. EDWARD S. ELLIS’ WORKS.

(Dime Series.)

The author of “Seth Jones,” “Bill Biddon,” “Forest Spy,” “Hunter’s Cabin,” “Oonomoo,” etc., by these works at once established his reputation as the best delineator of Border and Indian life now writing for the press. He was introduced by the publishers of the Dime Novels’ series to the public, and has contributed to their enterprise works which will be read as long as they are published. Among those already issued are:

SETH JONES; OR, THE CAPTIVES OF THE FRONTIER.

This inimitable story created a great sensation upon its first appearance. “Who is Seth Jones?” was the inquiry from Maine to Minnesota. It was answered by a novel whose sale, to this moment, is unabated. The work is illustrative of life in the early settlements of New York, when the Indian carried terror into many a forest home. It is a story of true beauty and power, with a sprinkling of most delicious humor, and can not fail to please.

BILL BIDDON, TRAPPER;

Or, Life in the North-west. Mr. Ellis here presents a life-like delineation of the life of hunters and trappers in that vast region surrounding the head-waters of the Yellowstone, and stretching away on the Red River trail. Through it runs the thread of a sweet love-story, and the excitement of the rescue of a beautiful white captive from the Blackfeet-Sioux Indians. It is a romance of exceeding interest, and worthy of the author’s fine repute.

THE FRONTIER ANGEL:

A Romance of Kentucky Rangers’ Life. The Frontier Angel is no fictitious personage. Her memory is still treasured in the West among the descendants of those who first braved the savages in Kentucky and Southern Ohio. The author has woven, from her course, a romance of true beauty and power. It has been very popular in the Dime series.

NAT TODD; OR, THE FATE OF THE SIOUX’ CAPTIVE.

Though a sequel to “Bill Biddon,” this novel is perfect in itself. The odd Nat here plays a leading part, and carries the reader per force along with him over the plains into the fastnesses of the far North-west, whither he pursues a shadow. It is a very odd, and a truly enticing and satisfactory story.

THE TRAIL HUNTERS;

Or, Monowano, the Shawnee Spy. A story of the “Dark and Bloody Ground” (Kentucky) in its heaviest trial, and when very many noble characters came out on the page of history. Mr. Ellis daguerreotypes the life and action of those days with wonderful distinctiveness. The delight inspired by a perusal of such novelty as this is greatly enhanced by the historical accuracy of its delineations.

THE FOREST SPY: A TALE OF THE WAR OF ’12.

For this fine work the author has been complimented by its classification with J. Fenimore Cooper’s best conceptions. It introduces us to a remarkable character—one who played an important and dramatic part in the war of 1812—to Harrison, Tecumseh and Proctor; and while history is verified, it is subordinate to a romance of singular power and interest.

IRONA; OR, LIFE ON THE SOUTH-WEST BORDER.

Texan life, Texan love and Texan character make up the warp and woof of this stirring story. To a leading drama of most exciting nature the author adds many side incidents and events of a refreshing character. The celebrated White Steed of the Pampas, for instance, plays his part. An adventure with alligators adds a terrible interest to several chapters. Altogether “Irona” is a very readable romance.

THE RIFLEMEN OF THE MIAMI:

A Tale of Southern Ohio. The “Riflemen” were true sons of the forest, with hearts of fire and nerves of steel, who became the settlers’ hope and Indians’ terror. The author has seized upon a stirring episode of their memorable career to give us a book quite as attractive as any thing which has fallen from the American press since “Leatherstocking” found its way over Europe and America.

THE HUNTER’S CABIN.

This novel is also located in Southern Ohio; the time late in the last century, when the fierce Shawnee and bloodthirsty Delaware carried death along the borders. The events recorded in this work are such as to kindle a fervid enthusiasm in the reader’s mind for the man and woman who braved all to establish civilization in those then distant wilds. A charming love-story runs through the entire narrative.

OONOMOO, THE HURON.

Notwithstanding the merits of some of the works named above, this story is fully equal to the others. It reproduces the noble Huron Indian who plays so prominent a part in the “Riflemen” and the “Hunter’s Cabin.” It is a work of great power and beauty.

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A STIRRING AND IMPRESSIVE STORY.

THE GOLDEN BELT; OR, THE CARIB’S PLEDGE.

BY COLIN BARKER.

The scene is laid in the tropics, just after the discovery of this country by Columbus, when the old Castilian line of Spaniards first stepped upon these shores. The hero is a gallant Spanish Cavalier, who received a belt of virgin gold from the hands of a Carib Chief, as a pledge that he should guard his life. Our hero woos an Indian maiden, and after many thrilling adventures leads her to the altar—being the first maiden of the princely Carib line who wed a Spanish subject.

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HON. A. J. H. DUGANNE’S WORKS.

(Dime Series.)

Mr. Duganne stands confessedly in the front rank of American novelists. His works are familiar to all readers of pure American fiction. He writes with a pen facile with the graces of composition, while his mind fairly overflows with its prolific resources of plot, incident and character. He has favored the Dime Novels’ series with his latest as well as his best works. Among them are:

MASSASOIT’S DAUGHTER;

Or, the French Captives. Sameeda, daughter of Massasoit, was an Indian Princess of rare beauty and virtues. Her life was full of romance, and her relation to the whites have rendered her name memorable. This story is one of unusual power and dramatic interest—as full of incident as the most exacting reader could desire. It is one of the most popular novels in the series.

THE PEON PRINCE;

Or, the Yankee Knight-Errant. If oddity of character and novelty of adventure contribute to a good story, we have them here in perfect fullness. The story introduces us to Mexico as it was under the Guerrilla reign a few years ago, and gives us pictures of the country and its remarkably varied life, which challenge attention from their novelty; and exciting nature.

PUTNAM POMFRET’S WARD;

Or, the Vermonter in Mexico. This, though really a sequel of “The Peon Prince,” is yet entirely distinct as a story. It is characterized by whimsicality, excitement, power and the true beauty of a first-class romance. The reader seeking for a “treat” will find it in this picture of life in Mexico.

THE KING’S MAN;

A Story of South Carolina in Revolutionary times. Mr. Duganne here presents us with a fine historical romance, seizing upon that moment when the city of Charleston was being defended by the brave Moultrie to introduce us to that element of South Carolina’s disloyalty which rendered many of her citizens infamous in the eyes of patriots. The story as a story is unusually exciting. Its succession of commanding events hurries before us commanding characters, male and female—reminding us strongly of Bulwer’s masterpieces of historic composition.

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A CAPITAL STORY.

KING BARNABY;

Or, the Maidens of the Forest. A romance of the Mickmacks, in Canada. By N. Wm. Busteed, Esq., a well-known New York lawyer. It deals with Indian life and the exciting incidents of their conflicts with the whites, introducing a great variety of characters, both male and female. While the story is historically true, it is, in all the elements of the romance, exceedingly enticing and satisfactory.

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MRS. M. A. DENISON’S WORKS.

(Dime Series.)

The Dime Novels’ series include some of Mrs. Denison’s most popular and valued works. As a writer of Home and Fireside Tales Mrs. D. has won an enviable fame in American literature. Her contributions to the Dime series comprise several of more than usual power and excellence. We may refer the reader in quest of good stories for the family circle and the parlor to the following:

CHIP, THE CAVE-CHILD.

A romance of the wilds of Pennsylvania, attracting and commingling with life in Philadelphia. It is a somewhat singular story, but well calculated to enchain attention. The characters in chief are an old woman, and a child whom she has stolen and dragged away to a den in the wilderness, where she seeks to keep her. The narrative comprises a drama of unique interest, pathos and beauty.

THE PRISONER OF LA VINTRESSE.

This novel tells the Fortunes of a Cuban Heiress. The scene is laid in Cuba, but is, eventually, transferred to New York. The characters are every-day delineations; the story reads very much like “facts stranger than fiction.” We are not sure but it is true to life. It forms a very absorbing book—one particularly pleasing to those still in the romantic period of their lives.

FLORIDA; OR, THE IRON WILL.

The first announcement of this work said:—“It is one of the most powerful and beautiful romances yet penned by Mrs. Denison. The action and characters are all in the life of to-day—living and moving in our midst, and acting out the drama of life as it is, in certain social circles of our cities.”

RUTH MARGERIE;

Or, the Revolt of 1689. The author here introduces the reader to one of the most exciting episodes in the history of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The successful revolt of the people against the tyranny of Sir Edmund Andros is seized upon to weave around it a romance of peculiar interest, placing before us incidents and characters that excite much of the intense feeling created by Hawthorne’s romance of “The Scarlet Letter.”

TIM BUMBLE’S CHARGE;

Or, the One Great Sorrow. Another story of to-day—a tale of New England and New York city life, full of spirit of country and city, in which a woman’s joys and sorrows float like a beacon to command our attention. It is a novel possessed of all the author’s best characteristics.

THE MAD HUNTER;

Or, the Downfall of the Le-Forests. Mrs. Denison here gives us a picture of blended light and shade. The number of dramatis personÆ and the rapid succession of peculiar events combine to produce a very novel novel. Those who admire novelty of drama and circumstances will consider this one of the author’s best stories.

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BEADLE’S

DIME SONG BOOK NO. 10.

MOTHER WOULD COMFORT ME—COME BACK, MASSA, COME BACK—BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM—BRING MY BROTHER BACK TO ME—HOW ARE YOU, CONSCRIPTS—BONNIE BLUE FLAG—

DREAMED MY BOY WAS HOME AGAIN—TELL MOTHER I DIE HAPPY—LANIGAN’S BALL—HIGH DADDIE—RALLY ROUND THE FLAG, BOYS—AWAY GOES CUFFEE—And 50 other Popular Songs.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William St., N. Y.

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BEADLE’S DIME BOOKS

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BEADLE’S DIME NOVELS.

Each Issue 112 to 128 Pages, 12mo., Complete.

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BEADLE’S DIME BIOGRAPHICAL SERIES.

Each Issue 100 Pages, 12mo., Complete.

MEN OF THE TIME.

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MISCELLANEOUS DIME BOOKS.

? For Sale by all News-dealers. Sent post-paid on receipt of Ten Cents.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William St., New York.

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