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L - CeiiECTlOn' J. H. & W. B. SEALS. ATLANTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1878. rp-rTiT>TV/rcj J S 3 ERR ANNUM ) 1 7 IN ADVANCE, f NO. 151 I Ah ! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills. Who. flung on the rieh breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah ! little they know of the blessedness toil-pur chased slumber enjoys AV ho, stretched on the hard rock of indolence,taste of the sleep that destroys; Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh lor, or g., m; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er w itli ijs breuth: Nothing but dulnesss and lethargy, weaiiness sor row, and death! But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, Who, win, hummer or eliisel or pencil, with rudder or ploughshare or pen, Laboreth ever and ever with hope through tiie morning ot life, Winning home and its darling divinities,—Jove- ! worshipped children and wife, Hound the hammer ot industry, quick the sham chisel rings, And the heart oi the toiler lias throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings,— He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of bis race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat anu looks tiie strong world in the face. Penis Florence Mac-Caktuv. On the Prairies; -OR;— H0W0LD1UCKSKM 101 YD 1I1S WIPE. Joe Liille Antelope and Mote BT GEOliGE, I never told you how I first met my wife, did I ?’ said Old Buckskin, as we gathered aronnd the evening camp-fire. This was the signal fnr a storv, and we all as sf I •• - ’ f ' - to listtD. “Old Buckskin” was the leader oi our party. He was a l nnter and guide of forty years experience, and an inveterate yarn-spin ner. ‘I was not aware that yon were ever married, Buckskin,’ remarked one of the group, by way of inviting him to proceed. •Wal, I reckon I was,’ returned the hunter, as he pulverized a haDdful of “dog-leg,” and pour ed it into the bowl of his pipe. ‘I had a wife that any man might be proud of, and I’ve a mind to tell yon how I first ran afoul of her. It’s a reg’lar romance, in a rough sort of a way, and at the time it happened I was jist the right age to ’preesbate anything that had a seasonin’ of romance about it.’ Old Buckskin lit his pipe, and puffed away for some moments in silence. Then, drawing up his knees and clasping his hands around them, he began; *"• ‘I was livin’ with the old folks down in Texas. I warn’t a day more’n nineteen year old, but 1 was one of yer stout, strappin’ fellows that nev er knowed what sickness was, and could stand any hardship short of hangin’. I recollect as how I didn’t have a hankerin’ arter anything in p’tickler, ’cept huntin’. I had an all-fired good gun that I’d won at a shootin’-match thar in the nayborhood, and I was eternally usin’ it on sicb game as squirrels, fow’ls, and sometimes deer. I bad a spankin’ good hoss, too—not a Mexican mustang, but a big, coal-black animal, that dad had bought of a Frenchman and give to me. Thar was Arab blood in his veins, and if ever a vouDgster was pround of anythin’ I was proud of that hoss. ‘When I was nineteen year old or thereabouts, 1 tuck my hoss and gun and went ont to have a regular time of it. I’d been sweatin’ to take a loBg trip across the prairies and mountains lur some time, but dad and marn had alius talked me out of it, tell in’ me thar was too many dan gers fur a bey of my age to buck agin.’ Thar's no denyin’ that I iras powerful young, and powerful green, but when I finally made up my mind, I struck a bee-line for the mountains. It was jist the sort of a life fur me, and I liked it in spite of its risks, and what delicate people call its hardships. It was my first experience, and I hadn't the judgment of a yearlin' colt, but I tuck things as they come and got through by main strength and awk’rdnsss ‘I’d been absent from bum nigh onto four weeks, I reckon, when I started to retnrn. On the way hack I captured an antelope—as tlno a young buck as you'd wan’t to see—and I thought as how I’d take it hum alive. Don t know what the nation I wanted to do that fur, but I was a boy, with a boy’s notions. I camped that night nnder a big live oak tree that stood all alone on the prairie. If my memory sarves me right it was the only tree in sight, ’cept two or three stunted palms away off to the south’ard. I tied the antelope to a stout bush at the foot of the oak, and turned the hoss loose. I alius turned my Arab loose, ’case he was well trained and never offered to go astray. It was one of the brightest moonlight nights I ever seed. Yer pale-faced city people, that never git ont here on the plains whar they kin stretch their cramped limbs, don’t know what bright moon light nights is. ‘I'd skeercely got to sleep when I was aroused by the most infernal howls I ever heerd. The sound warn’t new to me; I knowed what it meant; I rubbed my eyes and looked aronnd. In ever’ direction I could see black objects skulkin’ about on the prairie, and I knowed they was wolves. I reckon there was about a hundred of ’em. It struck me as how they’d been attracted to the spot by the antelope, whose fat, tender carcass made thar hungry mouths water. The poor critter was cowerin’ down on the ground, trembling like a leaf, and I made up my mind to defend him. 1 got ont of my blanket, picked up my gun, and climbed the ftree. I know’d it was the safest place fur me, “ J iJraced M}’ Rifle agin j\fy Shoulder and blazed away at Him.’ besides givin’ me a chance to open ont on the varmits in the right way. I crawled out on one of the lowest limbs, and laid flat down on my L’. r hiiSt-_, Jp.lh.at _t>o ution I watched *F. -o olvpja a-bowlin’ as if they had pains in their stom- micks, and growlin’ a little braver every minnit. Nearder and nearder they come, and at last the leader got so clus' that he settled hisself on his haunches to spring upon the antelope. I didn’t keer to see him carry out his plan, so I braced my rifle agin’ my shoulder, tuck steady aim, and jist as the varmint rose in the air I blazed away at him. ‘lie keeled over, deader’n a door-nail, and the rest scampered away. Fur a little while all was still, and not a wolf was to be seen :but I know’d it wouldn’t last loDg, so I rammed another load into my gun in the twinklin' of a toad’s eye.— I’d no more’n finished the job when the howlin’ commenced ag’in, and the ’tarnal gluttons be gun to hold another camp-meetin’ on the prem ises. This time the antelope got so awful sheer ed that he begun to tug at his rope, and try to get away. I was kinder feard he’d succeed, for it warn’t sich a powerful stout rope, but I laid still and held my gun ready to do more work.— The wolves come so near they begun to devour the carcass of the one I’d killed ; then I fired among ’em. They didn’t scatter this time, but pounced onto the last victim, and eat him up in a jiffy. While they was doin’ that the antelope was bleatin’ mighty pitiful, and strugglin’ to get loose. All to onc’t the rope snapped, and the poor critter findin’ hisself free, shot away like a streak of greased lightnin.’ The wolves seed him go, and the hull pack of ’em dashed away in hot persoot. In a few seconds the antelope and wolves war out of sight, and the noise died away in the distance. ‘I got down out oi the tree. I felt sorry fur the antelope ; I kDOw’d it was all up with him, but I couldn’t help him now. My hoss was nowhar to be seen. He had tuck fright, and made hisself remarkably skeerce, but I bad no fear ’bout bis goin’ fur. I give one sharp whis tle, and it warn’t a minnit till the Arab came galopin’ up. ‘ Wal, I didn’t keer to be cheated out of my sleep, so I prepared to snooze the rest of the night. I didn’t look fur another visit from the wolves, but I had no mind to let ’em ketch me nappin’, and this is the way I guarded agin’ it. Every Texan carries a long, stout lariat coiled up at his saddle-bow. I hadn't tuck the saddle off my boss, so I walked up to him, uncoiled the lariat, put the noose over my ankle, and tightened it thar before I laid down to sleep. The other end being attached to the Arab, he couldn’t move without wakin’ me, so thar was no danger of his goin’ astray ag’in if he happened to get skeered. He had a right smart of license, but he couldn’t go beyond his tether without twitchin’ my ankle and rousin’ me from my slumbers. It warn’t jist the peart- est trick a manever did, but I w r as greener’n hammered elm in them days. I could do the same thing now without axident, but I was a growin' boy then, and a growin’ boy is apt to sleep as sound as a brick. YVal, arter attackin' myself to the hoss in this manner, I rolled over in my blanket and was soon in the land of dreams. How long I snoozed I had no means of tellin, I was 'roused by .feelin’ suthin’ give my leg an awful jerk that e’enamost plucked it out of its socket. I was lifted up and thumped agin’ the ground in a way that warn’t gentle, and then I felt as somebody hd picked me up by the heels, and war tryin’ to bang my brains ont on the hard earth. That warn’t all: it didn’t take me a great while to find out that I was bein’ drag ged at a fearful rate! I heard an awful barkin’ and howlin’ and screechin’ as if all the wolves in the univarso war on the rampage. All of a suddent the truth flashed onto me. I seed what was the matter. The wolves arter makin’ short work of the antelope, had come back to look for more vittles. The Arab had got skeered, aDd stampeded without the least warnin’, and now he was galloping across the prairie with the speed of the wind, dragging me arter him. The ! lasso was drawed tight a:. undmy ankle, and ; thar warn t no hope of it pr< a sin*, ’cause why ! it f wa « powerful stout. ^ ^ 1ear the clatter j Su£ t” could n’t” see nothin ihamiet ’w&s : over my eyes. ’ ‘This yur blanket was sui- tb n" like a Mexi- ! can’s serape; it had a hole in*>the center which I J put my head through when I laid dowrn to sleep. In course, bein’ dragged along the ground feet foremost, pulled the blanket up over my head, so that I was in total darkness. But it was blessed lucky fur me that it did, fur it sav ed my head some mighty hard knocks, and I verily b’lieve if it hadn’t been fur that thar blanket that night, I wouldn’t be hyur to tell you the story.’ ‘Taiu’t no use talking,’ the way that hoss trav eled across that prairie was a caution to wild cats. I couldn’t holler to him to done any good, fur the blanket muifled my voice, and the wolves made a noise that would have drowmed it anyway. I tell yer, boys, I warn’t in jist the pleasantest situation a bright-minded pusson could think of. The hoss was goin’ his mighti est, and thar warn’t no use ,‘m me grabbin’ at the grass and w'eeds as they ,‘lew by. Oh I went, bouncin’, bumpin’, skiminiD along, tearin’ my clothes to shreds, and peelin’every speck of the hide from my back and legs. Millions of stars flashed before my eyes every time my head was dashed agin’ the ’arth, and it got to occurrin’ so often, that the stars finally became stationary. Thar was no help fnr it. I thought I was doom ed ; and I reckon I come ‘bout as nigh|sayin‘ my prayers that night as I ever did in my life. It was an awful expern nc. The hoss kept gallop- in, and the wolves kept follerin* and howlin.’ I didn't think ‘bout bein’ afeard of the wolves; nothin* was farder from my mind than that, I‘d ‘a been powerful glad to slip that noose from my ankle, and run the risk of bein' chawed up by the varmints. They war all around me by this time. I could hear ‘em snappin* at me as I went tumblin' along. One of ‘em laid hold of my blanket, and got away with a piece of it. They was ap parently keepin* pace with the Arab—so was I! I'll bet a plug of Jeezns River tobacker that the trail could have been followed a month ar- terward, whar my carcass plowed up the sile. I thought every minnit ’nd be my last; I thought every jerk would tear me iu two. I know’d it couldn’t last long, A man jnust have a consti- tion like a mule’s to live thfrough it. And the hoss would never stop, wLi’i them pesky var mints kept up thar clamor at his heels. ‘ Arter a while, I heerd the crack of a rifle, ring ont clear and sharp above the din ; and a sudden yelp from one of the pursuers told the result. I was followed quick by a pistol-shot— then another—and thar seemed to be a panic among the wolves. I could tell that they was scattered in every direction. At the same time, I heerd the hoof-strokes of a gallopin’ hoss—an other beside my Arab. The sound was off to one side of me, and was comin, nearder and nearder. Bewildered and crazy as I was, I warn’t slow to guess what it meant. Thar war help at hand. ‘I reckon I fainted then. It was the first and last time in my life, but I calculate a stronger man than me wonld ’a give in, under the cir cumstances. I was scratched and bruised, and bleedin’ like a stuck b’ar. Yes, kumrids, I make no bones in tellin’ yer that I actually fainted! ‘ When my senses come back to me, I found that I was layin’ perfectly still. My head was restin’ on a soft arm ; a voice as low and sweet as the murmurin’ breeze was speakin’ Words of pity ; and as I opened my eyts, the very first thing that I seed, was a fair young face, as party as an angel’s bendin’ over me. For a minnit I thought I was in another world, and this raily an angel kneelin’ beside me ; bnt when the long, waverin’ howl of a distant wolf was borne to my ear, a cold shudder went through my achin’ frame, and I knowd I was still on ’arth. The moon was still shinin’ bright. A little ways from whar I laid I seed a hoss quietly croppin’ the grass. It warn’t my hoss, but a snow-white critter with a woman’s saddle on his back. ‘I stared at the gal that was hoverin’ over me She didn’t ’pear to be mor'n (ighteen years old SCl«W n oi iL .i. . r bright, and bine as the summer sky. She wore a sort of fancy huntin' dress, all beaded and braided, and a little sassy cap with a white plume in it. In one little hand she held a flask of branny which she’d half emptied into my guzzle. ‘ I reckon I can set up now,’ sez I sorter bash ful like, as I riz to a setin’ posture. She stood up tnen, and stepped back in a timid way, lookin' lovelier than ever. ‘ Who are you ?’ I axed. ‘ My name is Ruth Martin,’ sez she. ‘I looked all around, and then put my hand to my head to make sure that I warn't stark, staring mad.’ ‘ l'ou’re a mighty purty gal,' I blurted out; what the duce are yer doin’ ’way out here on the plains? Did yer save my life?’ ‘ I seed her blush like a rose in the Moon light. Then she sez to me, sez she: • My home is in San Antonio. I left home two days ago with a party of ladies an if gentel- men, to take part in a grand bnffier-kunt. I became seperated from them, and got dost on the wide prairies. I am still lost. I’ve not been able to find my way, but I’ve not suffered except in mind. To-night I was ’wakened by the wolves. Your animal passed close to me, and I seed that he was draggiD’ a human bein’. I mounted my steed and give chase. With my rille and pistols, I put the wolves to flight. Then I put my animal to his best speed and j managed to cut the cruel lasso.’ ‘ That was the gal’s story, and she told it in \ her neatest language. I s’pose I was in love ; with her from that minit. We had a long talk, | and I was happy in spite of my bruises. In ’ fact, I warn’t troubled so much about aches ! and pains, as I was about the tumble state of my duds, which was tore e’enamost off my body. ‘ Day was breakin’ in the east, and though the wolves hung around the premises and barked at us they didn’t offer to pitch into ns. When ; daylight come, they all skulked off, and disap peared. ‘Arter a spell, my Arab come back ; I knowed he would, as soon as his skeer was over ; and when I give him a lectur’ fur his conduct, he rally seemed ashamed of hisself. Ruth Martin, the gal that saved my life, axed me with tears in her blue eyes, if 1 would help her to find her way back to San Antonio? Wal I did. ‘ Kumrids,’ couluded Old Buckskin, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe, ‘ them’s the circumstances under which I first met the gal that arterwards become my wife.’ compare the gentle ripple of the lake with tbo rapid running of the mighty river, as attempt to judge of Mrs. Sigourney and Mrs. Hemans by the same rules of criticism. Besides, we would have our writers known by their own names, and not set ourselves to the task of weaving for them a chaplet of the leaves which have dropped from other’s garlands. Our country, however, is now fully awakened, and our literary aspirants have learned that the true aim of their ambition must be to acquire distinction as national writers. The field which lies before them is an immense one. For the painter of society who seeks to “catch the man ners living as they rise,” there never could be> finer studies than are to be found at home. The eccentric backwoods-man, the haughty Southerner, the Quaker-like descendant of Wil liam Penn, the acute New Englander, and the thousand queer phases which character as sumes in our Atlantic coast cities, might fur nish a lifetime of employment to a satirist. The student of political economy, and the philoso phy of man can have nofbetter opportunity than is afforded by our free institutions and the con sequent freedom of opinion which prevails. And for him, who, turning from mankind, de votes himself to the contemplation of the works of God, we could ask no nobler themes than our own magnificent country can afford. The towering mountain, the untrodden wilderness the broad prairie spreading like a sea of verl dure, the forest, with its “dim monastic aisles ” the expansive {lake, the { silvery waterfall, the astonishing cataract, all are there ia matchless beauty, to till the eye and the imagination The poet and the novelist need look no farth- er than his native soil to find subjects by which to immortalize themselves. Let them go abroad for study—let them enlarge their minds by com munion with their fellows in every clime let tnem ponder over the time-worn institutions of other lai dand gaze upon the crumbling ruins of a by-gone age, but let them then return to pay the debt they owe their native land Let * their hopes of individual fame be interwoven with her glory, then even thelanrel would seem ‘ worthless if it grew on any other soil. * 1 Much is now doing for the cause of Iiteratnre ' but much yet remains to be done. Our vouDg ! American Authorship. WHAT IT WAS, AND WHAT IT IS. J How it irks the ear of a patriot when the j name3, however honored, of the gifted in an- j other land are applied to our own writers. Who j has not felt indignant at hearing Miss Sedg- I wick styled the Edgeworth of our country? j Whether her hand portrays the sw T eet Hope j Leslie, the stately Grace Campbell, the noble j Magawasea, or the excellent Aunt Deborah, she | is alike feminine, natural and American. Why ! then should we bestow on her the mantle which | has fallen from the shoulders lot another 1 She j is no copyist of another’s skill ; she has now a I name for herself—she is one of our national glories—our Sedgwick. Nor would we bestow on Mrs. Sigourney the name borne by one whom we alike lament. I mean Felicia Hemans. Few people are aware of the absurdity they commit when they attempt to class together the poetry of two individuals. Toetry is so closely con nected with feeliDgs and affections that unless we could find two persons who thought and fait and acted precisely alike, we could never find them writing similar poetry. We might as well needs intellectual laborers. Our sons must be i educated in such a manner that if suddenly | summonei to serve their country they must be j ready. A mere military education was once | sufficient for this purpose; but we fight now j with other weapons than the sword and musket. The cool head, the collected judgment, the warm patriotism, the unswerving integrity of the statesman are the noblest arms which one can wield for his native land. It is not alone as a poet, a philosopher, or a satirist that a man may acquire distinction; every member that occupies the floor in our houses of Congress is an object of attention both to his fellow-citizens and’ to the assembled thousands of Europe. The old world is calmly looking on to behold the re sult of our experiment of self-government, and surely it behooves us to make every effort for its success. ‘ Let me make the sovys of a nation and I care not w'ho makes the laics,’ said one who had care fully examined the secret spring of human ac tions. The laws of a country may be the best ever planned, yet public opinion will sometimes rule in spite of them, and is it not then im portant that public opinion should be properly directed ? The same impulses which are wrought upon for purposes of evil by dema gogues might be wrought upon for good by bet ter men. The annoying influence of newspa pers will afford some criterion by which to judge of the powers which a national literature would exercise over a nation so generally educated as our own. If ever we hope to see the day when truth shall prevail over party spirit, and the people shall in all cases abide by * principles not men,’ it must be brought about by the generat diffu sion of knowledge, and the establishment or a national, a patriotic literature. But that time can never come unless our authors are enabled to devote themselves to mental rather than manual labor. Our philosophic students of human nature must not be obliged to steal a few brief moments from an arduous business as a toilsome profession for such pursuits. Our gif ted poets must not longer be compelled to turn their eyes from the book of nature while they pore over a dull ledger or waste their tine pow ers on the columns of a daily paper. The labors of tfle intellect, pleasant though they be, are sufficiently severe without adding the never-end ing tasks of busiuess. The lamp of life while fed only with the students’ midnight oil will waste quite soon enough without consuming its pure light over the dull details of a working-day world. A light is going forth from the awak ened mind of the nation, that may indeed carry healing on its beams ; and it should be the pray er of every good citizen that it may not cease to emanate, til) every rising intellect in the repub lic is touched, and warmed, and directed by tho illumination. . Let him join in thus improving himself by contact—by collision by sympathy. His pleas ures, though of a different and healthy charac ter, will not be less in the final addition. His heart may grow kinder and more expansive as his mind is opened and presented to new and invigorating influences ; while he may feel al most certain of a success of which he may well be proud, that shall crowm his exertions in the service of his country’s Literature. Let Ameri can genius, then, resolve to dedicate its off spring to eternal virtue, and it will spring to strong and lasting life. American Y'onth will thus be fulfilling high duty, in this connection and thus too will they do the best that can be done to establish, in this particular, a national liter ature, to which we may point with pride and satisfaction . American Youth must make him- se lf_ttnd in so doing, he is in the best way making American learning and American Lit erature— in so doing, be is making the greatness of his country.