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50 j. [Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE MINSTREL S LAMENT. 7 BY BBS. S. J. K. / An ivied stone, near the coast of Scotland. \ with the simple inscription “Mart,’ marks the f resting place of a lady renowned for exceeding y beauty, and here, for many years, might be seen 1 an aged minstrel, chanting a low, wild dirge— * prey to the pitiless elements. ' A mournful dirge from Scotia's shore, W Fell on the ear still evermore, ' Till mountain crag, and surging sea, \ In tones of wildest ministrelsy, Took up the strain. Each passing gale, yj But wafted on the plaintive wail. J. Sad was the minstrel's heart, and lone, His hopes, his joys, forever flown, S Wild as the waves that lashed the shore, {. Or the shrill bittern's “ nevermore !" JT Far on the breeze his seng was borne, Like a departing spirit's moan. r What reck'd he though the wintry storm; Flayed fiercely o’er his aged form ? P Still seated near that moss-grown grave, L Where wildly dash'd the ocean-wave, He tuned his harp at eventide, f And sang of his sweet “ bonnio bride." u “I lov'd a maiden bright and fair, L Spotless and pure as mountain air, \ Whose dimpled cheek and soft blue eye 5 Would mock the harebell's azure dye; Ah, nevermore, my bonnie bride, I I'll list thy voice at eventide. » “Sweet to the huntsman is the sound, > Os ‘opening pack" o'er brake and mound, . And soft the notes of bugle-horn f Wind o'er the hills at early morn; But sweeter far, my bonnie bride; 1 Thy gentle voice at eventide, “Hast listen'd to the roundelay, P Os nightingale in month of May ? j. Or to the rippling of a stream, Or fairy-music in a dream ? ? Oh sweeter far, my bonnie bride, j • Thy gentle voice at eventide. ' “Loch-Lomond's waves of varying hue y Oft rippled 'neath our light canoe, y While plaintively my Maty sung, And fur and wide the echoes rung, Ah, nevermore, my bonnie bride, k I'll list thy voice at eventide. ? “That thrilling song—it wus the last— ' Though long, long, years since then have passed, ]T The very words sweep o'er my brain. As erst I heard the sweet refrain, A Ah, nevermore, my bonnie bride, f I’ll list thy voice at eventide. Y “When bleak December's wintry gale i. Swept o'er hill and shadowy vale, Was heard the coronache's low wail, Now, my flower lies cold and pale! v Ah nevermore, my bonnie bride, / I'll list thy voice at eventide. “But now I wander all alone, ® And listen to the low sea moan, And think of that bleak wintry hour, Which tore from me my highland flower; j) And seat me where the ebbing tide ® Laves thy lone grave, my bonnie bride 1" Minstrel, farewell I thy song is o'er; V Mute hangs thy harp on Scotia's shore ; L Sleep, sweetly sleep, rest side by side, Sleep softly by thy, “bonnie bride," J The only requiem o’er thy grave, y The music of the surging wave 1 / } JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS, ' 08, y> the autobiography of a Georgian. 4 BY WM. W. TURNER. J 1 At length, the ticklish point was passed, and rl reSted secure, perfectly hidden, at a distance of some sixty-five yards from my anticipated vic \ tims. But there arose a new source of trouble a? and delay. I wanted to shoot the big buck; but it seemed as if he divined my intention, and V however he might move iu grazing, ho always 4 managod to keep a doe between himself and the Y muzzle of my gun. J A long time I waited, patiently, and it began y to grow late. I had almost concluded to give I up the much coveted prize; but my pride decided \ against this. Surely, I thought, he will give me » a chance after a while. But no ; I waited in ' vain. He was inexorable. “It is buck or Y nothing,” said I, finally, to myself; and I stepped 4 out quickly and quietly, about ten paces to my right, bringing myself in full view of the obsti- J nate brute. y My gun was cocked and poised, as I moved. / Just as I stopped, the game raised their heads a \ moment to gaze in astonishment, before bound » ing off. I had accustomed myself to fire quick, ' and that moment was fatal to the gallant buck. Y The rifle cracked sharply; the deer plunged 4 forward some distance through the woods, and fell to rise no more. The rest of the herd swept 9 off like the wind ; and I, after re-loading, ap y proached the fallen animal. Life was already J extinct, but I cut his throat, and the purple tide ■\ gushed out. 4 Throwing my rifle on my shoulder, I started r for the camp. Hunger and fatigue urged me Y forward as fast as my legs could carry me, but 4 my lucky star was in the ascendant that day. I heard a rush and tramp coming towards 9 where I was standing. It instantly struck me y „ that it might be caused by deer, frightened by some one of the number of huntsmen who had n started out when I did, and I hid behind a tree, f# My surmises were correct. Soon, a herd of the r fleet rangers of the forest came crashing through V the woods and undergrowth, as if closely pur- L sued, and passed so near to me that to kill one \ was an easy feat. I selected the one next to 9 me, and fired. This time, a fat doe was the vic y tim, and I was proud enough, as my bright F hunting knife severed her jugular, x Arrived at the camp, I threw myself down 4 on the ground to rest a short time before setting r out with Howard and the pack horse to bring in Y my game. Hinks had not yet got back: but it L was not long before he came trudging home .vith ’ a cross, disappointed look. 9 -‘Well, old forester,” said I, “what luck?” y “The devil’s own,” was the answer. JF “If you allude to his luck in catching souls, it C was very good.” 4 “Well, that aintthe sort I’m talking of, then, r for mine was mighty bad.” Y “I am sorry to hear so. How was it ?” 7 “Well, let me have some sperrits first,” said old Ilinks, sinking down on the grass. “You 9 wouldn’t have a man to talk of his bad luck, and {. not give him nothin’ to raise his feelin’s ?” T “Now you can talk, then, I reckon,” said I, 4 after the old fellow had tossed down three fin -4 gers and a half of rectified. “And don’t try to r make out that accident kept you from killing any- Y thing, when it’s just because you didn’t hunt as J you ought.” "ife “Jest ax them that knows me. Wliat do you Q know about it? But this was the way it hap- hi ns» in timEsmE pened : I found three or four as fine deer as ever you saw in your life and the wind was just right. Well I crept along, and was doing first rate, and all of a sudden the wind shifted and blowed right from me to the deer. They sniff ed it a little, then up with their cussed flags, and away they shot like old Nick was after them. I jumped from behind my tree, and sent a bullet after them, but 'twan’t no use; they was so far off. I thought, though, I mout lia’ hit one.” “Perhaps you did," suggested some one. “Prehaps, the mischief! You reckon I didn’t look to see ? No, I didn’t draw a drop of blood, for I looked faithful. ” “Well, that was bad luck." “Wern’t it ? But that wem’t all.'’ “You didn’t ‘give it up so,’ then ?*’ “No, that was soon in the momin’. I went on and on, for I was determined to try hard for some game, and presently I found more deer a feedin’. Now, thinks I, I’ll make up, fori never did fail twice hand-runnin’. Well, I crept up just as close as ever I want to be to game, and raises my rifle, and takes good aim at a big buck, and pulls trigger.” “Then down came the buck ?” “Not a bit of it,” answered old Hinks. turn ing to his rifie, and giving it a kick, “that dumed, mean, infernal old soap-stick tliar missed fire, and the deer run off and left me caperin’ about and cussin’ like a mad fool —for I never did miss two sich chances, hand-runnin’, in my fife be fore. And twant my fault, neither, but that no count gun’s there. I never knowed it to act so mean in my life. The cap busted, gentlemen.” “Where were you when you frightened the last deer ?” I asked. “Just quarterin’ across the hill yonder.” “And how long has it been?” “ ’Bout an hour ago.” “ Then, I have good news for you. I killed one of the deer that ran off from you, and How ard and I are going to start pretty soon to bring it home.” “ The thunder you did! ’Taint good news to hear how a boy that don't know nothing 'bout huntin’, beat an old hunter like me.” “ Yes, but don't you know,” said I, soothing ly, “ you said ’twasn’t your fault ?" “And if I did, you all don’t believe it—grinnin’ at a feller in that way.” “But I ilo, though. Besides, you are mistaken, if you think I know nothing of hunting. My father has taught me a good deal of the art.” “ What have you got to hunt in Georg}' ?” “We have deer in some places; though they are not as plentiful as I find them hero. I’ve had some little experience with them, however.” “Well,” said the veteran, a little mollified, “ I Itelieve you’re a right cute, clever chap. Was it the old buck you killed ?’’ “ No; it was a beautiful fat doe. But I had already killed the biggest sort of a buck before your deer came along.” “ Yon did 1 How did you do it ?” “ Fairly and squarely, as a huntsman should. I stalked him, secundum artein.'' “Se —what?” “ Oh, I bog your pardon, Hinks. I mean I did it in just as good style as you, or any body else could.” “ Well, jest tell mo how you done it.” I made my interrogator acquainted with the details already known to the reader. “ I believe you’ll make a hunter, young un,” said he, slapping me on the back, “if you keep on like you’ve begun. Make me understand wliar the meat is, and me and your darkey will bring it, and we’ll have prehaps the best hrikt." “Never mind the darkey. Get the horses ready; you and I will go after the game. We were soon mounted, and galloping through the woods. Presently, we returned with our prize, and riding in, wo encountered Captain Preston. “Hallo!” was his exclamation, as ho saw our game. “ Why, Ilinks, you’ve had fine luck to day.” * “’Taint me, sir, though; it’s this youngster what hired me to come along and show him how to hunt, and he beats me all to pieces. I didn’t kill anything to-day.” The Captain knew well enough that if the old huntsman had failed to bag a deer, it was owing to unavoidable bad luck, as he was acquainted with Hinks’ skill; so he paid no attention to this answer, but congratulated me on my success. “ Como round to our fire, and take supper to night, Captain,” said I, “ and we can give you something nice; for, unless lam mistaken, this doe is as fat as deer ever get to be.” “ Thank you,” was the reply, “ I will. Our mess have had as bad luck in hunting as Hinks.” Up to that night, we had been eating civilized victuals, although wo partook of it in rather rough style, and I had hardly realized that I was on my long-wished for wild trip. This time, though, our meal consisted principally of the game brought down by my own trusty rifle. Thanks to the advice of older heads than mino, I had brought along all the seasonings. Ours were the appetites acquired by severe exercise in the open air; and never was more ample justice dene to a supper than was to ours on that occa sion. “ Well, Hopeton,” said the Captain, as he helped himself to another piece of the excellent dish before us, “Harvey wrote mo you were rather green, but you certainly have made a display of anything else but verdancy to-day.” “ Thanks to you, Captain, and friend Harvey. I pride myself in being an apt scholar, and I soon found that I had started wrong; so I tack ed about as quickly as possible.” “Yes, you laid in supplies according to my advice; but who does yourjeooking? If you are the genius who broiled this venison, you cer tainly are a talented youth.” “That darkey there, Howard, prepared the supper.” “Why, how did he learn his art? He is as young as you are.” “Well, Howard is a bright boy naturally, and I’ve taken uncommon pains with him. Besides, I was assisted by my father in making him a model ‘ follower.’ He is an excellent groom; no French valet can excel him in the dutios of a 1 gentleman's gentleman;’ and you have a spe cimen of his culinary abilities.” “ Yes, and can recommend them. Ah,” he con tinued. as he made another attack on the veni son, “ Udo never served up such a supper as this; and why? No doubt he possessed tho capacity, but he lacked the material.” “I should like to see a Parisian open his eyes, Captain, on that assertion,” said Tom Harper, a fine, dashing fellow, who had roamed half the world over, and now went to the prairies once a yeas. “ Nevertheless, I assert the truth.” “ Why, they get venison in Paris as fat as it can be made.” “ Yes, but then it wasn't fattened in the right place, or on the right kind of food.” “ Perhaps not.” “ No. And then Ude never had a fire kindled out in the wild woods of America. His cook ing was done in close, pent-up places.” “lam convinced” at last," said Tom. “But Hopeton,” lie resumed, “you have a treasure in Howard.” “Yea," said Captain Preston, as ho finished his supper, and poured out a stiff drink of the “rye;” “andhere's long life to him. Pipes and cigars were produced, and we fell back on the grass. Conversation had been lively, but the tobacco smoke, for awhile, seemed to exert a lulling influence, and for sometime no word was spoken, as we reclined on our elbows and sent up the curling wreaths till we were en veloped in a fragrant cloud. “I think,”said Tom Harper, “that tliis life is the happiest, the most free from care and petty vexations, <*£ any in the world.' “ Speaking of guns,” replied Captain Preston, “ I have thought several times I would ask you about this very thing, Tom. You’ve traveled all over Europe, and mixed with the gay, fashionable, rowdy, dissipated society there. You’ve been to the principal fashionable resorts in our own country, North and South.' I believe you still go to some of them once in two or three years.” Tom nodded. “And you say, this life is thohappiest?” “ Yes. lam so firmly convinced of it, that I think I shall go no more to these blamed water- * ing places. lam bound to see New Orleans and St. Louis occasionally ; but no more Sara togas, and White Sulphurs, and Cotoosas for me.” “I’ve loafed around a little through the United States,” said Captain Preston, “and have long since come to the same conclusion ; but I wished to hear vow opinion, knowing you had tried more forms of civilization than I had.” . “ Oh 1” growled Tom. “ there’s such faithless- j ness, selfishness, heartlessness; such entire and utter want of principle; such a complete ab sence of everything like noble impulse in what is called 1 society!’ I have grown sick of it.” So bitter was Harper's tone; so unlike the dashing gaiety he had before exhibited, that I was astonished. Even Captain Preston, who had known him a long while, seemed surprised. “yes,” continued our companion, “I hate, de spise, execrate, and spit upon the contemptible asses! The grinning babboons 1 The brainless parrots! The vicious idiots! The chattering, malicious gossips and slanderers! Filchers of good names!” “Why, Tom lam amazed. ‘Thereby’ cer tainly ‘ hangs a taft.’ I did not think of rais ing you so. But you rather introduced the sub ject yourself. Let us dismiss it, and then you’ll be yourself again—the free, open, jolly, kind hearted Tom Harper.” “No blame at all to you, Captain. But I wish to be understood. Our young friend here, will, I expect, be a good deal in fashionable so ciety ; and I want to request him to remember what I say of it, and see if he be not convinced of its truth, in the course of his experience. I say, though, I wish to be understood. By so ciety, Ido not mean all who go into it; but the large majority. Occasionally you find noble hearted people; ‘among them, but not of them’.” “ Well," replied I, “your denunciations shall be treasured up by me.” “ It is indeed singular!” continued Tom, “that really noble-hearted people are found, who per sist in associating with the heartless throng.” “But, ah! how few they arp! Many seem the right sort till you apply a test. Some will stand an ordinary test, but nothing beyond. Try them, and they arc found wanting. They are firm friends, so long as it is their interest to be so. Let their friendship come in conflict with self; and tho latter outweighs and totally destroys tho former. Philip of Macedon said, that no city was impregnable which would admit a mule laden with gold. Horace Walpole said, ‘every man lias Ids price.’ I almost believe it. The price with some may be money; with others the gratification of ambition, in its various phases. Love overcomes some, and revenge yet others.” “ I cannot help hoping, though,” said I, “ that my lot will bo cast among more pleasant peoplo than those you have described.” “ Pleasant? Yes, pleasant as you please till you find them out. Mighty kind and obliging as long as you do not need assistance; but just get into—but I’U grumble no more now. Good night, gentlemen.” And the misanthrope sought his buffalo robe. “ 'Tisn't often Tom gets in such a humor,” said Captain Preston, rising. "He’ll be entirely dif ferent to-morrow. It’s bed-time, though. We want to make a good day's march to-morrow, and ’twont be long before we will show you big ger game than deer, Hopeton.” “ You mean buffalo, Captain ; and mentioning them will cheat me out of several hours’ sleep.” “Ah you must get over that,” said the Cap tain, as he strode off. CHAPTER VI. The next morning I was aroused from tho sound sleep into which I sank, some hours after tho departure of my guests on the night before, by a loud cheer. Opening my eyes, I saw Tom Harper, bare-headed and in his shirt sleeves.— He had been down to the little brook, near which we pitched our camp, to lave his hands, face, neck, and breast, and now stood, with his shirt collar open, displaying his manly throat—form ing a picture of health and manly beauty. “Why, Hopeton,” he exclaimed, in a hearty, jo vial voice, in which I could not detect the least trace of last night’s bitterness, “you are a la zy man. Get up, and enjoy the luxury of bathing in the delightful, clear, cold water, and of breathing this invigorating atmosphere. The bugle sounded long ago.” I jumped up, and followed my mess-mate's ad vice. Howard soon gave us breakfast, and wo began our day’s march. Tom Harper and I rode together, and I watched him narrowly to discov er some return of his misanthropy, but in vain ; not the least sign did I perceive. A most pleas ant and entertaining companion did I discover him to be —full and running over with animal spirits. No one, to see his gay, bold demeanor on the lino, would have imagined that he ever harbored a single thought of aught save fun and frolic. At length, on a slight allusion to our last night’s conversation. He burst into a loud, genuine laugh. “Somehow, ’’said he, “I had tho blues; but don't judge me by what you hear when I happen to get into one of those fits. lam one of the hap piest, most careless devils you ever saw. Even if men were all I represented them to be, it would not matter with me, for I spend most of my time in the woods.” And so the subject dropped. We journeyed along gaily; sometimes, so plentiful was game becoming, shooting the doer, as they crossed our line of march, camping at night, by the side of bright and bcautifnl brooks—at one time under gigantic trees, and, at another,in fairy green dells. Supper over, we would assemble round the camp fire and under the mild and soothing influence of the Virginia weed, discourse of hunting, of fight ing Indians, of cooking, of love, philosophy, re ligion, or any other subject which happened to come up. Sometimes, Old Hinks would tell us of a fight with a bar or painter; and, occasionally, he and some other old hunter would get into a sort of contest as to who should tell the biggest tale.— These hunting tales are all alike, and as the read er has probably perused scores, I will not trou ble him with any more. Those were glorious nights. Never have I enjoy ed a fashionable soiree as I did those re-unions ■around the camp fire. Those who conversed, all had something to say, except my humble self.— They had all seen something to talk about.— There was no bald, disjointed, meaningless chat. Tho Captain was learned and eloquent in his dis course on war and cooking—his two favorite themes. Tom Harper was rich in European ex perience, and he could always command our at tention with incidents of various character. All the hunters and Indian-fighters were full of tales of border warfare, whether with varmints or red skins. We gradually got away from the forest. The timber which we now passed flourished most on the margins of streams; and, finaUy, the broad and boundless prairies opened their wide ex panse to my admiring gaze. One morning we were riding along quietly, when suddenly we heard, from the head of the line, the cry of “Buf falo! Buffalo!” I had inquired very carefully of Tom Harper, concerning the modo of hunting these animals, since Captain Preston had, as the best means of carrying out his friend Harvy’s request as to taking care of me, placed me in charge of said Harper. Iliad been instructed minutely, and had, ever since we got in the neighborhood of ‘the big game,” kept myself primed, as well as my pis tols. At the cry of “buffalo,” the whole caval cade was in commotion; nor could I perceive that the veterans were one whit less eager and excit ed than the novices. Calling on Howard to fol low me, I galloped forward. “Where are the buffaloes ?” I exclaimed; but my question was useless. The direction in which many of the men were galloping informed me, and I dashed after them. I had been in the wild ride after doer, and many an exciting burst after Reynard had stirred my blood ; but never had I been in a chase so mad dening as the one on which I now entered. As we charged the buffaloes, they scattered and scoured off over the plain. I selected one, and put my gallant steed out after him. Away, with his rolling, lumbering gait, speeded the huge boast, and, shouting in my eagerness, I pressed close upon him. Soon my blooded bay closed the gap which had intervened when I first started, and drawing a pistol, as I put spurs and rushed by the buffa lo, I discharged a load full at his side. It was my first experience in this line, and I was too much excited, and my horse was too restive, for me to take accurate aim. As I passed, a terrif ic lunge from the game frightened the animal I was riding, almost beyond my control, and ho ran some distance at full speed, before I could manage to take him up. When I turned, the buffalo had succeeded in placing a considerable distanco between himself and me. This was again passed, however, but I found it difficult to get my thoroughly frightened liorso close to the fiery red eyes, peering out from tho fearful, shaggy front of the ugly beast we were pursuing. When I did get near enough, I could see tho blood trickling to tho ground from the wound made by my bullet, but it in no way les sened the speed at which the brute rolled on.— Once more, though, by the force of curb and spur, I made a rush and a shot. This time, I anticipated master Charley’s trick, and was so well prepared that I brought him up in a few bounds, and turned again toward my game. The blood was streaming out from his side, and he staggered in his gallop, but did not fall. Again were tho curb and spur put in re quisition to enable me to discharge a broadside, and this time, at the explosion of my pistol, tho buffido, pitching forward, fell heavily to the ground. Dismounting, I approached cautiously, and finding that ho was indeed dead, made Howard cut his throat and let out the blood. He lay stretched out before me—my first buffalo—and the huge limbs which, a few moments before,boro him, in pride and strength, over his native plain, were now stiff and lifeless. The eye which had glowed with so fierce and fiery a lustre, was now obscured by the dull film of death. As theso thoughts gradually stole through my mind, while gazing on the mountain of flesh before me, tho feeling of excitement passed away, and something akin to pity and regret occupied its place. But I was bom with the spirit of a true sports man. This spirit had descended as an inheri tance from all tho Hopetons who had preceded me, and had been fostered until there was no checking it; so pride at my success soon remain ed the only feeling with which I regarded my victim. “Golly! Marsa Jack,” said Howard, “this is a whopper. Ido believe you’ve killed the biggest buffalo in the herd.” “I think he is the largest,” answered I; “or one of the largest. Pretty tough race we had, Howard.” “Yes sir. ’Twasn’t like them fox races we have at home; but I didn’t think such big, awk ward things could run at all. He’s an ugly, savage looking rascal. I tell you, Marsa Jack, when he made them lunges, every time you passed, it made my blood run cold.” “I took very good care to keep out of his roach. I was prepared for those wicked attempts, for Tom Harper had told me all about it; so I knew what to do almost as well as if I had hunted them before.” “Old Mr. Hinks will think you are cut out for a hunter, sure enough, now.” “No doubt of it; but we must be getting back to the company; so mount.” This, however, was easier said than done. If I had killed my buffalo at the first firo, it would have been an easy matter to get back, as we were then not very far from where we started; but by the time I had discharged my third shot, tho distance had greatly increased, and with it the difficulty of finding our companions. We did find them, though, finally, by going back to the spot where we had first flushed the game.— Here, all who had not joined in the chase had halted, till tho hunt should be over. When we got back, some of them who had pursuod the buffalo were there, and the others came drop ping in, one by one. The jaded appearanco of the horses told oftlie severe gallop they had taken, and as it was not long to night, we journeyed about a mile farther, to the banks of a small stream of water, and pitched our tent. In the meantime, all who had been successful in the hunt took pack-horses and went after their beef. We had a feast in camp that night, and in our particular mess, with such a man as Tom Harper, and with other choice spir its, never did time pass so merrily. I often recur, even now, to tho nights I passed with Tom on the prairie. Since then, I’ve sat at the festive board where, in rooms of the most gorgeous furnishing, was gathered the choicest and rarest luxuries which money could procure, and where were wine, and wit, and eloquence— every thing, in short, considered necessary to constitute a successful dinner; yet at none of these have I ever felt more of the exhiliration of the heart, than in those jovial hours, spent with that erratic genius, who was my bosom friend and companion on this, my “western tour." When the rage of hunger, brought on by hard exercise, in the open air of the prairies, was ap peased, and the camp fire blazed high, temper ing, with its genial warmth, the chilliness of the October nights, then Tom, with a long-stemmed pipe in his mouth, would recline on his buffalo robe, and pour out streams of talk, enriched with wit and broad humor, and rollicking gaiety on any subject which was introduced. Or, with his splendid voice, he would take the lead in a glee, which floated deliciously on the night air. Again, he would give us bits of his experience in Europe; especially of that portion of his life which he spent at the University of Heidelberg. Never was there one better calculated to capti vate a young man than Tom. He had seen life in all its phases, from the highest to the lowest—in the most polished European society, and among the roughest, wildest backwoods companions. His conversation was interesting in the extreme, and generally, it was gay and careless; but oc casionally—as the reader will perceive—there ran through it a vein of bitterness. He seemed to consider his past life as a failure; that he had lived without accomplishing anything, and now he was without an object—or, at least, his only object was to kill time. It must be acknowledged that he succeeded in this very well I became thoroughly acquaint ed with him, and I believe he was generally a happy man; but sometimes the thought that he was serving no purpose, save that of amusing himself and a few associates, would excite re gret the deepest and keenest; and most vindic tively did he assail the system, or whatever it might be called, which caused him to occupy the position of which he was at times so’ impa tient. He was one of a class which exists in the South. In this section of the United States, however humiliating the confession is to me, as a Southerner, it must be acknowledged that there is scarcely such a thing as literature. The pro fession which, elsewhere, furnishes employment, ample pecuniary remuneration, and gratifying fame, to so many, is here unknown. There are one or two professed and successful authors in the Southern States; but this fact does not dis prove any general proposition, any more than the existence of the Siamese twins proves that men are generally born in pairs. There is not a publishing concern in all this region which can give currency to a book, save, perhaps, some roligious houses, and even these cannot bring a work into that general circulation which is gratifying to an author. No parallel to this case exists, or ever has existed, in the wide world. No where else on the globe is there so extended a territory, or so largo a population, ranking with enlightened nations, where such a thing as literature is almost unknown. Every where else, there are numerous roads to distinction; here, there is only one—politics. All who have the least taste for this pursuit en ter the broad road, which differs from the one mentioned in Holy TVrit in this: that all those who start in it do not reach their goal, though they may strive for it during a long life. The way, then, is crowded, and all who do not choose it —and a great many who do—are ne cessarily consigned to oblivion. Many are the men of talent and polished education, calculated to stamp their impress on the age, who, disgust ed with the “wild hunt,” and tire crowds en gaged in it, refuse to participate; who, with the capacity and the inclination to shine in the world of letters, make no effort to do so, because, for lack of facilities at home, they would be forced to leave their much loved section, to seek for those aids necessary to the accomplishment of their wishes. Such men, with tastes the most cultivated and refined, finding no literary society in which to gratify their love of letters, seek in various ways to kill the time which hangs heavily on their hands, and to destroy the consciousness that they are liviug, and destined to die, in oblivion. Some retire to their plantations—l speak of those who are blessed with comjHjteney—and devote themselves to agriculture, and reading, without the first attempt at writing. Some travel. Some, alas! become wretchedly dissipat ed. It must bo confessed that the class I’ve des cribed is quite a small one. The number of men in the South capable of excelling in letters is large; those who fail to enter into “ the wild exciting chase” of politics are few. Crowds press in it. “Hark! ’tis the bugle's clarion call 1 Hark 1 on the office hunters fall Its echoes, lingering in mid air, * From Walker, down to swampy Ware; Mount Yonah trembles in the blast, While on the ocean many a mast Its pennons flutter on the gale, And swells to bursting, every sail; It is Horatio winds his horn," And huntsmen bravo salute the mom. As snorting chargers dash away, Upon the wild and fierce foray, Their riders raise a deafening cry, That shakes the earth and lends the sky. *•*•*•*•• All office seekers join the chase, And 'tis a wild and frenzied race; Away they go, with thundering speed— Horatio is blowing in the lead; O’er hill, and dell, and stream, they fly, As if the devil followed nigh; No rest for them, by night or day, Away they rush, away, away." Tom Harper had never embarkod in politics himself. “But I had a brother who did," said he to me, one night, after the rest of the camp had fallen asleep, leaving him and mo sitting by a few dy ing embers ; “ I had a brother who joined in ‘the wild hunt,’ and his experience was just as useful to me as if it had been my own.” “ And what conclusion did you draw from it?” I asked. “ This: that politicians are fully as selfish and treacherous as the members of fashionable so ciety. Indeed, they are much worse men. The large majority of them have self-aggrandize ment in view all the time. That is their only object.” “Thereare surely some exceptions, Tom.” “ Yes, this kind of exceptions : I have just said that the most of them have only ono object —self-aggrandizement. There are others who have two objects in view—the elevation of them selves into office, and the good of the country.” “ You mention the good of the country last. Do you moan by this that it is a secondary con sideration ?” “I certainly do.” “ I must think your judgment harsh. Surely, we have some pure patriots.” “ We may have patriots—leaving off the pure." “ I hardly understand you. It seems to mo you are paradoxical. There certainly aro states men in this glorious Republic ready to sacrifice their interest, their fame, their all—who arc ready to “drop their blood for drachmas” in the service of their beloved country.” Tom looked at me, while I was speaking, with a melancholy, pitying gaze, and when I was done, he smoked a few moments, in silence. “Hopeton,” he began, at length, “it is al ways an unpleasant task to undeceivo a youth full of hope and enthusiasm, like yourself, though I am convinced that to do it is an act of friend ship. However, experience is almost tlio only teacher to which men will listen; but, whenever I