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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
