I've plans for converting the heathen,
  Plans for converting ourselves—
Perhaps the greatest of heathens!—
  All in a row on my shelves.
I've plans for transmuting pebbles
  Into the minted gold,
And fixing dew into diamonds
  As bright as were ever sold.

Though Castle Crazy's open,
  To all who wish to see,
Very few people care to come,
   And explore its wealth with me.
I very well know the reason—
   Prithee! don't miss the point!
I am the centre of wisdom—
  The world is out of joint!

A SOUTH CAROLINA HUNT.

THE battle of Fredricksburg having
closed the campaign in Virginia for the
winter of 1862-3, I determined to move to
the more temperate region of South Carolina
and see what the chances were of
active operations in a state where extreme
cold is never known. There a winter's
day is seldom sharper than is the bright
crispness of early spring with us, and so,
leaving the frozen ground of the Old
Dominion, I started southward with an English
comrade and two adventurous members of
the British legislature. These pilgrims from
St. Stephen's were determined to coach
themselves thoroughly as to the prospects
of the South, and the danger of being
captured or shot while running the lines had
not acted as a deterrent to their enterprise.

The journey was anything but a pleasant
one, for the railroads of the Confederacy
had been overtaxed in the transportation
of troops and supplies, and were literally
worn out. Not only were the cars dilapidated,
but the iron way had become frayed,
bent, and twisted—the ballast was in a
miserable condition, and most of the sleepers
jumped as the trains passed over them.
Our companions on the journey were
mostly wounded men from the late battle
of Fredricksburg, North and South
Carolinians, who, poor fellows, were on their
way down South to recruit themselves,
and be in readiness for the next campaign.
Their principal occupation was in attending
to their wounds, and assisting each, by
pouring water on the rolls of bandage that
strapped the stricken limb. Pallid, wan,
and blue-lipped, it was painful to see them
writhe at every jolt as we passed over the
uneven track; in fact, each car had very
much the appearance of a moving
hospital. The only assistance we could render
was to offer our tobacco-pouches or a cigar,
as a soothing sedative.

At length, after a weary four days of
jolting and delay, of shuntings and break-
downs, we reached the city by the sea, and
delighted, indeed, was I, after more than
a year, to see once again the red cross of
St. George floating from the gaff peak of
her Majesty's ship Petrel. Well, if the
Petrel had not been swinging at her anchors
in Charleston harbour, it is more than
probable I should never have written anything
about hunting in South Carolina. The
officers of this ship had shown much
hospitality to the residents and garrison of
the town, and it was determined by the
staff of General Beauregard, to return the
courtesy, by inviting them to a hunt up
country, and as soon as our arrival was
known we were included in the invitation.
One of the chief originators of the pleasant
scheme was Captain Trenholm, the son of
a well-known merchant, afterwards secretary
of the Confederate Treasury, whose
blockade runners, defying the Yankee
cruisers, managed to creep into the
proscribed harbour under the gloom of dark
and boisterous nights, bringing with them,
in addition to their supplies for the
Confederacy, many luxuries, a goodly quantity
of which were to be devoted to the
entertainment of the hunters during the three
days' log-hut life in the forest. The
interval, before starting on our expedition
to the "pine barrens," I employed in
delivering letters of introduction, and one of
my earliest visits was to the British consul,
who up to that time had been permitted
by the South to exercise the privilege of his
station.

On the morning of my visit to the consul
I was seated chatting with him in his
room, when a tap at the door, as though
from the slender finger of a timid maiden,
disturbed us. In answer to the cry of
"Come in," an individual of huge proportions
entered the room, holding before him
his battered hat, and in the richest brogue
affably exclaimed, "Good mornin', gintlemin!"
He was a brawny fellow, with an
arm that could have cast a bull by the
horns, with bright, sly, grey eyes, a small
allowance of nose, and an upper lip that
carried an acre of stubble.

"What do you want, sir?" asked the
consul.

"Plase yer honor," answered Pat, "it's
British I am, and it's me eximption papers
I'll be wantin', for, murther! the enrollin'
officer is afther me."

"What's your name, and where were you
born, my man?" was the next query.