things. He had been engaged in speaking some time, when a company of riflemen, who had been performing military exercise, attracted by his attitude, concluded to go and hear what that fellow had to say, as they termed it, and accordingly drew near. They listened with respectful attention and evidently with deep interest, until he closed, when one of their number, a man about fifty years of age, who had evidently seen much backwoods service, stood leaning on his rifle, regarding the young speaker with a fixed and most sagacious look. He was apparently the Nimrod of the company, for he exhibited every characteristic of a mighty hunter,――buckskin breeches and hunting-shirt, coon-skin cap, black bushy beard, and a visage which, had it been in juxtaposition with his leathern bullet pouch, might have been taken for part and parcel of the same. At his belt hung the knife and hatchet, and the huge indispensable powder-horn across a breast bare and brown as the bleak hills he often traversed, yet which concealed as brave and noble a heart as ever beat beneath a fairer covering. He beckoned with his hand to Mr. Clay to approach him, who immediately complied. ‘Young man,’ said he, ‘you want to go to the legislature, I see?’ ‘Why, yes,’ replied Mr. Clay, ‘yes, I should like to go, since my friends have seen proper to put me up as a candidate before the people; I do not wish to be defeated.’ ‘Are you a good shot?’ ‘The best in the country.’ ‘Then you shall go; but you must give us a specimen of your skill; we must see you shoot.’ ‘I never shoot any rifle but my own, and that is at home.’ ‘No matter, here is old Bess, she never fails in the hands of a marksman; she has often sent death through a squirrel’s head one hundred yards, and daylight through many a red skin twice that distance; if you can shoot any gun you can shoot old Bess.’ ‘Well, put up your mark, put up your mark,’ replied Mr. Clay. The target was placed at the distance of about eighty yards, when, with all the coolness and steadiness of an old experienced marksman, he drew old Bess to his shoulder and fired. The bullet pierced the target near the centre. ‘Oh, a chance shot! a chance shot!’ exclaimed several of his political opponents. ‘A chance shot! He might shoot all day and not hit the mark again; let him try it over, let him try it over.’ ‘No; beat that, beat that, and then I will,’ retorted Mr. Clay. But as no one seemed disposed to make the attempt, it was considered that he had given satisfactory proof of being the best shot in the county; and this unimportant incident gained him the vote of every hunter and marksman in the assembly, which was composed principally of that class of persons, as well as the support of the same throughout the county. The most remarkable feature respecting the whole transaction is yet to be told. Said Mr. Clay, ‘I had never before fired a rifle, and have not since.’ The result of the election proved Mr. Clay much more popular