“Your oysters are getting cold, George,” interrupted a blood at his left, rather facetiously. “I claim the respect due a gentleman, sir! A South Carolinian will transgress no rules of etiquette,” said George, grasping his tumbler in a passionate manner and smashing it upon the marble slab, causing a sudden emeute in the camp. “Order! order! order!” was sounded from every tongue. “You mustn't be afeard, Captain,” said one of the party. “This is perfectly South Carolinian-just the oscillating of the champagne; it won't last long.” The noise was more loud than ordinary, and brought a score of people around to hear the trouble. George had got in high dudgeon, and it took several persons to hold him, while the remainder, not excepting the Captain, were engaged in a pacification. The scene was very extravagant in folly; and through the kind interposition of friends, the matter was settled to the honorable satisfaction of both parties-the question was called for-the Captain called for a legitimate, rubbed his eyes, and little George proceeded. “If my friend Thomas Y. Simmons, Jr., had been elected to the legislature he'd altered the position of things in South Carolina. All these corruptions would have been exposed, and the disparity of party would have dwindled into obscurity. Every true Carolinian voted for him to the hilt, but how was he defeated? Gentlemen, can you answer? it will be a favor highly gratifying to me to hear your opinions!” A voice answered, “Because he wasn't big enough!” “No, sir,” said George, “it was because there was intrigue in the party, and the Yankee influence went to put him down. The world'll hear from him yet. He's my particular friend, and will stand in the halls of Congress as great a statesman as ever lisped a political sentiment.”