’There is no one better known in the country as a scholar, a politician, and a wit, than Wm. H. Polk, of Tennessee.  He has a plantation some forty miles from Nashville, lives comfortably, has a joke for every one, and is, withal, a resolute man in his opinions.  He was the opponent of the evanescent Harris, who has disappeared mysteriously, and voted for by the cooeperationists in the election for Governor of that State.  About a month ago notice came to him that he must leave the State:  a notice which, however, he did not obey.  His description of the terror of the rebels on the taking of Nashville is said to be supremely rich.  Among other incidents, is one of peculiar interest to us Kentuckians, concerning the fate of the late Provisional Government.

’Colonel Polk, a few days before the arrival of our army at Nashville, and, indeed, before he heard of the fall of Fort Donelson, in going down the road from his farm, descried a fat, ragged, bushy-headed, tangled-mustached, dilapidated-looking creature, (something like an Italian organ-grinder in distress,) so disguised in mud as to be scarcely recognizable.  What was his surprise, on a nearer approach, to see that it was the redoubtable George N. Sanders.

’George had met the enemy, and he was theirs—­not in person, but in feeling.  His heart was lost, his breeches were ragged, and his boots showed a set of fat, gouty toes protruding from them.  The better part of him was gone, and gone a good distance.

    ‘’In the name of God, George, is that you?’ said the
    ex-Congressman.

‘’Me!’ said the immortal George; ’I wish it wasn’t; I wish I was any thing but me.  But what is the news here? is there any one running?  They are all running back there,’ (pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.)

‘’No,’ said Mr. Polk; ’not that I know of.  You needn’t mind pulling up the seat of your pantaloons; I’m not noticing.  What in the ——­ are you doing here, looking like a muddy Lazarus in the painted cloth?’

‘’Bill,’ said George to the Tennesseean confidentially, and his tones would have moved a heart of stone:  ’Bill, you always was a friend of mine.  I know’d you a long while ago, and honored you—­cuss me, if I didn’t.  I said you was a man bound to rise.  I told Jimmy Polk so—­me and Jimmy was familiar friends.  I intended to get up a biographical notice of you in the Democratic Review, but that ——­ Corby stopped it I’m glad to see you; I’ll swear I am.’

    ‘’Of course, old fellow,’ said the charitable Tennesseean, more in
    pity of his tones than even of the flattering eloquence:  ’but what
    is the matter?’