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2 “ No. you needn't trouble yourself, brother, I shall not send William to school to him any longer. *v 44 Why. Anna, you surely are not going to take your child from school without hearing from Mr. Markham the particulars of this matter I" I don't want any particulars, more than my own eyes have seen. Suppose the child actually did tell a lie, (which nolnxly who knows him will believe) it would'nt justify Markham in beat ing him to death." “ Beating him to death! He's certainly a very natural looking corpse! And when you tato him from school, what are you going to do with him ?” . “ I'd rather send him to Mr. Toper than have him'cut and slashed to pieces by Markham. “ Toper! what, that drunken liooby who hardly knows B from bull’s foot." “Good morning, ladies!” said Mrs. Glib— “ Good morning, Captain Thompson !’’ “ Why, brother! How could you talk so of Mr. Toper? Don't you know that Mrs. Glib sends her children to him ? She'll go right oil' and tell him what you said.” “No, I don't know, nor don't care where she sends them. All I know about them is, that Toper is a drunken fool, and tliat her children arc perfect nuisances to the town, and that if you mean to send your child to the devil, Toper is the very man to carry him for you. Mrs. Glib may tell him all tins too. if she chooses; and then if he opens his mouth to me about the mat ter, I’ll kick him out of the town, as a public charity.” “ I only said I had rather send my child to Mr. Toper than have him lieaten so. I think I shall employ a private tutor." 44 And pay ten times as much as is needful for your child’s instruction; and then have him not half as well taught, as he will be, by Markham 1 Anna, I beseech you, I implore you for your child’s sake, don’t act at all in this matter under your present feelings. Let the matter rest until I can see Markham and learn the whole history of it. I know more of boys than you do. They do many things at school that they never do at home, for the plain reason that they arc under many temptations at school which they are not under at home. You are probably now at the turning point of your child’s destiny, and a false step here may ruin him forever.” Strange to tell, William listened to his uncle with a kind of approving amazement, and as soon as he had concluded, said: “ Ma. I’m willing to go back to Mr. Markham now; I a’nt afraid of him; I don’t think he’ll ever whip me again.” “ That’s a brave l>oy,” said the Captain. “ Every word in the sentence is worth a guinea. No good boy fears Mr. Markham." “Ah, poor child!" said Mrs. Mitten—“he knows little of the world’s duplicity. He little dreams of the undercurrent that is at work against him.” “What undercurrent? Is it possible, Anna, that after nine years acquaintance with Mark liam. you can suspect him of duplicity and secret hostility to such a child as that— your child— my nephew' !”■ * “ Mr. Markham's not perfection , If what I’ve heard of him is true,” said Miss Jane. “ No,” said Miss Ann, “ and if I was ma, I’d dio before I’d send brother William back to him to be beaten like a dog.’! “ And if I was ma, I’d learn you to hold your tongues till your counsel was asked for." “ Oh, do, brother, let the girls express their opinions. I should suppose that one might have an opinion, of even Mr. Markham, without hav ing their head’s snapt oft'.” Well, Anna, I see your mind is made up to take William from Mr. Markham’s school." “ Yes, I’m resolved upon it.” “ And w ithout one word of explanation from Mr. Markham !" “ Yes; I want none of his explanations.” " Ma," said William, " let me go back to the end of the quarter.” “ Bravo, Bill! Go back, my son—be a good l>oy, and learn your book, and you’ll be a noble fellow by and by.” “ Brother David, do you think it’s right to en courage a poor little ignorant child to run counter to his mother’s wishes ?” “ No, Anna; but I supposed that the wishes of the child in whom you are so much wrapt up. might save you from rash resolutions concerning him." 44 Well, it is not necessary to debate the mat ter further. I vow he never shall go back to Mr. Markham's school, and that is the long and short of it.” Captain Thompson wheeled off and left the house as if to get something of importance that he had left in a dangerous place. In about a half hour he returned: “ Well,” said he, “ I have seen Markham, and heard the whole matter explained"—and he gave it from first to last, just as it occurred. Still Mrs. Mitten adhered to her resolution. He argued, he entreated, he implored, he forewarned, he remonstrated, he used every means that he could think of to change her mind, but to no pur pose. The truth is, Mrs. Mitten would not place her son where he was liable to bo wliipt. Her brother left in a storm. I have been thus par ticular in giving this part of William's history, because it proved in the end, as the sequel will show, to be remarkably unlucky, and fruitful of wonderful consequences. [to be continued.] ET We commence in our first number the publication of " Jack Hopeton and his friends; or the Autobiography of a Georgian," by Mr. Wil liam W. Turner. This story of the South, by Southerner—of planter's life by a planter— will be found graphic, true to life, and interest ing. Turner will be a frequent visitor, and he will welcome to our columns. [W'ritten for the Southern Field and Fireside.] JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS; 08. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN. BY WM. wTTrRNEK. CHARTER I. Charley Hampton—although 1 designate him thus familiarly—was about as old as my father, but still a bachelor. I give the name by which he was known throughout fashionable and sport ing circles. I always called him Uncle Charley, although there was no relationship existing be tween us, except the strong tie of friendship which bound him and 14 Hal,” as he called my parent. In matters of dress, equipage, furniture, Ac., his taste was exquisite. No one was a better judge of horse, dog and gun. To the world he seemed the mere man of pleasure and fashion— the butterfly of society—handsome, accomplish ed, highly gifted, but without solid or sterling qualities. He seemed, to most people, perfectly heartless, and indifferent to all the deeper and finer feelings of our nature. My father, however, had seen through the » ‘* . SSL Tmm vx mm xm yxusxds. mask which Mr. Hampton chose to wear. He had explored the inmost recesses of Uncle Char ley's heart, and found there a mine of good qual ities of which the world did not dream. Never would lie have chosen Charley Hampton for a friend, or recommended me to his friendship and tutilage, had he not known that beneath the gay, careless, and apparently selfish exterior of the man of the world, there beat as true and warm a heart as ever throbbed in human breast Somotimes Uncle Charley was at our house, when other guests were present, and at such times he always wore his society face. Again he would visit us when no one was at Hopeton besides my parents and myself. Then he was entirely different. A perfect abandon, in which he seemed actually to revel, characterized all his actions. He was a great favorite with such of our ne- | groes as were anything like characters, and many were the jests which they had with each other, j Uncle Charley was paying us a long visit in the spring. j ‘•Charley,” said my father to him one day,' “ fine gentleman as yon are, I know you have an eye for good crops. Suppose I order our I horses and we take a ride through my fields ? I think I can show you something that will please you.” 44 I’m agreeable,” was the reply. “As you always are, my dear friend,” ans we red my father. “Jack,” he continued, turning to me, “have the horses brought out —one for yourself, if you ■ wish—and let’s ride.” The horses were quickly saddled, and we mounted. We passed to the rear of the house, through the negro quarter, and then through a gate, opened by an obsequious little darkey. 44 Howdy, marss Charley!” called out the ebo, grinning and scraping his foot on the ground. “Why, Cumbo,” said Uncle Charley, “you little serpent, how are you ?” “ Toluble well, I thank you; how you do your self?” “Oh! my health is very good. Well, Cumbo, you grow uglier—l must buy and carry you around for a show.” 44 Marss won't sell me,” answered Cumbo, still grinning, imagining that a great compliment had been paid liim. 44 Marss can't do widout me,” ho added. “ Ah! Why, what use has he for you ?” 44 1 opens de gate fur him to go frough.” 44 Well, couldn’t Dick, or Tom, or any of this crowd of little blackies do that?” 44 Dey aint krite so swift es I is." 44 Well, perhaps not—here is a dime for you any way.” Wo were presently riding through an immense gently undulating field. On both sides of the well-beaten road along which we proceeded, stretched the long, straight rows of young cot ton, away almost as far as the eye could reach. In one part of the field was a squad of (doughs, drawn by strong, well fed mules, and held by stout, sleek looking negroes. The ploughs were light sweeps, which stirred the rich soil and shaved the grass close to the cotton. On came the hands with a rush and a shout, close to where we were riding, and a universal touching of hats and grins of recognition greeted “ marss Charley.” Passing on, we came in sight of the hoe hands. They were following the ploughs at a rapid pace, clipping, with easy strokes, the few weeds and sprigs of grass which were left by the ploughs. Foremost in this squad was a negro who, in ap pearance, was a jierfect curiosity. He was of gigantic size, with immense and well formed arms and shoulders, but with knock-kneed, awk wardly shaped legs. It was easy to see, from the way in which he wielded his hoc. that he was possessed of great strength. His huge, ugly face wore an expression of the most su preme self-satisfaction which amounted to dis dain, as he occasionally looked back and ad dressed some, hand lagging behind. A slight sprinkling of grey was perceptible in the thick hair which protruded from under the slouched wool-hat. “ Harry,” said Uncle Charley, as we approach ed the hoe hands, 44 1 must taik a little with my old friend Juba.” 44 Very well,” answered my father, “ you shall be gratified.” “Sarvent, marss Charley," said Juba, doffing his hat and making a low bow ns he passed us. The salutation over, he again struck out with his hoc. “Hold on, Juba,” said his master, 4 • Marss Charley wishes very much to have a conversa tion with you.” An expression of deep respect and good hu mor had taken the place of Juba’s supercilious look, as soon as we had appeared in sight. With all liis arrogance toward “lazy, no-count nig gers,” as he termed them, to his master, his mas ter’s family and friends, he was loyal and true as steel. 44 I’m mighty glad to see you, marss Charley,” he said, taking oft' his hat and making another profound bow. “You look mighty well, now is your health, any how ?’’ “Excellent! old infidel! excellent! I have a clear conscience, take plenty of exercise, and live temperately; so you sec there is nothing to make me sick. But how is your own health?” 44 I’m jest as well as a nigger can be. I gits a plenty to eat and wear and chaw, and ain’t got no wife and children to bother me. marss Char ley,” continued Juba, in a most innocent tone. “Ain'tyou married yet?” . “Not yet, Juba.” 44 Well, it’s time for you to be. You’ll be git tin’ sorter old, after awhile, and the young gal’s won’t have nutthin’ to do with you.” 44 Oh, there’s plenty of time yet, Juba. You know I can marry any time I please.” “No, sir—axin’ your pardon—l don't know no sich thing; cause es you could git married so easy you’d do it.” “Well, suppose I admit what you say to be true, Juba; it follows that your case is much worse than mine. You have been courting all yonr life and after being kicked till your shins are sore; first by the girls, then by the middle aged women, and, lastly, by all the toothless old women in the neighborhood—you are an ugly, miserable cross-grained old bachelor yet.” 44 Naver tried to git married in all my born days, so help me God!” was Juba’s energetic response. “Tell that to those who don’t know you,” said Uncle Charley. “ You can t fool me." “ Dat gal ain’t livin’ dat I’d have.” 44 Gall What do you want with a gall Where is one that would look at you? You want an old woman—old as yourself.” “Lord! marss Charley, what is you talkin' about ? I marry an old ’oman! Es I court anv cody. it'll be a nice young gal.” ' You sly old rascal!” here interposed my father. “You didn’t know I had heard from you. Jones and Scip have been telling me of your desperate flirtations with old Dilsey. You went with her to meeting regularly for two months; "you who never would set foot inside of a church till very lately. You needn't look so wild about it. I've had a full account of your carrying-on. And the worst of it all. Charley, is that old Dilsey, after encouraging the youth ful swain till he was induced to pop the ques tion, told him, flatly, that he was too wicked and old and ugly for her to think of marrying him.” It is impossible to describe the appearance presented bv Juba, during this recital. Respect for his master could hardly prevent him from breaking in upon the narrative. He .writhed about and turned up the whites of his eves, spasmodically. “Master!” he exclaimed, raising his hand high in the air, as the tale was brought to a close. 44 Master! es Scip says aU this, lie tells a most onaccountalde, outdacious, ongodly lie ! Old Dilsey’s old enough to be my mammy, and ain’t got. ’nary whole tooth in her head —jest some old yalier stumps and snags. But, never mind, I’ll get Scip fur it.” “Let’s ride on, Charley.” said my father.— “This old chap willTOrst if we tease him much more.” “Good-bye, old bachelor,” said Uncle Charley, as we moved on. 44 1 wish you better luck with the women, next time.” 44 The best luck I can have is to keep dear of ’urn,” was the growing reply. “No doubt of it, said I, “ especially if they are all as cross as old aunt Dilsey.” 44 Ah! you're young, yet, but you'll find iim out, one of these days.” And Juba commenced on the grass as if de termined to be revdflged on it for the quizziing lie had received from us. “ What do you think of this cotton, Charley?" asked my father, as we continued our ride. 44 1 think you may well be proud of the field. It promises finely now, but 1 need not remind you of the uncertainty of the cotton crop.” 44 Os course not.” 44 But will your crop average as good as this?" “ Hardly. Jones thinks it will, but he is a little mistaken- He does not miss it very far, though. I'll take you to see the rest of it to morrow, or some other day, before you go. But see that low ground corn there. Ride up here on this little eminence and you can have a bet ter view of it.” “This is fine, Ham’,” exclaimed Uncle Char ley, as he gazed on the broad expanse of rank waving growtli, spread out in the valley below us.” “ Yes,” said my father, after enjoying his friend’s admiration for a lew moments. 44 It is good corn. I’ve seen a few acres, frequently, that woidd yield larger proportional crops than this, but I’ve seldom seen a field of the same size which would measure out more per aeft.” 44 How much do you expect to gather here ?” “Well, Jones says fifty bushels per acre, but Juba says we won’t make more than forty eight.” 44 And I'll bet old Juba's calculation will come nearer the true one than Jones’.” “ I agree with you,” was the reply, as we turned our horses heads homeward. CHAPTER 11. My father was a well educated man and took so much pains with me. tliat I was prepared to enter college at an early age. He was casting about a long while, in his own mind, as to where lie should send me. At one time he thought of entering me at West Point. I very candidly told him tliat I was afraid the discipline was too strict to suit me. “That is the very idea," he would say, “It will iuitVi« some tiling of you besides a mere nice young man. I believe in elegance and refine ment, as you are well aware. lam willing, nay anxious, that you should be accomplished, as the lessons I allow you to receive from Charley Hampton bear me witness; hut, besides, I want you to learn a little of the rough side of life, before you are cast loose upon the world.” ‘•That is just what I• want myself, father,” was my reply. “ I don’t want to go to West Point; but I want to take a rough and tumble trip out West, lieforc I enter at any college what ever." “Halloa, youngster! What wild notion is this ? Take a trip out West before you go through college ? Why, it will drive out all idea of study from your brain.” 44 1 think not. It will give me a fine stock of health and vigor, to support me through my course.” ■ 44 How do you expect to go—and when—and with whom?" 44 1 have not yet settled the plan, in my own mind. I thought it best to get your permission before allowing myself to dwell on the details.” 44 Well, I must have time to think on the mat ter. At present it does not strike me very favor ably.” So, for the time, the subject was dropped. About this period, too, some circumstances of a rather serious nature occurred, which postponed my departure from home. Ours was a peaceable neighborhood, generally, and those living in it were wealthy, enlightened aud well behaved. On one side of us, though, lived some people of a rather worse class than our immediate neigh bors. Our plantation was very irregular in its form, and one corner of it—the farthest—joined the land of a man named Warlock. Old John Warlock and his two sons bought the plantation on which they then lived, a few years before the time of which I write. They brought with them to the country a good many negroes, together with a considerable sum of money, and commenced the erection of a large, rambling house. When this was about half fin ished, they suddenly dismissed their carpenters, hired n crack overseer, put the plantation in his charge, and commenced a course of regular sport ing. At first they*were admitted into the soci ety of all who were fond of amusement. The people around them were sociable and hospitable. Whenever the Warlocks had visitors at their house, or visited thediouses of others, they were sure to propose a little poker, seven-up, or some thing else to amuse the company; and somehow they generally managed to win considerable sums. For a good while they had rich pickings; but at length it began to be suspected tliat they were swindlers. Some ill-natured people assert ed that they were slight-of-liand men, and could make a Jack come up whenever they chose. Whether this was so or not, they were, at least, wretchedly dissipated, and this, coupled with their invariably good luck at cards, made the gentlemanly portion of the community avoid them. People now began to enquire into their ante cedents, as they ought to have done at first. It was whispered about that their real name was not Warlock, and that they had fled from justice which threatened them for forgery or murder, i or both. How this rumor originated no one | could say, and it was not substantiated; but its existence, together witli what was already known of their character, rendered them odious in the eyes of most of their neighbors. My father had but little to do with these men, even in the beginning, as he seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of their character. After they were fully unmasked, he, in common with the other gentlemen of the neighborhood, ceased to exchange visits with them. It must bo con- I fessed that my father was rather uncompromising in his disposition—perhaps too much so—and lie , took less pains than almost any one else to con ceal the litter contempt lie felt for the swindlers. At any rate, they conceived a great dislike for him. Thej’ were perfect bullies, and induced many people to belive that they were recklessly brave. This caused our friends to fear that my father would one day suffer something at their hands. Others knew if the desperados ever sought a difficulty with him, lie would make them rue it. One night, soon after the conversation about my western trip, the Warlocks started out. drunk, patrolling. They had no commissions, but went, as they said, ‘for the fun of it” Among other plantations, they visited ours. They rode up to the negro quarter, which was some dis tance from the dwelling, shouting and swearing. Going into the cabins, they found no negroes but those belonging to the plantation. Disappointed, they liegan to threaten and bully these. Finally they lioeame so violent that the noise reached the ears of my father, who was then talking with Julia about the stock, of which the latter had the charge. Listening a moment, he asked of Juba the cause, of all that noise. “It must be dem drunken vagabones, Jake and Joe Warlock, and de ole man,” answered Juba. 44 Dey always after some devilment." 44 Have they ever been here before?” “No, sir. Dey been to plantations whar de black folks' master live in town, but dey never was here before. Dam fools for coming now, too!” he added, sotlo voce, as he saw his master seize a double-barreled gun and hasten out. As my father started, he met Jones, the over seer, who had also heard the noise, and was coining by in haste for his employer. I had got wind of the matter, and came out. We ran to the cabin where the row was going on, and reached it just as Jake Warlock had seized an old grey-headed negro and was flourisliilig a whip over him, with the most fearful impreca tions. Without waiting to sec whether Jake would strike or not, my father sprang forward, and with a blow, from a stout hickory stick which he carried, besides the gun, laid the ruf fian bleeding and senseless on the floor. So sudden was this act, that the first intimation the drunken crowd had of our presence was the fall of their comrade. Recovering a little from their astonishment, they started to make a rush upon us. Wo cocked our guns, and this caused a halt. “You cowardly scoundrels,” said my father, “what business have yon here?” “ We are patrolling," was the reply. 44 1 am perfectly willing that patrolling should be carried out, effectually, by proper men. in a proper way. You see there are no negroes here but my own, and you were about to flog one of them. Besides, you are disturbing my family, with your bawling. I don't go on your planta tion to disturb its peace, and I will not permit you to come on mine. Now, let me give you fair warning. Never set your foot on my prem ises again. I want to have nothing farther to do witli you; and mark me—if you ever try over the game of to-night, I’ll shoot you like dogs.” Our determined front over-awed them, and. in company with their stricken companion, who had recovered his feet, they marched off rather more quietly than they had come up. [to be continued.] - i—i i ■ i rar The story below, entitled 44 Toil and Vic tory," is from the charming pen of the lady who is already so great a favorite with the Southern public, under the familiar name of Jenny Wood bine. She has been induced to abandon —as to her productions written for our columns—the nom de plume around which so many pleasing associations cluster, and to make her debut in her own proper name, with the first number of the Southern Field and Fireside. Miss Annie Blount will soon become, we do not doubt, ns great a favorite os Jenny Woodbine, for it is with much pleasure that we announce our hope of publishing, frequently, articles in prose and verse from this popular writer. She is one from whom we expect much in the future, for the honor of Southern Literature. Her talents are yet but half developed. We are sure that as these mature, she will, with care and labor—no genius can dispense witli care and labor—achieve for herself a high and durable literary reputation. She is aware that in literature, as in all pursuits, 44 victory ” follows 44 toil.” [Written fur the Southern Field and Fireside.] TOIL ANIMTCTOKY. CHAPTER L Lift', in its many shapes, was there, •The busy and the gav; Faces that seemed too young and fair To ever know decay. Wealth with its waste. Its pomp, and pride Led forth Its glittering train; While poverty’s pale face beside Asked aid, and asked in vain. Lanoon. 1 once heard a young and beautiful lady say, "I will read no story which does not tell of lords and ladies, or, at least, of persons of noble extract. I can not become interested in a heroine of Jow birth, who has a host of vulgar relations.” For such as she this simple narrative is not intended. Let it be read by the toiling and suf fering poor; by those who desire earnestly to do right, to pursue the narrow path of duty though it lead through thorns and briars, and to work out for themselves a destiny worthy to be won in spite of the adverse attendants of poverty and lowly birth. Aud if one such struggling soul 1)0 inspired by the lessons it shall strive to teach to new heroism, its humble author will be content. 'Twas a bleak, cold bitter evening in Decem ber—sleet, wind, and rain, rendered the streets of a beautiful Southern city almost impassable. Now and then a carriage, with its occupants closely muffled up in warm cloaks and furs, dashed by, and was speedily lost in the dark nesss—but the pedestrians were few, and only such as necessity compelled to brave the weather. From the windows of princely mansions came forth the sounds of merriment and joy; curtains but half drawn displayed scenes of almost ori ental magnificence, and occasionally the passer by caught a glimpse of faces, fair as the embod iment of an artist's dream—a poet’s vision.— But it is not with scenes of high life that we have to do just now. A city is the place of sharp contrasts, ands while one-half of it revels in wealth and luxury, the other half is doomed to starvation and want. Have you not seen the belle attired in flounces, ribbons and plumes, wearing jewels which alone would save a thous and families from the pangs of hunger, flaunting proudly down the street, while close on her heels followed a sister woman, ns fair, perhaps as deserving, clad in the coarse garb of poverty —her features sharpened by suffering—her grief bowed form shrinking from the bitter blast from which her thin patched garments afforded hut a slight protection ? Lowell has portrayed the contrast vividly in his beautiful lines: “ Hark! the rustle of a dress Stiff with lavish costliness; How the wearer's cheek would (lush. But to have her garment brush '< lainst the girl whose lingers thin Wove the weary broidery In." And has not your heart —if you are prone to moralizing—as such a scene greeted you, queried, “ Why is this ?” and you could frame no suitable reply ? for with God alone, who mado rich and poor, the answer rests. In a hut—it could not properly be called a house—which fronted a narrow and filthy alley, a woman, past the middle age, might be seen hovering over a handfull of ashes. The apart ment bore the mark of naked poverty and idle ness ; a pallet of rags was bundled up into one comer; a broken table with unwashed dishes stood near it; a few tottering chairs were scat tered about, and the hearth was covered with pots and ovens. An old window-shutter, with one of the hinges broken off, kept flapping to and fro jn the wind, and this, combined with the street sounds without, formed a jargon of dis cordant noises. An hour dragged away, and the wonian sat motionless over the feeble blaze, not oven stir ring the ashes that they might send forth more heat. Her apparel was wretched in the extreme, and consisted of the remnants of tawdry finery, soiled ribbons, and bits of dirty lace. Her face had evidently once been beautiful, but now its features were marred by want and wickedness. Her eyes, which had once been admired for their brilliancy, were dull and lus treless—her complexion was sallow and ghostly, and the roses had deserted her cheeks to bloom on her nose. She was an outcast from society —you need no words to tell it—one of those unfortunates with which every city abounds, who, after flaunting awhile in the gilded halls of vice, had been given over, when her beauty was ruined, to the companionship of blear-eyed famine. Wealth}', gay, and with but a slender stock-of morals, Julia Stancey—Men the wife of a worthy and respectable man, whom she had married fm }>asition —listened to the voice of the tempter and was lost. Deserted by her betrayer, and freed from her marriage vow by the death of her broken-hearted husband, who could not live and face his disgrace, she fled with her little children to another State, trusting that where she was unknown she might build up for herself a repu tation. But there is no half-way ground between virtue and infamy. A woman once fallen has small chance to rise again. When her crime is discovered the world cries, “Kick her down," while her betrayer, and the sharer in her sin, is taken by the hand—courted—if he be wealthy —by manceuvoring mama's, and smiled upon by fascinating daughters, who would faint if the name of his victim was mentioned. Thus a line of demarkation is drawn—why it is I leave it for those more skilled than myself to answer.— The world has made this difference, for certainly God did not frame one code of morals for the man, another for the woman. Christ said to the erring woman. “Go, sin no more;” man casts stones at the fallen one, and says: “ Thou art fallen, and may not arise—lie in the dust—sink deeper in the slough of pollution.” The crimes of Julia Stancey followed her— men praised her beauty when none was by, and passed over to the other side of the street when she appeared in public. Women dared not say, “ I will, if there is any virtue left in you, lend i you a helping hand;” and so, maddened and reckless, she sank into the lowest depths of vice with that telegraphic speed, seen only in a woman who is lost for this world and the next. Two of the children she was unworthy to claim were taken from her by death—one alone was left—a slender, delicate creature, owning only “the heritage of woe.” Her shivering form, badly protected from the driving sleet without by the thin patched garments which hung around her, now stood in the doorway. “ Well, Theresa, have you come at last, and did you get anything?” “ Nobody would give me alms—some of them called me a dirty little beggar and kicked me ! out of the way.” “That’s a lie, and you know ib You were i too proud to ask with your stuck up notions.” “ Yes ma’am I did ask. I stood for hours at the different crossings, but the passers by pushed j me rudely and bade me go home.” “Well, go to the pump now, and when you , come back wash these dishes, and fry that meat Mrs. Brown gave you yesterday.” " Please ma’am let me build a fire and warm first—l am nearly frozen.” The child's blue lips and chattering teeth testified the truth of her words. “ No, get the water first —mind me, and don't be putting in your tongue on every occasion.” An inhuman mother is the ugliest picture mortal artist can paint. Mother 1 why the very name has in it a music sacred and holy, and brings up to the mind instances of matchless love, and unparaleled devotion. Heaven be thanked that even on this sin-cursed earth there are but few unnatural mothers to be found. The water was brought, and the child, The resa, gathered together a few chips and shavings and proceeded to kindle a fire. Then, with her little arms bared to the elbow, she moved away the pots, washed up the dishes, and placed them in rows on a wooden shelf, displaying taste even in the arrangement of the humble crockery ware. The mother fumbled in an old drawer, and drew forth a shining piece of money. “ Here, Theresa, the meat is frying, and I will attend to it, get that bottle on the shelf, and run to the comer store and bring me some brandy.” “Mother, nd. You promised me you would quit that vile habit—l cannot, cannot go.” “ But you shall, girl. I tell you I cannot live without excitement. I must have it, it is too late to reform now—the finger of scorn is pointed at me—l am an outcast from all that is good in the world. I have said to evil, be thou my right and I cannot turn back—give me drink, or I die.” The child was firm. “ I will not l»e a partner in your sin.” “ Then stay at home with your sanctimonious aunt, sermon-preacher. I will go myself—mind, and have supper ready when I get back.” The wretched woman threw a faded shawl over her head, and dashed through the open doorway. Theresa, a child in years—a woman in the world’s misery—was left alone to pray for and weep over the degradation of one whom nothing could reclaim. Reader, this is no fiction penned to arouse | your sympathy in behalf of an imaginary hero ; ine. Theresa stiU lives; and from her own lips have I gathered fragments of her eventful his tory. She was no extraordinary genius swaying the multitude with the gift of song; but through all her life, purity shone pre-eminent. I have not selected her because of her marvelous beau ty, her wonderful endowments, or her matchless intellect; but because she “touched pitch and was not defiled” —raised in an atmosphere of vice, and surrounded only by wickedness, she remained untainted. Perchance some one like her may read this life sketch and learn: “ How sublime a thing it is To suffer ami grow strong."