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Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 1.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
SONNET.
BT PAt'L If. IIAYSB.
( Written on a fly-leaf of “ Tht Letter* A Journals
of Sir Hudson Lowe;" Edited, by Wm. Forsyth, At. A.)
How vain with pleas like this to quench the hate,
The righteous hate—which following hot and fast,
Like on o'ermastering torrent 'whelmed at last
The false malignant!—he who stooped to sate
His bloodless passions on the fallen Great;
To wound and sting by every pitiful art.
That brave, heroic, sorely stricken heart.
Pierced to the core with deadly shafts of Fate;
Base spirit! one unanimous voice of sconi
Uprose, and rang forever tn thine ears.
A haunting voice re-echoed down the years;
OI thou did’st live detested, die forlorn,
So racked by memories fierce, by coward fears,
'Twere best, methiuks, that thou liad'at ne’er been born!
June 10th, 1059.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
Entered according to the Act of Congress, Ac., Ac,,
by the Author.
MASTER WILLIAM MITTEN;
OR,
A YOUTH OF BRILLIANT TALENTS,
WHO WAS RUINED BY BAD LUCK.
BT TUE AUTHOR OP THE GEORGIA SCENES, ETC.
CHAPTER V.
Doctor Ticattle, by strict impartiality, and by acts
equally kind to the two widows, restores the
old friendship of Mrs. Glib and Mrs. Mitten.
At the close of the last chapter, the reader
will remember that we left Mrs. Mitten resolved
to marry Twattle, against the wishes of brother
and daughters—Capt. Thompson sick in bed
from over excitement—his two nieces in tears-,
Billy comfortable, and his teacher missing. How
did Twattlp happen to be out of his room in the
daytime?* Doubtless, Mrs. Mitten had advised
him to take an airing, while her brother was
swelling. Current as we a the report of the in
tended marriage, and strengthened as it was by
whart had passed between Capt. Thompson and
his sister, Mrs. Glib did not believe it.
“ Mark what I tell you,” she would say, with
a great deal of self- complacency, “ it will never
take place.*’
Her visits to Mrs. Mitten had not entirely
ceased from the last which we have noticed:
but they had become much less frequent, and
much less cordial than before. And wfyen she
heard of whut had passed between Thompson
and his sister, at their last meeting, she appeared
rather pleased than pained by it.
Captain Thompson had kept his bed two days,
when the Postmaster of the village visited him
with a letter in his hand, and mystery in his
face.
“ I have come over,” said the Postmaster, “to
make enquiries of you, concerning Mr. Twattle.
Here is a letter from a Mr. Charter Sanders,
written at Athens, mailed at Lexington, and re
questing an immediate answer, directed to
Washington ; enquiring, whether there is not a
man here by the name of Twattle; and whether
he goes by the name of John, Jacob, Joseph,
James, Jeremiah, or any other given name be
ginning with a ‘ Jand requesting a particular
description of him. The writer begs me to say
nothing about this letter; but ns I hardly know
Twattle, I come to you for the information
required, as well as to let you know that there
is probably' something wrong in this Twattle,”
whom report says your sister is about to marry.
“ The dirty scoundrel!” exclaimed the Captain,
“it now occurs to me that every certificate
which he produced, I believo without a solitary
exception, save two which Doctored him, was in
behalf of ‘J’ Twattle; and tho rogue’s going
through the country under every name that ‘J’
is the initial of. Set down here, and answer it
immediately; and don’t whisper a word about
that letter to any one else.”
It was done accordingly; hilt, unfortunately,
the gentlemen had not noticed a servant girl
who was in attendance on the Captain; during
the conversation, and before the answer was fin
ished, the servant informed Miss Jane that Char
ter Sanders, “who lived in Washington, had
written about Mr. Twattle, and said his name
was John, Jim, and a heap more names, and
that he was a dirty scoundrel.” Miss Jane has
tened home, and conveyed the information to her
mother, and her mother to Twattle.
He received it with a smile, mingled with a
little indignation, and observed:
“ That worthless fourth cousin of mine, Mrs.
Mitten! He keeps me making explanations
wherever I go. I hope Sanders will find him,
and bring him to justice. Now, I must post off
to Washington, to see Mr. Sanders, or lie under
the suspicions of the town until he comes here.
Is your brother able to leave his bed yet ?"
“No sir; but he is better, and I hope to see
him out in two or three days.”
This day, and the next, the Doctor was out
more than usual; and the day following he was
missing.
< JANIES GARDNER, I
| Proprietor. j
About this time, the impression became gene
ral that the Doctor had run away. Mrs. Mit
ten became very uneasy; and Mrs. Glib came
over to console her.
“ Did he make no explanations to you ?” said
Mrs. Glib.
“ None about leaving; though I know- what
took him away.”
“ Why, he explained the whole matter to me.”
“ That is very strange!”
“You may rest perfectly easy, Mrs. Mitten;
he will return next Thursday week.”
“ Why, it should not take him that long to go
to Washington a»d back.”
“Washington! He’s not gone to Washing
ton ; he’s gone to South Carolina to receive a
valuable rice plantation, which his lawyer writes
lie has recovered for him in that State.”
“ How did he go?"
“ I sold him a horse. I offered to loan him
one; but he said he never borrowed a horse for
more than a day. He could have no peace on a
journey of a week, upon a borrowed horse, for i
fear of accidents and delays that might injure
the animal or incommode the owner.”
“ What did he give you for him ?”
“ More than I asked, by fifty dollars; and
when I objected to receiving more than my price,
(which was up to the full value of the horse,) he
begged me to accept it, ‘as an earnest of further
and larger favors that he meant to show me;’ so
he gave me his note for two hundred dollars.”
“ His note! Why, he had money, I know.”
“ Yes; he told me you had been kind enough
to advance him thirty-two dollars and a half
since the last contract with him; but that, he
said, would hardly bear his expenses to Charles
ton ; so I loaned' him three hundred dollars to
pay his lawyer’s fees."
“Mrs. Glib, he’s an impostor; and we have
both been made the dupes of his villainy, as sure
as you live.”
“Now, how it would distress you if I were
to tell the Doctor that, on his return, cousin
Mit."
“ No, it wouldn’t in the least. He’ll nover re
turn, unless he is brought by Mr. Sanders.”
“ What Mr. Sanders?”
“ Why, haven’t you heard of the letter from
Mr. Sanders, inquiring about him, and represent
ing him as a scoundrel, and I know not what
all?”
“Why-, no. Is there .such a letter in town?”
“To be sure there is.”
“ Well, if I had known of such a letter, Mrs.
Mitten, I would have told you of it.”
“ I have had no opportunity of telling you of
it.”
“ But I can hardly think him an impostor, af
ter all, Mrs. Mitten. Have you any reason to
think him so?”
“Yes, abundhnt reason. On the day he left,
he borrowed two hundred and fifty dollars of
me—all I had—telling me that he had just dis
covered where a distant relation of his was, who,
under his name, was imposing upon people ev
erywhere, and constantly bringing him into dis
credit ; and that, if he could borrow five hundred
dollars, he would conduct Mr. Sanders to the
rogue, and take all the expenses of prosecuting
him on his own shoulders. As I had a deep in
terest in the matter —that is, in seeing all rogues
brought to justice—l advanced him two hundred
and fifty dollars, to get legal advice, a horse, Ac.,
that he might be prepared to set out with Mr.
Sanders, as soon as he arrived, in quest of his
rascally fourth cousin, of whose iniquities he
had long before informed me. I concluded that
he had gone to Washington to meet Mr. S.”
“ Well, he told me about that cousin, too; and
a long cock and bull story about the death of
his dear wife, Bridgets. I told him I didn’t
think there was a woman in the world, besides
myself, who bore that name ”
“ Did he say her name was Bridgeta t Why,
he told me her name was Anna.”
“ Why, the hypocritical, lying scoundrel I I’ll
make brother John cut his ears off at sight, if he
prove to be tlie villain I fear he is.”
“ Brother John, nor brother David, will ever
get sight of him."
“ Well, if he has taken my best horse, and
choused me out of three hundred dollars. I’ll
spend a thousand dollars but what I’ll bring him
to justice.”
“Well, now, Mrs. Glib, we have both been
imposed upon; our best way will be to keep the
whole matter to ourselves.”
“ No; lam determined to expose him, and to
seek legal redress. I can’t sit down quietly un
der a loss of a fine horse, and three hundred
dollars, without making some effort to save them.
Let people say what they may, I’ll try and get
hold of his rice plantation at least.”
“ Believe me, that story about the rice planta
tion is all a fabrication. Did he tell you about
the fund that he got by his dear Bridgeta ?”
“ Oh, yes. It amounted to what he called the
insignificant sum of ten or twelve thousand dol
lars, and was held sacred, and all that rigma
role ; which, he said, nobody in the world knew
about, but me; and which he didn't wish to have
known.”
»“ Precisely what he told me!”
“ The infamous rascal! If I was near him,
I’d claw his eyes out. I’ll pursue him to the
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 1859.
end of the earth but what I’ll have satisfaction!”
So saying she left in a great hurry and a great
flurry.
In a few days. Mr. Sanders arrived. His re
port was that Twattle had two wives then liv
ing, whose property he had squandered. That
he had courted many widows and old maids, all
of whom he had fleeced to a greater or less ex
tent ; and some of whom he had treated even
worse. That his title of Doctor was assumed
by liiraself for purposes of villainy. That he
passed under every given name that “J” would
suit; with much more that need not be repeated.
Captain Thompson recovered rapidly after Mr.
Sanders’ letter reached the village. As soon as
the latter had told his story, the Captain visited
his sister, whom ho saluted very pleasantly.
“ Well, sister, have you heard Doctor Twat
tle’s history?”
“As much of it as I wish to hear of.”
“ When does tho wedding come off?”
“ When men cease to be scoundrels.”
“But surely you don’t think l Good Doctor
Twattle' a scoundrel; you, who know liim so
much better than anybody else knows him.”
“ Well, brother David, if you men will be such
infamous, hypocritical, lying villains, how are we
women to find it out ?"
A very proper question, Mrs. Mitten! We
can excuse Captain Thompson for a little raillery,
under the circumstances; but we cannot excuse
the indifference of mankind generally to the ini
quities of men, and thc-ir want of charity for the
errors and weaknesses of women. Many a man
in high life is in the daily commission of crimes
which would blast a woman's reputation forev
er! By what law is this distinction made be
tween the sexes ?
“ How comes it to pass, that men are not only
indulged in their own dereliction from virtue, but
in laying siege to the virtue of the better sex ?
—and why is man allowed to avail himself of
the most lovely traits of woman’s character—
her warm affections, her unsuspecting confidence
her generous hospitality, her admiration of what
is noble in human nature, and attractive in hu
man conduct—to ruin or to swindle her? If
there be no better world than this, where more
even-handed justice is meted out, than this, God
help the women I—But1 —But to return from this di
gression—
Mrs. Mitten’s question stumped the Captain,
and he turned the subject:
“ And what are you going to do with William,
now ?” said he.
“ Heaven only knows, brother David. I re
gret my vow not to send him to Mr. Markham;
but it is out, and I must keep it.”
The Captain tried to convince her that her
vow was not binding, but without effect. For
tunately, a young man of liberal education and
good character opened a school in the village,
within three days after Twattle left, and Wil
liam was sent to school to him.
William had just got into his new quarters,
when the Captain visited his sister, bearing w ith
him a letter from the Post Office, to her address.
“ Auna,” said he, as he entered the house,
“did you lend Tw attle two hundred and fifty
dollars before he went away ?”
“ Yes,” said she, blushing blue, “but I’ve got
his note.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve got his note, that will
make you just as safe as if you had got his
tooth-pick. I do hope 111 come across the
scoundrel yet, before I die. You would do well
to set down and calculate how much your ten
derness for Bill’s legs have cost you iu actual
cash, to say nothing of trouble. W r ho is your
letter from ?”
She opened and read as follows:
Augusta, March 4th, 18—
‘Mrs. A. Mitten:
“ Having recently understood that you have
procured a private teacher, we have ventured to
stop your advertisement, though ordered to con
tinue it until forbid, under the impression that
you have probably forgotten to have it stopped.
If, however, w'e have been misinformed, we will
promptly resume the publication of it. You
will find our account below; w hich as we are
much in want of funds, you will obligo us by
settling as soon as convenient. Hoping your
teacher is all that you could desire in one,
“We remain, your ob’t. serv’ts.
“H.... A 8...”
“ Mrs. A. Mitten, to Augusta Herald. Dr.
“18—
“Mar’. 4th. To 4? insertions of advertisement
for private teacher from Mar. 4,
18— , to date, SI,OO for the first,
and I TS cts. each, for the remain
der, $35 50
“ Rec'd, payment."
“ Why, brother,” said Mrs. M., as she closed
the letter, “ I can’t surely be compelled to pay
this bill, which has -been running on for nine
months, after I got my teacher.”
“Yes you can, sister; unless the stoppage of
it in the village paper, where it first appeared,
required them, by the custom of printers, to stop
it. I stopt it here as soon as you got Twattle;
but I knew nothing of this advertisement; and
don’t remember seeing any order, through this
paper, to other papers to publish it.”
“ No, I wrote to IL A B. to publish it iu the
Herald, and to Dr. C. to publish it in the Argus.”
“Well, you’ll have to pay both-for publishing
it until you order it stopped. So put down
seventy or eighty dollars more to account of
love for Bill’s legs; and then hang him up by
the legs, and whip his back for a week, if you’ll
allow nobody else to do it"
“Brother, how have you taken such a pre
judice against my poor, unfortunate el«8a i If
you’d talk to him kindly, and advise him, I have
no doubt he would do well u for lie loves and
fears you, both.”
“ No, Anna; if j-ou had let him follow my ad
vice when he wished to do it he would ever
after have done it, and in the end he would have
been an honor to the country; but he won’t
follow it now.”
“WeU, brother, after all, I don’t see that he is
so very bad."
“WeU, I know him to be very bad, from men
who woidd not deceive me.”
“ I’ve very little confidence in men."
“So have I; but there are some honest ones
among them; and even dishonest ones may be
trusted when they tell of bad boys who infest the
village. I will go and stop the advertisement
in the Argus; and much as I sympathize with
you, and regret your losses, I am so rejoiced at
the escape you have made from the clutches of
that rascal, and the ruin that threatened you,
that they seem to mo almost nothing. It looks
to me as if a kind Providence had interfered in
your behalf.”
“ I have no doubt of it, brother; and I wish I
could see you putting your trust in Providence
more than you do. I will endeavor to live tet
ter than I have ever lived, do better than I have
ever done, and be more humble than I have ever
been, for the balance of my life.”
“ Why, as to that matter, Anna, I don’t see
how you are to get any better than you are. I
wish I was half as good in moral character as
you are. Even your “faults lean to virtue’s
side”—but like all women, you let your feelings
get the better of your good judgment. Your
difficulties all spring out of your affections,
which blind you to defects in the objects of them,
and make you the easy dupe of men, women, and
children, whom you love Why do you
weep ? Now is the time you ought to rejoice .
I've left my pocket handkerchief at home—Good
morning. I’ll stop the advertisement, and pay up
both bills for you, and talk to William. He may
do well at the new school. Young Smith, his
teacher, seems to be a fine young man, and
good morning.”
[ro be continued.]
[Written for the Southern Field end Fireside.]
“A SKETCH.”
BY JESSIE RANDOLPH,
In a dark; woody dell, where the mocking
bird's song is ever heard, where the violets
and sw-eet briar ever bloom, where the fiery
sunbeams, save at their meridian splendor, never
come, and whose solitude is seldom broken by
man's intruding footsteps—there bubbles forth,
from out the rocky bosom of the hill, a sparkling,
murmuring spring—deliciously pure and cooL
It was the favorite haunt of my childhood—
almost of my infancy; for, when my tiny feet •
first carried me to the spot, I did not know that !
the little fairy, with her dimpled hands and clus
tering curls, that smiled so merrily from the other
side, was only my own reflected image ; and it
puzzled my childish brain not a little to discover,
why her pinafores and frocks were so exactly j
like mine; and why she always did just the t
same things she saw me do; and why she al
ways staid in the water. And when time unrav- j
eled that mystery, as it does all others, I used,
in the quaint phraseology of childhood, to call her
“my other half;” and dress my hair, with great
complacency, before my aquatic mirror. The
discovery, however, did not diminish my inter
est in the spot; I still loved the dark woods, the
r singing birds, and murmuring brook; and it
was there, when wearied out with the heat and
lessons of the day, that I sought, and always
found, in its lovely depths, the soothing influ
ences exhausted nature demanded. Stretched
at length upon the grass, I used, for hours,
to watch the red bird build his hanging nest in
the great tree that stood guard over the spring;
or listen, with my childish heart beating strange
ly in unison, to the thrilling mate-call of the
oriole ; or gazing far away into the blue sky be
yond, and wonder if my little dead brother,
in the bright home mamma told me of, could
look down and see his sister; and thus I dream
ed the hours away.
But the scene changed. I remember an op
pressive stillness in the house, that frightened
me with its dull, heavy weight. I remember
whispered words, noiseless steps, a darkened
chamber, where toy mother lay, it seemed to n*?,
asleep, only her hands were so still upon her
bosom, and her face so cold and white. Next
came a long train of carriages, into one°f w bich
I was placed, after somebody had tied black
ribbons all over my white frock; and all moved
slowly along to the church-yard- Then a rapid
journey, and another home.
In that other home were spent the remaining
years of my childhood, end of my girlhood.
(Two Dollar* Per Annum,
I Always in Advance. f
Within its walla, I learned many lessons not
taught in the schools—all difficult, and hard to
understand; but none more so than the bitter
one of orphanage. No mother’s arms opened for
me, when the day’s work was over; no kiss
awaited the accomplishment of a task; no kind
word over encouraged the drooping spirits; but,
bitter us was the lesson, there were others still
for me to learn, as I turned life’s pages, whoso
concentrated bitterness made that seem almost
a pleasure.
Upon the threshold of womanhood, I conned
the lesson. At first, it was like a realized dream
of Paradise; but which proved to be only a
whitened sepulchre^—fair without, but nought,
save “rottenness and corruption, within; all
hollow, allfsalsae —a lie, a cheat, an "ignis fatuus,"
that lured me on, until my feet had almost touch
ed the quagmire of everlasting ruin, and then
left mo to grope my way in darkness and de
spair.
I placed, as an offering upon the desolated al
tar of my affections, the withered flowers of my
heart, and went forth again into the world—
this time, to play my part m its hollow pageant.
It was now my time to ctieat, to stifle the wild
cry of anguish, and wreath my lips with smiles;
to cover my still bleeding wounds with the gos
samer robes and artificial flowers of fashion; to
laugh, to sing, to dance, when reason itself was
wavering.
Os course, beneath such a mighty strain, my
liballh failed, and those interested in my welfare
became alarmed. My physician was consulted.
He ordered travel. And then, yielding to a sud
den impulse, I determined to revisit my child
hood's home, fancying in tnat balmy air I should
regain the lost roses of my cheeks, and probably
the lost freshness and cheerfulness of my spirits;
The long slant rays of a June sunset tinged,
with its golden hues, the scenery, as we ap
piyached the spot. The carriage wound slowly
along the broad. stately avenue, so familiar in
all its windings, but, with my old impatience, I
could not wait-F-so, leaving my companions and
the carriage, I crossed the stile, and once more,
as in days of yore, I sought the spring, alone.
All was as I had left it—the years had made
no change in nature; and as I walked along the
sandy path, so well remembered—l lost sight
of the weary time that had intervened since last
I was there, and fancied myself again a child.
I broke a small limb from my favorite myrtle
tree, as I passed, and carelessly stripping off the
leaves, scattered them, right and left, in my
path; nor did I stop then to reflect that another
hand, and one, too, that I had loved with all a
woman’s idolatrous devotion, had as wantonly
torn every green and fragrant leaf from my
life’s tree, only to scatter them to the winds, or
crush them beneath the weight of his coldness
and neglect I paused not for anything, but
hurried on, anxious only to reach the spring,
and view again the smiling image, so often re
flected in the happy days of childhood.
The weird solitude was undisturbed. My red
bird was busy with his nest; the oriole called,
and his mate replied. The giant oak still kept
its watch, and the violets still bloomed at
its foot. I approached the spring with hurried
steps, hoping, almost expecting, to see the same
reflection as of old, but started beck, aghast, at
the reality. The face was indeed the same; yet,
oh, how changed! the curls, and smiles, and
dimples of childhood were all gone; and in their
stead sat gaunt, hollow-eyed suffering, deep
drawn lines of anguish, and the rigid close-seal
ed lips of disappointment, that was almost de
spair ; the same, and not the same, with a bare
myrtle limb in its hand —fitting emblem of its
own blighted life!
It is useless to resist one’s destiny—the iron
links of circumstances, forged upon the anvil of
necessity, with the hammer of fate, are too strong
for mortal hands to break; so, here I am again,
pursuing the same soul-destroying round of fol
ly ; chasing the phantom of happiness aigfcdy,
mid scenes of so called pleasure, to the scand of
music and of song. But the fainting sr*it longs
for quiet: and I know that tho end jf all this is
coming! My open window admits ®°ft West
wind, that comes laden witr perfume, to fan
with its delicious coolness, ny fevered brow, and
I see above, the queen of a " h® r splen
dor, taking her accustomed silent, solitary walk
through the fields of .V B®® 8 ®®- * see > f°°i y° n *
der through the trending bralictleß of the inter
vening trees, theghastly, gleaming, ghost-like
monuments of the thickly peopled cemetery.—
And I know that my chariot of life is surely and
rapidly approaching that cemetery’s gate. Well,
I would e>en accelerate its speed. I long for tho
journey's end. I long to take my place among
the inhabitants of that city of the dead, for then,
ana not till then—there, and only there, will
the weary one find her rest!
The Rev. Dr. Cox is writing a series of letters
in The American Presbyterian, designed to show
that the Apocalyptic battle of “Armageddon” is,
in all probability, at hand, in the grand rupture
of the peace of Europe now taking effect.
-
When we record our angry feelings, let it be
on the snow, that the first beam of sunshine may
obliterate them forever.
NO. 5.