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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.