Newspaper Page Text
Southern Field and Fireside.
I VoL * l#
[COMMUNICATED BY A LADY.]
I THE DAUGHTERS OF EE IN.
BY WM. SMITH o'BEIF.X.
“ Lines suggested by a song in praise of the “Maids
of Merry England."
i We can honor the banl whose verses proclaim
The praises of beauty, wherever we roam,
But whilst we accord all each country may claim,
» We must not forget our own dear girls at home;
And since none with the daughters of Erin can vie.
For them we will live, and for them we would die 1
* They are matchless in feature, and matchless in form,
And are matchless not less in temper and mind,
Even envy itself, their eharms might disarm,
> So sweetly these graces and powers are combined ;
Then since none with the daughters of Erin can vie.
For them we will live, and for them we would die 1
s What maidens in pleasure's acceptable hour,
Though gentle, so lively ?—though modest, so gay?
Yet when sickness and danger around us may lower,
* Who so tender, so patient, so faithful as they ?
Then since none with the daughters of Erin can vie,
, For them we will live, and tor them we would die 1
All hail to the land with such virtues endowed 1
> Which with earth's fairest treasures we dare to eom
pare,
Of Erin's sweet daughters, we justly feel proud,
May we prove ourselves worthy such virtue to share!
4 Then, with our dear Erin no country shall vie,
For Erin we'll live, und for Erin would die 1
Composed on board the Prince Albert, Eeb, rjtfc,
j 1859.
——
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
' Entered according to the Act of Congress , <£c, etc.,
by the Author.
MASTER WILLIAM MITTEN;
I OR,
A YOUTH OF BRILLIANT TALENTS,
WHO WAS UUINED BT BAD LUCK.
( BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GEORGIA SCENES, ETC.
f CHAPTER VII.
Captain Thompson delayed in getting Master Mit
ten off to his fifth school—Gets into a streak of
petulentphilosophy about women's souls—Sees
Master William in a new light, and appears
himself in a new light.
, The articles of capitulation having been rati
' fled, as mentioned in the last chapter, the Cap
tain was anxious to set out immediately with
William, for Mr. Waddel’s school; but Mrs. Mit
ten declared that it would be impossible to pre
pare a suitable outfit for her soil, short of a fort
. night. “Remember,” said she, with a filling eye,
“my poor child is going among strangers, where
he wrH find none to make or mend for him. He
. is to be gone at least five months, even if you
' will permit him to come home in the va
cation ; or if you will not, then for a year, or it
may bo” —here Mrs. Mitten’s swelling heart
stifled utterance. The Captain regarded her
for a moment in silence, in thoughtfulness, in
petulance, in pity, and then said : “Well, if there
be a stranger tiling on ttiis green earth than a
woman, I should like to know what it is—at
least, a woman with a smart, pretty, good-for
‘ nothing son. I thought if there was anything
in this world that I did know, it was my own
sister ; but I find that I know nothirg about
her. A woman! Let her be as good, as sensi
ble, as amiable as she may be, and give her a
child, and forthwitli her head is turned topsy
turvoy. She is as blind to her child’s faults as
a bat, and she mistrusts every body who is not
, as blind to them as she is. I have come to tho
1 conclusion that a woman may have a soul be
fore she has a child, but never afterwards —that
is, a sound one—a rational one. After that, all
is impulse or instinct with her —at least, in all
that touches her offspring. She may have a
thousand proofs that her indulgence is ruining
her child, and she will indulge him still. She
will believe him before she will believe any one
else ; and when his iniquities stand broadly out
before her face, she will find an apology for
them all. He is l unfortunate ,’ or die has been
tempted to vice by bad company,’ or, die is slan
dered,’ or, 'he is the victim of envy,' or ‘preju
dice,or
“Why, dear me, brother David, I don’t see what
I’ve said or done to call forth this harangue.”
“Why, you are talking and acting just as
, though I had taken your child from you by
i force, and meant to afflict him in all forms possi
ble. ‘lf you willpermit him to come home in
vacation, and if not.' Do you suppose that I
ever dreamed of keeping him away from you
during the holidays ? Do you suppose that I
take charge of him only to torment him ?”
“My dear brother, don’t be angry with me.
I had not the most distant idea of offending you
in what I said. I never questioned for a mo
ment your kindly feelings towards me and my
child ; but have some charity for a mother’s love
—folly, if you choose to call it so. I never was
separated from William a fortnight in my life.
He is not torn from me, but he is taken from me
—with my consent—necessarily, I grant, but
( JAMES GARDNER, I
) Proprietor. f
it is a sore necessity. He is to be carried
among strangers, to be treated, I know not how.
If sick, to suffer for a mother’s care—at least
for a time—perchance to die for the want of it.
Now, when all these things crowd upon a moth
er’s heart, is it wonderful that it should be de
pressed?”
“I am not angry with you, Anna, that is—l—
believe lam not. I know I don’t wish to be ;
but I am amazed at your want of firmness,
your want of resignation to necessities; your
surrender of judgment to feelipg ; your patience
under present evils; and your distress at imagina
ry ones. lam alarmed at the intimations yon
already give, of the speedy blowing up of our
arrangement—not from a breach of your pledge,
but from your anxieties, your griefs, your fears,
your yearning to be with your son, which will
leave me no alternative but to restore him to
you, or to see you waste away under their contin
ual corrodings. I pray you nerve yourself up to
tho exigencies of the case. That William can
stay no longer here, you know. That he is in
the broad road to ruin here, I know, and you
ought to know. That he is getting beyond your
control you confess, and in a little time he will
be beyond mine. Now, think of these things,
anittet them reconcile you to any unpleasant is
sues of our new arrangement. Let this reflec
tion quiet, or at least solace, all future anxieties
about your son. 'lt is impossible for things to be
worse than they are.' Be cheerful, at least till
evils come, and liear them with fortitude when
they do come.”
Mrs. Mitten promised to do her best, and the
Captain Continued:
"Don’t consume time in gathering up an ex
tensive wardrobe for your son. Let us get him
out of ttiis place as soon as possible ; for he is
rotting here faster than a dead rat in August
“Oh, brother! How can you speak of your
sister’s child in that way ?”
“ Well, I would have used a more delicate
comparison, for your sake, if I had thought of it;
but as for Bill however, get him ready as
soon as you can. A few changes of apparel is
all that he needs; and let them be plain and
stout. Waddel’s school is in the woods, where
nobody sees, and nobody cares how the boys
are dressed. It is made up, I hear, principally
of hardy rustic youths, most of whom, probably,
never had a broadcloth coat, a linen shirt, or a
pair of store-stockings on in their lives. If there
fore, you send your son among them, dressed out
in fine clothes, you will expose him to ridicule
from his young companions, and to other petty
annoyances, which will give him a distaste for
the place even greater than he now has. Better
for you, and for him, that his clothing bo cheap,
plain, and durable. Mrs. Mitten promised to get
him ready as soon as she could, and the Captain
left her.
In the meantime, William behaved himself
uncommonly well. He was too much saddened
by the prospect before him to relish either amuse
ments or books. He spent most of his time at
home in deep despondency; for os soon as it was
noised abroad that William Mitten was going
to Waddel’s school, the reports of Waddel’s
severities doubled in number, and quadrupled in
exaggeration. Any one, to have heard them, as
passed among the young ones of the village,
might have supposed that he fried a pair of
little boys for breakfast, and roasted a big one
for dinner every day.
William had heard these reports in all their
variations, and they filled him with horror. His
mother ottered him encouragements witli the
tongue, but discouragements with the eye, every
day; the last, of course, neutralized the first.—
After twelve days of preparation, Mrs. Mitten
informed her brother that William would be
ready to take his departure the next day. The
Captain visited his sister that night, to make all
preliminary arrangements for the commencement
of the journey, early the next morning. He
found the family alone, for the hour of William’s
departure had been purposely kept secret, to
avoid the intrusion of visitors on this solemn
evening. They were all seated around the fire,
silent and dejected. On the candle-stand, by the
mother’s side, lay the family Bible open—next to
her, in the order of their ages, sat the two daugh
ters, and William rested his drooping head upon
tho pillar of the mantle-piece. The servants
stood around, with their eyes fixed upon him, as
if for the last time. They had all just risen from
prayers, hurried a little from fear of interruption.
The tears which from every eye had accompanied
the mother's devotion, had just ceased to flow.
A death-like silence reigned throughout the
group, broken only by sighs more or less heavy,
as they rose from hearts more or less depressed.
As the Captain entered, all burst into tears
afresh.
“ What!” said he, with a feigned indifference
to the scene, which he did not feel, “ All this
mourning at sending a little shaver to school!"
The Captain was not a religious man, but he
was almostpursmded to be a Christian; and the
sight of his sister at prayer always inspired him
with an instinctive pholosophy upon “souls,”
much more impressive, if not more rational, than
the impulsive philosophy which he had recently
delivered. He glanced his eye to the candle- |
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, JULY 9, 1859.
I stand, and took his seat in the circle as mute as
the mutest A minute or more elapsed before
another word was spoken; mid the first, to the
surprise of all, fell from William*
“ Uncle,” said he, in a grief-stricken, faltering
voice, “Uncle—you can—save me—from going
to Mr. Waddel's school, if you will. It isn't too
| late yet—ls you please, Uncle, don’t send me
there—l 11 go any where else in the world that
you choose to send me, and not complain. If
you will only not send mo to that school, I never
will disobey you, or Ma again. I know I’ve done
wrong’’—Here the elder sister interposed, kneel
ing : “ Oh, my dear Uncle, you cannot, you will
not, resist that—no, your streaming eyes tell
me you will not—here on my knees before you,
I beg you, I implore you"—“And I, Uncle,” said
the younger, dropping by her sister's side, “ We
both beseech you for our dear, our only brother.
Why that school, in preference to all other
schools in the world? ”
“ Girls lie seated!” said the Captain; and they
obeyed him.
A long pause in the conversation emboldened
even the servants to drop a word in William's
behalf.
There was but one of the group who did not;
and she felt more than all of them together.
Under circumstances so trivial, no poor heart
ever ran through such a hurricane of turbulent
emotions in a few short moments, as did hers.
She had never seen her child so moved by fear
before. She had never seen him an humble sup
pliant before; and now, it was to her substitute,
not to her! She had never heard such accents of
humility and contrition from his lips before.—
She had hardly ever before seen the manly
cheek of her brother moistened with a tear, and
never hoped to see it, by the eloquence of her
boy. Long sinking hopes rose buoyantly from
the scene before her; she “ would yet see her
first anticipations from her gifted son fully
realized”—“ her brother’s censures would soon
be turned into praises; his roughness, to kind
ness.” Anxiety crowded in upon hope—anxiety
for the issue of her son’s appeal. If successful,
“what then? where then?” Alarms pressed
upon anxiety. “Ifhe is foiled in this appeal,
will he ever make another —will he not be driven
to desperation ?”
All these conflicting emotions she bore with
marvelous composure; but when the first words
of her brother’s response fell upon her ear “God
bless you, my dear, dear orphan boy!” her self
command entirely forsook her. She crossed her
arms upon her Bible, dropt her head upon them,
cried “Amen 1 and Amen 1” and sobbed convul
sively, loud and long.
“ God bless you, my dear, dear orphan boy,”
said the Captain, “you are now in the right way,
my son, and while you walk therein your Uncle
will be a father to you—he will love you, he will
serve you, he will do any and everything that he
can, to make you happy. If he deny you anything,
be sure it is for your own good. And now, if
you or your Mother will tell me what other
teacher I can send you to, with any liopo of
having you well instructed, and your morals
well guarded, I will not send you to Mr. Wad
del.”
“ Can’t you send me back to Mr. Markham ?”
“ Well, come, your Mother shall answer that
question for me.”
“In an evil hour, son, I vowed you should
never go back to Mr. Markham,” said the Moth
er.
“ Well, Anna,” continued the Captain, “in the
present state of things, I think you are released
from that vow ; but supposing yourself entirely
released from it, would you be willing to keep
William longer in this town at any school?”
“Well, as he is penitent, and promises amend
ment, if I could feel myself free from my vow,
I believe I would be willing to see him return
to Mr. Markham. But it is not worth while to
discuss this subject; I cannot feel myself re
leased from my vow. It is known all over the
village, and nobody will believe you put him
there without my consent; and every body will
think I pretended to turn William over to you,
just to shuffle out of my vow. Be this as it may,
my conscience is involved in the matter, and
I’m not going to expose it to any nice questions.
If I err at all, let me err on the safe side. I
therefore, give no consent to his going to Mr.
Markham, and I would rather that you should
not expose me to the suspicion of having given
my consent to it.”
“ Well, William,” resumed the Captain, “that
door’s closed. Now, hear me, my son. Don’t
you remember how sorry you were that I did
not have my way until you when you were taken
from Mr. Markham ? Well, just so it will be by
and by, if I do not have my way with you now.
You must getaway from the bad boys of this
town. Haven’t they often tempted you to
do what you had fully resolved not to do?”
“Yes, sir."
“ Now, I know you think you will never be
led away by them again, if I let you stay here ;
but you will be as you have been. You have
been alarmed by false and foolish reports about
Mr. Waddel's severity and cruelty. If they
were true, his school could not bo as celebrated
as it is. He could not have the number of
scholars he has. lam told he has largely over
a hundred scholars, and that thousands of peo
ple from far and near attend his exhibitions. If
you’ll go there, and get a premium (us I know
you can, if you will,) it will be worth having.
It will be heard of in two or three States. Come,
son, try Uncle’s advice this one time. All
things are ready now—the time appointed for us
to go—if we let it slip, you'll be here doing noth
ing and worse than nothing, for, I know not
how long. Cheer up, my lx>y; you can surely
stand a school that Governors’ sons, and Sena
tors, sons, and Judges’sons stand; and if you
will do your best, you will stand ahead of these
big men’s sons. Now, what say you, son; will
you go or not ?”
“I’ll go. Uncle,” said William, with a prompt
ness and a firmness that astonished all pres
ent.
“ That’s a fine fellow,” said the Captain. “ I
wouldn't take a thousand dollars for my part in
you, this da} - .”
William’s decision was conclusive upon the
family; and the Mother felt herself in duty
bound not to disturb it by word, action, or look.
She therefore assumed to be pleased, though she
was so confident of AVilliam’s entire and radical
reform, from what had just passed before her,
that she would have preferred Markham to
Waddcl, if conscience had been out of the way.
“Anna,” said the Captain, “Mary”(his wife,)
“ and the children will come over with me in
the morning to bid William good-bye, and Mary
will spend the day with you. I shall be here
with the chaise, after an early breakfast, and let
all things be ready.”
The Captain had anticipated some such scene
as that which he had just passed through, and
to lighten the burden of it, he would not allow
his family to accompany him that night.
chapter viir.
The Captain backslides—The Author forgets him
self and gets almost entirely out of the region of
Fancy ; whereby, he becomes exceedingly interest
ing to about seven old men, and exceedingly prosy
to every body else. If thus warned the reader
will follow him through this long chapter, why,
be it so.
The eventful morning came, and at an early
hour Captain Thompson’s chaise was at his sis
ter's door. His family had anticipated his
advent some eight or ten minutes. Tom
came out to hold his horse, while ho went in.
“No, I won’t light, Tom,” said he. “Go and
bring out William's trunk, and let us be off, for
we have no time to lose.” The Captain had no
idea of witnessing the parting scene. He wait
ed and shivered, for it was cold. “Come on,
William, my brave boy—come on; we’ve a long
road and a bad road to travel;” bawled out the
Captain to the vacant entry.
No response came, but sobs and blowing of
noses.
“Tom! Tom!” cried the Captain.
Tom was waiting his turn to bid “ mas Wil
liam ” good-by, and mingling his tears with
those of the two families, of course, he had
forgotten the trunk. The wind began to rise a
little, and the Captain began to backslide rapid
ly from his conversion of the evening before.
“John!” cried the Captain. No answer.
“Sal!” “Lotty!” “Nance!”
They were all around “ mas William;” noth
ing doubting but that the saturnal of the preced
ing evening would be extended to the catastro
phe of the occurrence which produced it. The
wind rose a little higher, and the Captain’s im
patience rose a great deal higher. At length, it
gave way entirely; and, lighting from the vehi
cle, he bolted into the mouming-liall, with a
stop, and a tongue, and a passion, exceedingly
unbecoming the solemnities of the occasion, anil
exceedingly opposite to his recent experience.
The first object that met his eye was Tom, re
peating precisely the part he played the night
before, when the Captain was so much affected,
i. e. with swimming oyes, and mellowed heart,
contemplating William. “You black rascal,”
.vociferated the Captain; “what do you stand
sniveling here for? (John, go to my horse!)
Didn’t I order you to bring out the trunk ?”
“Kigli, mas’ David!” said Tom, retiring a
little briskly; “ Nigger got feeling well as white
folks! You feel, too, sometimes.”
“You impertinent scoundrel! if you aint off
for that trunk pretty quick, I’ll make you feel
worse than white folks.”
There was a lurking comparison in this reply
of Tom, between himself and “mas’ David,”
decidedly favorable to himself; and a plain inti
mation in it that he regarded the Captain as a
clear case of apostacy or inconsistency. But
the Captain was in too great a hurry to analyze,
argue, or resent. “ I have been out there for a
quarter of an hour,” continued he, “freezing,
and bawling, and squalling for every negro on
the plantation, and not one could I find.” ( Exunt
blacks, as from patrol.) “I have now hardly
time to reach old Smith’s, before night; and to
be caught in the night, on such roads, will be
awful. Anna, is William ready?”
“Just a moment, brother, till I tie this hand
kerchief over his ears; the weather’s bitter
cold.”
While the Captain was awaiting this process,
ten distinct thumps from the stair-case fell upon
I Two Dollar* Per Annum, I
I Always In Advance. I
i his ear, and then a harsh, raking sound of terri-
J ble import, when Tom announced: “Here’s the
trunk, mas’ David.” The Captain turned, and
beheld one of the biggest trunks of the day. He
ran to it and hefted it, as the Yankees say, and
grunted furiously.
“Anna,” said he, *“ that trunk can't go on the
chaise—it’s impossible.”
“It is the very smallest I could get to hold
the boy’s things, brother.”
“ What have you got in it?”
“ Nothing, but William’s clothes, and a few
little nick-nacks.”
“ Well, you’ll have to divide them, and put
them in two small trunks—one to be lashed on
behind, and the other to go in the foot; and it’s
a pretty time to begin that work I”
The Captain was too snappish to be reasoned
with; so, by contributions from the girls, the
small trunks were soon furnished, and the un
packing and re-packing commenced.
We will not detain the reader with a detail of
the wardrobe. Suffice it to say, that after stop
ping in transitu three shirts, three pair of stock
ings, two under-shirts, one full winter suit, and
two summer suits, the Captain saw the two
small trunks filled to their utmost capacity
with hard pressing; and yet, there was a thin
layer of clothing on the ceiling of the basement
story of the large trunk; we must explain.—
Mrs. Mitten, with Tom's help; had placed two
blocks of wood in the bottom of the trunk, upon
which she laid a nice, clean, thin white-pine
board, that was so neatly adjusted to the mea
sure of the trunk, that it divided it into two ap
partments. The board was lifted, and disclosed
one pound cake, one dozen sugar-biscuits, one
ditto doughnuts, two pounds raisins, two ditto al
monds, (shelled,) one ditto prunes, with chink
ing of sugar-plums innumerable.
“ William, son,” said his mother, “ I reckon
you’ll have to leave these ; I don’t know how
you can carry them.”
It seemed to be a hopeless case to all, and Bill
surrendered with a long deep sigh, which touch
the Captain’s heart a little ; and casting his eyes
to William, who looked like a week's washing of
clothes piled together, he said, with a slight
smirk: “ There’s nothing in the chaise-box but
a snack, and a little bundle of under-clothing for
myself; you can put as many of these things
in that as it will hold; but be quick about it I”
This was refreshing. It was regarded as a
full atonement for all the petulance, impatience,
and crustiness that the Captain had exhibited.
One of the girls bounced into the chaise; and by
the aid of the rest of the company, she was soon
enabled to stow away in the box a goodly por
tion of all the varieties of • nick-nacks just men
tioned. In the meantime, the trunks took their
places, the final kisses were disposed of, and a
minute more found the Captain and William on
their way. Nothing of special interest occurred
on the journey. The Captain gave William much
encouragement and good advice, and fretted a
little, at having to travel a half hour in the night
to make his first stage; but as no accident oc
curred, he was easily reconciled to it Four
o’clock the next day (Saturday,) found them at
the public house, or rather boarding house, of
Mr. Nelson Newby, Abbeville District, South
Carolina. It was a rude log-house, with two
rooms, about sixteen feet square each, and an en
try nearly as large, between them. In thd rear
of it was another building of the same material,
somewhat shorter and narrower than the first.
This was the dining room. Six or seven small
edifices of the same kind scattered around, with
little order, served as students’ lodges. A rail
fence, (or rather the remains of one,) three feet
high, enclosed the whole. About twenty boys,
of various sizes, were busily engaged in cutting,
splitting, and piling wood, at the doors of their
respective tenements—the roughest looking set
of students that ever repeated the notes of
Homer and Virgil since the world began. The
prospect looked gloomy, even to the Captain,
and terrific to William.
“Uncle,” whispered he, “these can’t be big
people’s sons!”
“Well—don’t know—they’re pretty rough
looking fellows— but—they seem to be very in
dustrious boys.” Poor comfort to William. The
Captain and his landlord, of course, soon became
acquainted; and the first expressing a wish to
see Mr. Waddel, the last kindly offered to escort
him to the teacher's residence.
“It is not far out of the way to go by the
Academy; would you like to see it ?” said Mr.
Newby.
“ Very much,” replied the Captain.
[to be continued.]
QncK Passage. —The trip of the steamship
Vanderbilt, from the Needles to the port of New
York, has never been equaled, the distance of
three thousand one hundred and fifteen miles be
ing made in nine days nineteen hours and twen
ty six minutes —a time which beats that of the
Baltic’s best trip, in July, 1856, by thirteen
hours and seven minutes, and that of the Persia,
in June 1857, by eighteen hours snd three min
utes. The Vanderbilt has proved this year,
again, what American ingenuity and persever
ance can perform.
NO. 7.