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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.