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Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 1.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
LIFE’S SHADOW AND SHEEN.
BY HELEN GREY.
Oh dreary Desert! weary Land I
Where I must toil for bread,
And fold my fancy’s airy wings,
Life's dusty way to tread;
Where I must feel my soul grow sick,
And faint for want of food,
Tct still move on with weary feet,
In search of sordid good.
To suffer with a burning thirst.
Beneath a leaden sky,
Yet see in dreams the pastures green.
Where the cool fountains lie!
O ergushing those cool fountains are
With the rich wine of life,
But not one drop, poor heart, for thee,
Worn with the noon-day-strife !
Yet, sometimes charmed with sounds seraphic,
Borne up by Angels' hands,
All these weary shackles dropping.
Float I off to distant lands ;
Where the morning freshness lingers,
Where tne eternal sunshine lies:
There I walk with noble spirits.
Gazing in their earnest eyes.
Till from that fair mountain summit.
Bands of iron draw me back,
And I sink again, desponding,
To the desert's burning track.
I)o I call my life a Desert ?
O ! thou murmuring heart, be still!
Arc there not for thee a greenwood.
And a little sparkling rill 1
Far behind thee lies the gr Sen woo.'.
Where he thy loved one sleeps.
Where above him, Memory watching.
Iter long fond vigil keeps.
But beside thee, dancing ever
Through the shadow, through the sheen,
Flows a tiny laughing, streamlet,
Making thy pathway green.
Sometimes like a wild, stray sunbeam.
Darts she through thy door,
Moving like a dream of beauty.
Over the rude bare floor.
Fairest blossom ! rarest picture !
Poem sweet and wild !
Earth may keep her boasted treasures,
May I but keep my child!
———
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
Entered according to the Act of Congress , etc., dkc.
by the Author.
MASTER WILLIAM MITTEN;
OR,
A YOUTH OF BRILLIANT TALENTS,
WHO WAS RUINED BY BAD LUCK.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GEORGIA SCENES, ETC.
CHAPTER XX.
The Death of Captain Thompson—Sickness of
William Mitten—John Brown's History brought
up—Mitten Recovers—Refuses to Return to Doc
tor WaddeVs—A Letter from the Doctor.
Captain Thompson breathed his last but a few
minutes before William reached his habitation.
We need hardly say that he died happily—he
died triumphantly—not shouting, simply because
in his last moments, he had not strength to
shout, but whispering “Glory, Glory, Glory!”
William’s entry into the death-chamber, served
but to embitter the griefs of all who filled it. A
little while before Captain Thompson expired,
he said, “I have been looking anxiously for
William —I wished to give him my last counsels,
as I have given them to the other children, [his
own and his sister’s,] but it is now too late.
Tell him, Anna, my last words to him were,
‘ Love, honor, cherish, and obey your mother. 1 ”
These sentences were uttered amidst rests
at every three or four words.
Deep and all-prevailing as was the grief
around the death-bed of the uncle, the entry of
the nephew startled every one, and nearly over
powered his mother. Anguish of mind, loss of
sleep, abstinence from food, and fatigue from
travel, had wrought the greatest change in his
appearance, that perhaps ever had been wrought
in a youth of his age, unvisited by disease. He
walked, or rather tottered to the corpse, kissed
its cold lips, covered his face with his hands,
shrieked, and sunk to the floor. Tho Doctor,
who had not yet left the room, raised him up,
advised that he be removed from the scene of
grief to a bed in another apartment, and he as
sisted in effecting what he advised. He returned
and reported to Mrs. Mitten that William needed
medical aid, for that “he was quite unwell.”
She hastened to his bed-side with the physician,
and found him in a high fever. He was pre
scribed for, and carried home as soon as possi
ble. Her forebodings of some great calamity
had been realized in the death of her brother;
but she now believed that her son would soon
follow him; and her agony of soul can be bet
ter conceived than described. Still she bore her
afflictions like a Christian; with no other demon
strations of grief than streaming eyes, deep
drawn sighs, and saddened countenance.
f JAMES GARDNER, I
I Proprietor. f
A few weeks before Captain Thompson’s
death, lie and five or six other gentlemen of the
village had, upon Mr. Markham's suggestion,
agreed to furnish the means fbr giving John
Brown a collegiate education. Mr. Markham,
after having taught John gratuitously from the
day that he acquitted himself so creditably at
the exhibition, set on foot this benevolent enter
prise.and was himself the largest contributor to it.
How this excellent man came to enlist so warm
ly and efficiently in John’s favor, is worthy of
record. A short vacation followed the exhibi
tion, and at the opening of the term, John was
missing from school. At twelve o’clock, Mr.
Markham went to his mother’s to learn the cause
of his absence. He found John seated on the
door-step, weeping bitterly.
“Well, John,” said he, “what’s tho matter,
son ?”
“ Mammy says she can't send me to school
any more.”
“Why, that’s bad; but I reckon you wouldn’t
study much, if she was to send you again."
“Yes, sir, I would; I’d study harder than
dver I did in all my life. You should never
have to whip me again, as long as you live.”
“ Why, that would be a wonderful improve
ment, John, for I’ve generally had to whip you
at least twice a week, ever since you first came
to me.”
“ I know that, sir, because I didn’t care about
goiug to school at first; but now I want to
go to school; and if I could go back, you’d
never have to whip me again, I know you
wouldn't”
By this time, Mrs. Brown was at the door.
“ AValk iu, Mr. Markham!” said she, “I nev
er did see a boy take on so about going to school,
as John has all the morning, in all my born days.
’Twas much as I could do to get him off to
school before; but now lie takes on at sitch a
rate to go to school, that I can’t help feeling
na’trally right sorry for him.”
“ Well, why won’tyou let him go, Mrs. Browu?”
“Well, Mr. Markham, ra’lly the truth is, I
an’t able to pay his schoolin’. You know migh
ty well what my husband is, and therefore ’taint
worth while to be mealy-mouthed about it; he
jist na’trally drinks up, e’en about every little
that I can rake together, that he can lay his
hands on. He’s a good hearted, clever, hard
working man, when lie’s sober; but lie’s all the
time drunk ’tan’t worth while for me to be
tryin’ to hide it from you, Mr. Markham : every
body knows it. ’Cept the time Judge Yearly
put him iu Jail for gwine iuto Court drunk as a
jurior, lie’s hardly drawn one sober breath since,
and you know, Mr. Markham, it’s mighty hard
for one poor loue woman like me to get along
Yvith three little children, and a drunken hus
band besides. Seems to me sometimes that I
should na’trally jist give up. And Ib’lievel
Oh yes, I know I would —ha’ give up long ago,
if it hadn’t been for your wife, and five or six
other good ladies in town, who’ve holp me might
ily. But after all I could do, I couldn’t do more
than jist rake up money enough to pay for what
little schoolin I could give him, since he’s oeen
to you. I think Johnny would take laming migh
ty well if he had a chance. You know he did
mighty well at your—at your—show. Peo
ple took on mightily at Johnny’s doins’ that
day, and I wish he could have a chance to git
more laming, but I an’t able to give it to him—
it’s a fact—l an’t able to do it, Mr. Markham,
aud I may as well jist tell the plain, naked truth
about it,” .
“ Well, Mrs. Brown, your’s is really a right
hard case. How long could you spare John to
go to school, if it cost you nothing to send him ?”
“ Oh, la messy; that would be the onliest
thing in the world for Johnny. I’d be mighty
willin’ for him to stay till he gits clean through,
for my part, and be glad of it. It would be a
mighty great thing if Johnny could git lamin’
enough to keep a school himself, now wouldn’t
it, Mr. Markham ? You must make a heap o’
money at it, havin’ so many scholars as you al
ways have, and gittin’ your money every quar
ter?”
“ But if I take John to teach him, won’t your
husband take him away from me before he gets
through ?”
Oh la, no 1 Ho has nothin’ to do with the
children, no how, poor drunken creator 1 Be
sides he shouldn’t do it”
“But how would you prevent him?”
“ I could prevent him easy enough. Do you
think I’d let him, who don’t do a hand's stirrin’
towards feedin’ and clothin’ my children, take
one of them away from gettin’ lamin' for nothin’ ?
No sir, he’d no more dare to do it than he’d put
his hand in the fire.”
“Well, Mrs. Brown, if you’ll promise me that
you won’t take John away till he gets through,
and that your husband shall not, I'll take John,
and if he will behave himself, I’ll make him a
great scholar—able to keep any sort of a school
I’ll furnish all his books for him, and teach him,
and it shan’t cost you a cent.”
“Yes, that I do promise for both Be
have himself!' If he don’t, I reckon you
know how to make him; and if you can’t, jist
send him home to me, and I’ll give him such a
cawhallopiu’, that I’ll be bound he’ll never mis
behave again while his head’s hot, to . a man
that’s done so much for him.”
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1859.
“Well, send him over t > school in the morn
ing, and we’ll see what w s can do for him.”
While this conversati >n was in progress,
John’s eyes expanded froi 1 a couple of cracks
to a couple of pretty respectable key holes, and,
at the conclusion of it, hd commenced patting
his foot and snapping his lingers in unspeakable
delight. As Mr. Markhau was retiring, “Stop
a little, Mr. Markham,” sajd Mrs. Browu. He
stopped.
“Where’s your manners, sir?” continued she
to John. “Make a bow tb Mr. Markham, and
thank him for what lie’s gtrine to do for you 1”
John gave Mr. Markham a bow of his own
teaching, excellent lor the stage, but quite too
formal for the signal of private thanksgiving,
under Mrs. Brown’s dictation. He delivered
himself, however, in his own language:
“ Mr. Markham, I’m very much obleeged ”
“ Obliged , John.”
Mrs. B. “What, haVe you been gwine to
school all this time andadon’t know how to call
words, yitl ”
Mr. M. “J ohn’s is a very common mistake.”
John, conceiving that his bow and his thanks
had got too far apart, repeated his bow as be
fore, and commenced again:
“ Mr. Markham, I’m very much obliged to you
for your goodness. I always said you was "
“ Were , John.’
“ I always said you were the best man I ever
seen.”
“ Saw. John.”
Mrs. B. “Why that boy don’t know no better
how to talk than me, who han’t had no schoolin’
at all.”
“ Well never mind, never mind, John,” said
Mr. Markham, fearing John w v-ld go back to
his bow and begin again. “ Your heart’s right,
my boy, and I’ll soon set your tongue right.—
Mrs. Brown, you’re going to see John a big man,
some of these days.” So saying, he retired in
haste—in haste, for two reasons: the one was,
that he might relieve himself from the laughter
with which he had been filling up from the be
ginning to the end of the interview; and the
other, was to disembarrass John, who, between
his corrections, and his mother’s comments, was
likely to become inextricably bewildered.
John was the first boy at school the next
morning; and thenceforward Mr. Markham nev
er had cause to correct him, or even to reprove
him. He soon became one of the best scholars
in the school, distinguished himself at every ex
amination and exhibitioa and in a short time,
became such a popular favorite that when Mr.
Markham proposed to the citizens to unite in
raising a fund to give him a liberal education,
he had not the least difficulty in finding the re
quisite number of contributors.
Just before Captain Thompson’s last sickness,
the arrangement had been made, for David
Thompson, George Markham, and John Brown,
to leave for Princeton College, N. J., on tho 10th
of the ensuing November. Princeton was, at
that time, in the South at least, the most re
nowned College in the Union. Captain Thomp
son appointed Mr. Markham one of the execu
tors of his will, and authorized him to appro
priate any sum out of his estate that he might
deem necessary, to the education of John Brown,
not exceeding one hundred dollars per annum.
He also appointed Mr. Markham testamentary
guardian of his two sons, David and George,
until the completion of their education; direct
ing that “in all matters touching the education
of his two sons, should a difference of opinion
arise between his wife [his other representative]
and Mr. Markham, his judgment should be de
cisive.”
After an illness of two weeks, William Mit
ten recovered, and at the end of four, his health
was entirely restored. About this time, his
mother said to him:
“ William, isn’t it time for you to tliiuk of re
turning to Doctor Waddel’s?”
“Mother,” said he, “ I can never go back to
Doctor Waddel’s.”
“What!” exclaimed she, horror-stricken,
“Oh, my dear, departed brother! Is this afflic
tion to be added to the thousand that thy death
has cost me!”
“No, mother, if Uncle were alive, he never
could induce me to return to Doctor Waddel’s.
I feared him, I loved him, I adored him, to the
day of his death. If I could have saved his life
by having my right arm chopped off, I would
have done it freely; but Uncle could never
have induced me to go back to Willington.”
“ William, in mercy to me, tell me quickly
why?”
“ Because I have disgraced myself there.”
11 Disgraced yourself there! Oh, how little
we poor mortals know what to pray for! Would
that you had died on the bed from which you
have just risen I—No, my heavenly Father, par
don me!—ln disgrace you were not fit to die;
in disgrace you are not fit to live. William, let
me know the worst —don’t keep me a moment
longer in suspense, if you have any respect for
me—l may be able to survive the disclosure, if
you make it immediately: I may not be able to
survive it, if you keep me a few days in this
agony of suspense.”
“ I have lied. I have gambled, I have drank,
and been detected in all, and exposed before the
whole school ”
“ Is that all?—is that the worst ?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the worst; and I don’t
know what could be worse.”
“ Bad enough—bad, indeed ; but it might
have been worse. I have nothing to say in de
fence of these sins; but how did you rush into
them so speedily, after your return ?”
“That infern—, that abominable horse!”
“ How could he have involved you in this sc
ries of offences, in so short a tim^?”
William gave his mother a full and truthful
'account of all the difficulties in which his horse
had involved him. When he had concluded,
she resumed:
“I was sure that things had been going
wrong with you, from the brief letter you wrote,
and which did not reach me until some days
after your return. It bore the marks of great
carelessness and want of feeling.”
“ That letter was part of the deceit which I
began to practice on you and Uncle before I left
here, and which I was carrying on, when I was
detected by Mr. Waddel.”
“ Well, William, you have learned from short,
but sad experience, the consequences of vice;
and now abandon it forever. lam under inex
pressible obligations to Mr. Waddel, for his vigi
lance in arresting you in it, before it could be
come a habit with you. And now, my advice
to you is, to return to his school, do your first
works over again, and retrieve your character,
as you soon will, where you lost it.”
“No, mother, I cannot go back there; I’d
rather die than do it”
“Well, what will you do, my son? What
school will you go to?”
“ I don’t care about going into any school.
If you are willing, I will go into a store as a
clerk ?”
“ Mercy on me, William! Close up all your
bright prospects—bury your brilliant talents
among goods and groceries! No, my son, I
never can consent to that.”
“ Why, ma; almost all the merchants in town
began as’clerks, and see how rich and respecta
ble they are!”
“ But Providence has given you talents above
this calling!”
“My talents have done me very little good
as yet, and I doubt whether they ever will do
me any. What good will Latin and Greek do
me? No body speaks Latin and Greek. I
don’t see any good in anything hardly, that wo
learn at school. I think I had better stay here
with you, and take care of you, and be trying
to get an honest living, than to be running off to
school, where I will be constantly under temp
tations.”
“ Well, my son* there is a good deal of force
in your remarks. It will cost a hard struggle to
give up my fond hopes of yo ur future distinc
tion ; but I can easily reconcile myself to your
position in life as a respectable, wealthy, private
citizen. It will be a great comfort to have you
all the time with me. But let us think a while
longer before we decide upon this matter.”
While it was held under advisement, Doctor
Waddel’s promised letter arrived. After tender
expressions of condolence with Mrs. Mitten and
her brother’s family in their recent bereavement,
it continued:
“ But the main object of this letter is to offer
your son encouragements to return to school.
He left here under great depression of spirits,
and under the impression that his character was
irretrievably lost. No one in this vicinity, in or
out of the school, thinks so. Now that the
story of his misfortunes is fully understood,
every one attributes them to a train of untoward
circumstances which surrounded him, on his re
turn hither, rather than to depravity of heart.
Indeed, he has some noble traits of character,
which almost entirely conceal his faults from
the eyes of the public and his school-fellows —I
say the public, for though it is a very uncommon
thing for the public to know or notice scliool-boy
delinquencies, yet so wide-spread was William’s
reputation from his performances at our last Ex
amination and Exhibition, that every one who
knows him takes an interest in him, and every
one, I believe, regards him with more of sym
pathy than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt
not, to hear of his return to the school, and his
return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay, his
room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he
loves him yet, and that the half of his bed is
still reserved for him ; and the feelings of Gil
bert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feeling ß
ot nine-tenths of the school towards him. For
myself) I shall give him a cordial welcome. But
you will naturally ask, what will be m/ dealing
with him, if he return ? I answer the question
very frankly: I shall feel myself hound to cor
rect him; though in so doing I shall not forget
the many circumstances of extenuation in his
case. Had he been guilty of but one offence,
and that of a veneal nature, I should freely for
give it, as is ray custom, with the first offence.
But ho has been guilty of several offences, and
though none of them are very rare in schools,
they are, nevertheless, such as I have never al
lowed to go unpunished in my school, and which
I could not allow to escape with impunity in this
instance, without setting a dangerous precedent,
as well as showing marked partiality. I have rea
son to believe that William would cheerfully
submit to the punishment of his faults, even
j Two Dollar* Per Annnm, I
| Aiwa)* In Advance. |
though it were much severer than it will be, if
that would restore him to his lost position; now,
I can hardly conceive of anything better calcu
lated to have that effect, than his volunteering
to take the punishment which he knows awaits
him on his return, when he might perchance
avoid it by abandoning the school. But with or
without the punishment, he has only to be, for
ten months, what he has been for nearly as
many, to regain the confidence of every body.
Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this
case, and the very lively interest which I take
in the destiny of your highly-gifted son, could
have induced me to write a letter so liable to
misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our
acquaintance, I think you will credit me, when I
assure you, that my own pecuniary interest has
had no more to do with it, than yours will have in
deliberating upon its contents. Venly, the loss
or gain of a scholar is nothing, to
Your sincere friend and ob’t serv’t,
Moses Wadded.
(to be continued.)
THE MOCKINGBIRD.
This wonderful creation of tho feathered tribe,
whose native home in the south is made joyous
by its ever varying voice, has recently been
supposititiously decried in the “ Atlantic Month
ly.” A clever article entitled “ Night Birds,"
which appeared in that magazine, alludes to their
miraculous concentration of sweet sounds, in
very cautious terms of praise, and then pre
sumes, without personal experience on which to
found an opinion, that the mocking-bird, as
a musician, is inferior to the English nightingale. '
This admission we take to be treason to one “of
our “American Institutions.” The nightingale
deserves all that has been said and sung of it;
it is classic from the allusion made of it by the
best British poets, and herein lies really its im
mense popularity, for without such endorsement,
it never could have had its wide-spread popular
ity in this country. But the mocking-bird is its
superior. The charge that it is a mere “ mimic "
is false. To be sure the mocking-bird plays Old •
Nick with his follow wood companions; he de
ranges all their harmonies, is in fact a very Puck
of mischief, and seems to delight in annoying
his fellow warblers, and in confusing their best
laid plans; but there are times when the mock
ing-bird tires of his own imitative exuberance,
and sits down with a soul filled with himself, to
pour out upon creation his songs of heavenly
praise. On these occasions, the best efforts of the
English nightingale sink into mere prettiness;they
are the sonnets of Shenstone, while the mock
ing-bird is a pastoral Collins, and at the same
time as sublime as Homer. We have seen the
bird in the quiet mid-night of a southern sky,,
when the moon was declining in its full tide of
splendor, select some dead limb near the house,
and after going through many eccentric motions,
as if preparing for its grateful task, it would
turn its little head towards heaven, as if for in
spiration, and commence pouring out its song of
adoration and praise. The levity and absolute
rascality of its daylight revels were gone; it
was now seemingly an inspired voice, and for
hours it would make the surrounding groves
echo with its wonderful compositions. Some
times commencing with an original composition
in which all the feathered songsters were rep
resented, yet surpassed, it dwelt upon their in
ferior strains until they formed a back ground
for its expression, then would pour forth such
an overflow of notes that the listener, in spite of
himself, is led to believe that some immortal and
blessed spirit is struggling in the effort te make
divine communication with the world, You
listen —you are charmed —next, you are absorb
ed, and then in tlie astonishment and admiration,
you become superstitions and absolutely alarm
ed—you think that the bird is a delusion, that
the strains you hear are from tie invisible world
—that they are prophecies—Mnts — oracles — war
nings—messages from, the Mind of dreams. Such
is the effect of the music of the mocking-bird in
its wild home, on tie most unpoetical mind—it
absorbs, astonishes —and fills with dreamy fear.
The English afghtingale at best merely fills one
with admiration —its morning salute is as happy
in its time of expression, as its harmony is beau
tiful and enchanting, but nothing more. The
moeking-bird equals all this, and then ascends
to a higher sphere—reaching the moral sublime.
[Spirit of the Times.
•
Politeness. —In politeness, as in many other
things connected with the formation of charac
ter, people in general begin outside, when they
should begin inside; instead of beginning with
the heart, and trusting that to form the manners,
they begin with the manners, and trust the
heart to chance influences. The golden rule con
tains the very life and soul of politeness. Chil
dren may be taught to make a graceful courtesy,
or a gentlemanly bow; but unless they have
likewise been taught to abhor what is selfish,
and always prefer another’s comfort and pleas
vre to their own, thoir politeness will be entire
ly artificial, and used only when it is their in
terest to use it. On the other hand, a truly be
nevolent, kind-hearted person, will always be
distinguished for what is called native polite
ness, though entirely ignorant of the conven
tional forms of society.
NO. 20.