Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.