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[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
CHILDHOOD'S HOICE,
BY MBS. C. L. STATHAM.
I'm dreaming of my childhood's home,
And of the blissful day.
When Hope was young, and free front care.
We laughed the hours away.
I roam the garden walks, a child,
Snuffing the fragrant gale,
And pluck again fresh roses there,
And stately lilies pale.
I hear the mock-bird's thrilling notes,
The blue bird's distant call;
I hear the robin's plaintive lay,
The sweetest of them all.
And there’s the pathway to the spring,
Hard by, in mossy dell;
The trickling waters, icy cold,
Made music as they fell.
Now fancy leads me o'er the brook.
To the orchard on the hill;
Twas there we pretty garlands made,
Or romped and played at will.
The path among the wild plum trees,
Methinks I tread once more;
Sister and I, basket in hand.
As in the days of yore.
And thick the tender blossoms fall,
Beneath the humming bees;
Dame Allgood's cottage, just beyond.
Is peeping through the trees.
There where yon tree droops o'er the stile,
We paused to hear, each day,
The tinkling bells of herds the while,
That homeward wound their way.
The tangled vines still drape the hedge,
In many a wild festoon,
'Neath which the lambs, (their gambols o'er)
Lay quietly at noon.
Hero chased we many a butterfly,
And many a bird-nest found ;
Told o'er the eggs, and laid them back
W ith secrecy profound:
Then hied us home with ruddy check.
And heart as feather light,
Panting to talk our rambles o'er,
With innocent delight
Ah 1 fields so green, or flowers bo fair,
And skies so softly blue,
Methinks in all my life gone since,
Have never met my view!
But she who rambled with me there,
Beneath the elm-tree lies,
Near where yon tapering poplar lifts,
Its tall form to the skies.
Dimmed is the brightly beaming smile,
That gladdened me of yore,
Dear Sallle's lov’d and loving glance,
Will greet me never more 1
Yet oft with me, in dreams she walks
By brook, o'er field and hill;
Home of my childhood !*'tis for this,
I dearly love thee still!
Brookhaven, Miss., June 9th.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS
08,
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY of A GEORGIAN.
BY WM. W. TURNER.
Mr. Bently was in the prime of life—almost
young—at least, young to be the father of
grown-up children. He was a noble looking
man, with a real thorough bred, appearance. At
this time he was lounging in slippers and light
est kind of summer costume, enjoying a fragrant
cigar. A careless observer, judging from his
present indolent appearance and attitude, would
have pronounced him to bo an elegant and lazy
gentleman, entirely in love with ease and lux
ury ; but an occasional compression of his thin
lips, a fiery glance of his dark eye, and a fierce
dilation of the nostril, gave evidence of an ener
gy and impetuosity of disposition, completely at
variance with his present appearance.
Indeed, his countenance could chango instant
ly, from an expression of the most winning
kindness, or most idlo languor, to one of the
most vital energy, or most haughty sternness.
Near by, in a luxurious rocking-chair, sat
Mrs. Bently, the beautiful wife of the gentleman
just described. She retained nearly all the
grace and comeliness which once rendered her
the belle, where, to be such, required a combi
nation of beauty and talent which is rarely to
be found. She had auburn hair, with glorious
eyes of a color to correspond. Her features
were rather of the Grecian mould, but with
more of animation and expression than is com
monly supposed to characterize that style.
She was fondly gazing on her children—her
jewels.
Os these, Frank was a tall, rather slender,
but well-proportioned, handsome youth, with
the dark hair and eyes of his father, whom he
greatly resembled. The same firm, but hand
somely-cut mouth and proudly-dilating nostril
characterized both. Unlike his father, at that
time, though, Frank was all animation, talking
gaily and banteringly with his sister Helen.
Helen Bently! How shall I describe what it
would have been the proudest task of a Rey
nolds to print?—the beauty of Helen Bently?
I am writing of one, bom and reared in a land
where Nature has exhausted her ingenuity in
conceiving and perfecting the most glowing
combinations of form and feature ever sent to
ravish the Soul of man. Still, even here, she
was considered surpassingly, unapproachably
beautiful.
Inheriting the dark hair and eyes of her
father, in her those eyes assumed an expression
of soul and tenderness —intoxicating and love
inspiring—such as belongs only to woman’s
eyes. With the beautiful features of both pa
rents combined, and excelling both, she- might
have passed for the realization of the poet’s
brightest and most enthusiastic dream.
A figure which might serve as a modei for
the piece of statuary the most faultless in its
proportions, which ever emanated from the
hands of the most inspired sculptor—a foot
which the wild and free-born Arab would say
could belong to none but a patrician of the
highest blood—a hand which the poetic imagi
nation of a Byron would declare that none but
the proudest bom dame could possess —a neck
that swan of snowiest down might have envied
—a head which boro itself with such firmness
and pride, yet with such womanly reserve and
modesty, as might well have become a maiden
queen—all these were features which constituted
her beautiful.
Helen was considered peerless, in a land
where beauty is the rule, ratlier than the excep
tion.
She was attired for a ride with her brothers,
and stood, whip in hand, near one of the orange
trees, which protruded its branches within her
rea h, as if anxious to offer the incense of its
fragrance at the shrine of her loveliness.
Romping about among the trees below, was
Walter, the youngest of the party. Blue eyes
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auburn hair, and an expression of reckless fun
and deviltry characterized Master Walter’s ap
pearance. His riding suit was a somewhat fan
tastic one, of his own choosing and getting up.
He was frolicking with some dogs—a shaggy
Newfoundland, which he claimed as his own
property —a couple of splendid pointers, owned
by Frank —and a pretty little Italian grey
hound, which recognized Helen as mistress.
Reader, does your mind’s eye take in all the
features of the scene I have been trying to
sketch ? A noble colonnade, with vines and
flowers the brightest—a gentleman in the prime
of life, and of a noble presence—a beautiful and
dignified matron —a handsome youth—the fair
est of maidens—below, a curly-headed boy,
gamboling among the shrubbery—beyond, in
front, all around, a grove where the golden hue
of the orange, the dark glossy green of the ever
green foliage, the snowy white of magnolia
blossoms, and all the colors of tropical flowers
mingle in magnificent and gorgeous harmony;
while still farther stretches the forest, till it
fades as it approaches the beach, and the white
line of the latter marks the edge of the water,
receding till it meets the azure sky, bluer than
that of Italy!
But now the horses came bounding up, ridden
by grooms of a polished ebony color — id est, by
the blackest sort of little niggers —generaled by
Charles William Henry, a wild, devilish young
darkey, who usually followed Frank Bently
wherever he went. Frank’s horse was a mag
nificent blood-bav, which bore eagerly on the bit,
and trod the earth as though he were its mon
arch. Helen’s was a beautifully-dappled grey,
with arching neck and snow-white mane and
tail. Walter’s glossy little black showed a spirit
full as high and proud as the others. Charles
Wm. Henry rode a fine colt, as wild as lumself,
and he came rearing and plunging.
Walter mounted quickly, as soon as the
horses came up, and the excited dogs ran after
him, leaping and barking.
“ A pleasant ride to you,” said Mr. Bently, as
Frank took Helen’s hand, and the two tripped
gaily down the steps.
“Walter, don’t make your horse cut such ca
pers,” said Mrs. Bently, who, though a bold
liorsewoman, did not quite like the wild curvet
ing3 of the fiery little black.
“Never mind,” answered Waiter, “I’ll take
care of my neck, mother.”
“ Charles, you black rascal,” again spoke Mr.
Bently, “ wliat are you teasing and fretting that
colt so, for? Make him hurt himself while you
are gone, and you'll repent it.”
“Lord, master," answered the darkey, “ I
feels de ’sponsibility of my siteration too much
to hurt de colt, which you holds in sich desalted
resteem.”
“Yes—l know,” said Mr. Bently; and he
added: “Frank, you must keep an eye on that
hair-brained fool of yours.”
“I will, father."
The party set off, the well-trained negro
keeping his position in the rear, despite the cha
fings of the eager colt They rode to the beach,
and just as their horses’ feet struck the hard
sand, the sun was sinking. It was deliciously
cool and pleasant.
“ How I do love this ride,” exclaimed Helen.
“ They talk of the monotony of the sea shore,
but I see enough of variety in the rippling of
the water and the ever-varying forms of the
line of shore, to interest me every day. Then
the sight of strange sails is always sufficient to
excite conjecture and interest.”
“Perhaps,” answered her brother, with a
quizzical smile, and peeping round into her eyes,
“ Perhaps you had better mention that this par
ticular part of the sea shore is frequented by
certain nice young men—by a Mr. Dick But
ler, in particular —who contribute to render mo
notonous sand banks, interesting.”
“ And if,” retorted Helen, “ I should fail to
mention that these young gentlemen are fre
quently seen in company with their sisters—
such pretty girls as Miss Clara Butler, for in
stance, I should certainly fail to mention the
chief attraction which this spot possesses for
Mr. Frank Bently.”
“ I’m fairly answered, Helen. It is perfectly
useless to try to deceive one’s sisters in these
matters. But I wonder what has become of
Dick and Clara. I havn’t seen them in a week.”
* “What! Can you not bear a week’s absence?
Be of good cheer, though; yonder is Clara, now.”
“ Sine enough. Speak of the angels,
and straightway they appear. Yonder’s Dick,
too. Let’s overtake them.”
And without waiting for a word of assent,
Frank put his horse in a gallop, while Helen,
seeing herself about to be left behind, was fain
to follow hiß example. Dick Butler heard horses’
feet behind, and turning, as he perceived who
was coming, he halted, and exclaimed:
“ Hallo, Frank, are you riding a steeple chase ?
And Miss Helen,” he added, bowing low down
to his horse’s mane, “ how this exercise makes
her eyes sparkle, and her cheeks glow!”
“ Something else besides exercise, Dick.” said
Frank.
“Ah! lady,” resumed Dick, in such a tone
that it was difficult to say whether he spoke se
riously or jestingly; “ you should never appear
on horseback. One finds it hard enough to keep
his heart still, and look at you, under any cir
cumstances. To do so when you appear as
now, is utterly impossible.”
“ I will remember that compliment, Mr. But
ler,” said Helen, “ and enter it to your credit—
to be repaid whenever lam in funds. At pres
ent, it is utterly out of the question for me to
discharge so heavy an obligation.”
“ I am glad to see you out once more, Miss
Clara," began Frank. '‘Really I had began to
fear the moon would forget and forever cease to
shine upon its poor brook.”
“ There, that will do. Mr. Bently,” was Clara’s
reply. “I shall no? enter that to your credit,
for I should never be able to repay so exquisite
a compliment; so you may consider it lost, if
you expected a return for it, as is generally the
case with those who are vain enough to become
flatterers.”
“And now, Dick,” again spoke Frank, “since
we have both been so well answered by the la
dies, I will answer your question. Know, then,
we were not riding a steeple chase; but I was
trying to get in company with your sister, and
my sister was riding to overtake you: so fall in
to ranks^
And with the word, he unceremoniously rode
between Dick and his sister, while Butler, with
“If you will allow me the honor! Miss Helen,”
took up his position en cavalier with her.
Keenly did those four persons enjoy their ride
that evening, for they were young, and their
hearts were yet fresh. ffhe world, with its hard
ening, chilling influence, had not interposed be
tween them and the pleasures of life. Yielding
themselves fully to the intoxication of spontane
ous gayety, they saw and thought nothing of
the dark clouds which, at some period of life,
must lower over the devoted heads of mortals.
They rode along the beach toward the north,
till they came to a road which turned np to the
left through the noble forest. This they follow
ed through its deep shades, waking the echoes
with laughter, and sometimes with carol, till
they came to the road leading by the front gate
which opened into the grounds of Bentwold.—
At this gate they halted.
“ Helen,” said Clara, “you are my debtor, in
visiting, and since this was the case, why did
you not come over and find out my reason for
not taking my accustomed rides ? ’
“ I have been very busy, Clara, but I will
call soon.”
“ Busy! I should like to know,” broke in Dick,
“ what you girls,find to be busy about.”
“ Yes, but it i| none of your business, sir.”
“ Come and seo me, Helen,” again, said Clara,
“ I have a long tfdk for you.”
“And a precious talk it will be,” again said
the pertinacious Dick. “I give you fair warn
ing ; I shall hidi somewhere and listen, just to
see if I can find a hat you two have been so
busy about."
“ Forewarned, forewarned, my dear brother
Dick. Remembi r the fate of Acteon of old, who
was changed inti, a noble stag, for indulging in
impertinent curiiity. Take care that you are
not changed intoia certain animal with long ears,
which is not quite so noble a beast.”
“Thank God!” said Dick, in so dismal and
lachrymose a tone, as to raise a loud laugh.”—
“Thank God! the sex of the present day,
though quite as cruel, are not exactly as power
ful as those we read of in the Mythology.”
“ But you will find, sir,” said Helen, “ that
they have quite enough of power to torment you
of the sterner sex as you deserve. Indeed,
judging from the earnestness of your exclama
tion, I should say you had already had practical
demonstration of the t ct.”
“ Yes,” said Clara, lughing at Dick’s confu
sion, “he has doubtlen been jilted.”
“Frank, you unseeing wretch,” said Dick,
turning to that young gentleman, “ why don’t
you come to my assistance, instead of sitting
there, ready to roll off your horse, with laugh
ing ?”
“No use, Dick,” asswered Frank, with the
tears of mirth rolling cown his cheeks, for he
knew something of his friend's discomfiture. “ I
should only get a broken pate myself, without
helping you in the leaat. They have the whip
hand of you now, so yau must grin and bear it.
Bide your time, and jiy them back when you
have the opportunity.'
“Well! Every dog has his day, and mine
will come. In the meantime, ladies, you can
just display your talen. for railery, to the full
bent of your inclinati*a.”
“But where is Waiter,” suddonly exclaimed
Helen.
“ Hero he comes,” sud Frank.
Turning, they saw tie wild boy coming up at
full speed, his mettlescaao little charger all in a
foam, and the darky, w th the colt, pressing hard
in the rear. Dick and his sister galloped off,
while the Bentlys passed through the gate and
wended their way honeward.
CHAPTER XVI.
Horace Bently was bom in Georgia, of wealthy
and indulgent parents.- Fortunately, he was not
easily spoiled, or he would certainly have been
ruined by the system pursued in his rearing.
However, his lather always insisted that it was
because Horace was tot to be easily spoiled,
that he allowed him so much tether. He studied
the character of his children, and found with in
expressible joy that his son, though impetuous—
which he could excuse, as it was a family fail
ing—had a warm, generous heart, and an in
nate sense of honor, which would not allow him
to bo guilty of a mean act, however many he
might commit which the world would call rash
and imprudent.
If the boy had needed restraint, ho said, he
would most certainly have imposed it. As a
natural consequence of these notions, Horace
had few ungratified whims or wishes. He had
horses, guns and dogs, at an age when most boys
are satisfied with tops and marbles. Fortunate
ly for him, though, his father had employed a
tutor who won his regard, and persuaded him
to bestow more time on his books, than was
thought possible by the neighbors, who saw him
running wild over the country.
The elder Bently sent the youth to West Point
at an early age. The strict military discipline
was little to his taste, however, and petitioning
to be taken away, he returned home, more in
love with liberty and Georgia than ever. Still,
an irresistible desire to visit Europe possessed
him, and having his own way in this, as in ev
ery thing else, he soon set out, accompanied by
his tutor.
His father had the good Bense to insist on this
last condition, and Horace consented very readi
ly ; for he loved his guide in knowledge, and
delighted in his company.
Never, I ween, was there such a tour mado
as this of Horace Bently. His tutor could not
control him. He could only persuade him, and
it must be confessed, that his persuasions were
often of little avail. Sometimes the restless
youth would travel with all the speed he could
command, from one place of pleasure and—the
truth will out—of dissipation, to another; then
stopping for weeks and months, unpacking his
book 9, he would study with all the avidity of the
most inveterate book-worm.
Now frequenting some old gallery, hung with
productions of the master spirits of art, he
studied them with all the enthusiasm of his na
ture—then betting with a recklessness which
seemed madness, in some Parisian “Hell.”
To-day reposing peacefully and quietly in a ru
ral villa on the banks of the “ willowy Loire”
or “ melancholy Po," where every thing was so
still and calm it seemed as if no dream of ambi
tion, or pleasure, or love, could ever disturb him
who had once tasted of its delicious repose—
to-morrow, hunting the toilete schwein in a Ger
man forest.
At one time he lingered with his tutor on some
classic spot—the very Mecca of the literary
pilgrim—again he plunged into the vortex of
dissipation at some European capital. Now he
laughed amid the Grisettes de Paris, or stole
glances with a dark-eyed Circassian. Such
were some of the features of this extraordinary
tour.
Horace also endeavored to attain all the ac
complishments which he considered a necessary
part of the education of a gentleman. He had
a very decided talent for them all, too; and, af
ter spending three or four years abroad, he re
turned just such a young man as susceptible
young ladies fall in love with.
The youth had uome peculiar notions. For
instance, he believed that our very passions
might be rendered useful, when properly con
trolled and directed—that so long as the man
is master of his passions, he can make them
answer a good end; but he well knew that if
the passions were the master, they would render
their subject miserable, as all tyrants do their
slaves.
For these reasons, he endeavored merely to
control, and not to eradicate, his passions. He
did not wish to destroy the spirit of anger, be
cause that, acting in consent with his sense of
justice, would sometimes cause him to knock
down a stronger party for oppressing a weaker
one, when, if this support had not been given
to the sense of justice, this last might have been
entirely overcome by caution or prudence, and
the oppressed would have gone unavenged.
In this case, anger is made to assist justice.
On the contrary, were the passion the master,
it might force its slave into the commission of
the crime of homicide.
Horace, then, tried to attain great self-con
trol; but of course it is not claimed that he
never was hurried into the commission of rash
and foolish acts. The man bom with strong
passions, can never so entirely subject them to
his control, that no combination of circumstances
is able to force him to act inconsiderately.
Among the harmless peculiarities of the man
we speak of, was an extraordinary fondness for
orange trees. The sight or thought of an orange
grove always stirred up within his breast, ideas
of romance and poesy. Ho could never find
words to express the intense delight with which
he used to wander through the orange groves of
Spain.
Singularly enough, orange trees and sea
breezes were always associated together in his
mind, and he could not think of one without
being reminded of the other. He loved Georgia,
and determined never entirely to desert his na
tive State; but he also resolved to gratify the
predilections above mentioned, by building a
house, where he could enjoy the two much
coveted luxuries.
The idea of going to Cuba occurred to him,
but he could not consent to live elsewhere than
under the protection of the stars and stripes.
His attention was very naturally directed to
Florida, and he visited that State. Fortune fa
vored him to a remarkable degree, for at the
house of an old friend of his father, he met
Miss Arlington.
I need only say, she was a lady calculated to
take the heart of Horace Bently by storm.
He who, all the time, had been flattering himself
that he could bind or loose his affections as he
listed, found that he had been laboring under a
great mistake; and he fell deeply, madly in love.
Miss Arlington had a cousin—Ben Wycliffe—
a fierce, reckless fellow, who had persecuted
her with offers of marriage, since she was a
girl. His savage temper and well-known dar
ing, had at length driven off nearly all the suit
ors who at first thronged around her. This
fact, though, so far from frightening Horace,
acted as an incentive to induce him to woo the
lady; for he was foolish enough, sometimes, ac
tually to court danger and difficulty. He won
Miss Arlington’s love, and then he was ready to
face a legion of devils in defence of his claims.
Ben Wycliffo soon heard how matters were
going, and he raved and swore like a maniac.
His associates tried hard to prevent a rencoun
ter between him and Horace Bently, but in vain.
The hair-brained fool sought his successful
rival and insulted him. in public. Os course he
was knocked down for his pains, and on picking
himself up, ha drew a pistol. One was prompt
ly produced by his foe, and wild work would
have been done, had not some one struck the
pistol from Wycliffe’s hand. Horace was too
chivalrous to fire on an unarmed man, and,'for
the time, the thing stopped.
The next day, the discomfited fellow sent a
challenge to Horace. The latter accepted it,
and offered choice of weapons. Wycliffe chose
rifles, thinking his antagonist was unacquainted
with that arm. Ho reckoned without his host,
however; for in the duel which followed, he
was carried off the field a cripple for life, whilst
his antagonist escaped unscathed.
So Horace carried off the prize—Miss Ar
lington ; and what was bet —at least what was
very well —he received with her the estate on
which he afterward built the house described to
the reader.
CHAPTER XVII.
One day Frank Bently and Walter went to
D . The sunset came on, and Helon and
her parents were again in the collonade.
“Father,” said Helen, “have you given up
riding on horseback ?”
“ Why, what are you thinking of, Helen ?”
answered Mr. Bently. “ I ride every day. This
very morning I rode all over the plantation.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that sort of riding. I
speak of the delightful gallops between sun
down and dark, just for the sake of the cham
pagne-like exhilaration attendant on such ex
ercise.”
“ Ah! oh! That is it, eh ?”
“ That is just what I mean.”
“Well, I am very much of the opinion, that
such ‘ gallops ’ are incomplete in the eyes of
sentimental young ladies without the attend
ance of gallant and youthful cavaliers.”
“I admit, father, that these last do render a
ride rather more pleasant than they are without
such accompaniments.”
“Then, Miss Helen, as I am neither very
youthful nor gallant, I would make a poor cava
lier: so I must e’en beg you to excuse me.”
“Ob,” said Helen, “but you are the only
chance. I shall be fain to rest satisfied with
what I can get.”
“Much obliged, Miss Helen,” replied Mr.
Bently, settling himself down still more lazily
in his easy seat, and puffing out the curling to
bacco-smoke still more luxuriatingly. “Thank
you, I’m very well situated.”
“Why, father,” exclaimed Helent, “ won’t you
ride?”
“ What! Abandon my present precious dolce
far niente for a jolting gallop with a giddy-brain
ed girl, who is willing to put up with me, merely
because she can do no better ?”
And Mr. Bently enveloped himself in the odor
iferous clouds of his cigar.
“I am sure, you look young yet, father, if not
youthful, and you are better looking than most
young men.”
“Ahl this delightful cigar!” soliloquized Mr.
Bently. “I must write to Hooks Jfc Bangs to
send me another thousand, before they sell them
all.”
“ But that need not hinder you from riding,
now,” persisted Helen.
“ I have not smoked a moro pleasantly-fla
vored article in a great while.”
Helen now concluded to change her tactics.
“ Mother," said she, “you were once very fond
of riding, but your favorite Don Carlos has now
been idle in his stable lo! these many days.”
“ Oh, I acknowledge, daughter,” was the re
ply, “ that I have grown quite lazy.” And Mrs.
Bently leaned listlessly back and rocked herself
quietly and gently.
“But, dear mother, your health will suffer, if
you take so little exercise.”
“I’m very well, Helen —thank you."
“I declare you look pale, even now.”
“ Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Bently.
“What are you laughing at, father?"
“To see how cunning you are. You take ad
vantage of the Parian fairness of your mother’s
complexion, to persuade her that "she needs ex
ercise, knowing well that, if she rides, I am
bound to attend her."
“ Certainly you must."
“ And in this way you will get a cavalier.”
“ Yes, sir—one that will do pretty well, un
less I meet with a better one in my ride.”
But after a little more of this badinage, tbreo
horses were brought around, and three riders
mounted and dashed off merrily from the house.
“ Let us ride to meet Frank and Walter,”
said Mrs. Bently.
“Agreed,” was the response, and they turned
their horsws’ heads toward D—■—.
They had not proceeded far, before they saw
Frank afid Walter coming toward home, and
with them two strangers. As the two parties
drew near each other, that from Bentwold
scanned the features of the strange ' gentlemen.
One of these was of striking appearance—pale,
handsome, distingue, with coal black hair, pierc
ing black eyes, and long, drooping, black mous
tache. He was of medium size, with a graceful
and symmetrical figure, which betokened strength
and activity.
The other was somewhat younger—not ill
looking, with a pretty good figure, and eyes
which could at least gaze on beauty till their
owner was intoxicated with its charms.
In the first stranger, no doubt the reader has
already recognized Fitzwarren. The other was
your humble servant, Jack Hopeton. I had
graduated and left the University. For a year
before I left, Fitzwarren had been very irregular
in his studies, being frequently absent several * '
weens, or a month, at a time. Indeed, he did
not spend much over half his time at the Uni
versity.
He and I were a good deal with each other,
though whenever he was at the University, and
when he left it, at the same time I did, we had
travelled together for some time.
We were presented in due form, by Frank
Bently, to his father, his mother, and his sister.
I need not describe Helen Bently again to the
reader. On that evening, in her picturesque
riding costume, as she sat, her cheek glowing
with exercise,'and her eyes sparkling, reining
in her eager charger, and receiving our saluta
tions with such dignity and grace as no queen
could excel, she was beautiful, as only those of
our clime can be beautiful.
It has long been a vexed question, whether
there is such a thing as love at first sight. It
all hinges on the definition of the word, love.
The world will probably be divided in opinion
on the subject, till tlio end of time. I will not
enter into the discussion of an abstract question
here; but I will say that when, on being intro
duced to Helen Bently, I looked on those finely
chiseled features, and that beautifully-moulded
form; above all, when my eyes met hers, and
looked flutteringly and bewildered into the
depths of soul which appeared in them, I fell
suddenly, deeply, and irrevocably in love.
Foolish enough it was, doubtless, but it was
all done without any act of volition on my part,
and I cannot be blamed if I was wrong. Some
how, in the changing which took place, as we
started on the way back to Bentwold, I found
myself by the side of Miss Bently, and in the
rear of the party. .
Some men, when drunk, have sense enough to
know it, and try to conceal it by avoiding com
pany and conversation. Others, again, try to
hide it by talking gravely and reasonably. There
are still others who never know when they are
under the influence of liquor and consequently
take no paius to show that they are not. Os all
these, he who tries to converse soberly is the one
who appears most ridiculous.
On the day I first saw r Helen Bently, I was
fully aware that I had fallen under the intoxica
ting influence of love, and my wisest course
would be to seek some other companion in tlfe
ride than her who had been the cause of my hal
lucination ; but it was a pleasure for me to hear
the tones of her voice, and to meet her eyes, oc
casionally, as she would sometimes turn them on
me in answering or asking a question. Oh! how
pleasant was the dawn of love 1
I think, too, that I managed to refrain from
rendering myself very ridiculous. If Helen
Bently had been vain as some girls, she might
have perceived immediately that .she had made
a conquest. She was not vain, however, and
had never been much into the world. Indeed
she was just out, and though lady-like and self
possessed, her feelings were genuine. She had
not acquired the artificial manners and sentiments
of society.
As for me, I had, by dint of hard struggling,
acquiredconsiderable control over features which,
when I was a boy, always told what was passing
in my mind; and, by being pretty often in the
company of ladies, I had become tolerably well
acquainted with the general range of topics
which please them.
Yet I hardly know what I said to Helen Beut
ly during that ride. At least my recollection of
the conversation is not sufficiently distinct to
enable me to record it.
Wo were left pretty much to ourselves, though
I noticed that Fitzwarren looked back occasion
ally.
(to be continued.)
-»- -
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ORIGINAL ENIGMA,
For the Little Folks at Home.
I am ooinposed of twenty-seven letters of onr Alpha
bet-arranged as follows:
My 8, 17, 7—is wbat wc all do, every day.
“ 16,10, 9,4, 24—is what we, if well, do every day.
“ 10, 9 17,16 —is what we should do every day.
“ 4,17,16—is what we should avoid being, every day.
“ 12, 6,11 —is what wo are apt to like, every day.'
“4. 9,11, 24, 27 —is a good thing to have, any day.
“ 20, 6, 9,ls—is good to have, on a wintry day.
“ 21, 22, 28—we hope you have not, to-day.
“ 24, 28,15,15 —is what some traders will do to-day.
“4, 5, 7 —is a dreadful sight, any day.
“ 16,13,14—is what we must do, some day.
“ 14, 15,16, 8, 22—is an officer in the Presbyterian
Church.
“ 17, ic, 11, T— is a maternal relative.
“ 2.17, 1- Is worn by masculines.
“ 26,97, 17,10—is an appellation for feminines.
“ S, 5,10,11 —is a musical instrument.
“ 8, 9,11 —is a barn-yard inhabitant.
“2, 5,10, 4, B—isa useful animal.
“ 5,17, 7,24 —is food for said animal.
“ 27, 26, 25,1, 5,10 —is essential to my “ whole."
“ 23,15,15, 24—is the author of this enigma.
My whole is welcomed weekly, by nearly ten thou
sand families.
Answer next week. E. ,
—
The Committeo of Plans for the Monument to
the Signers of tho Declaration of Independence,
to be erected in Independence Square, Philadel
phia, met at tho Metropolitan Hotel last week.
The Tiibune reports that they decided to publish
a prospectus, a copy of which is to bo addressed
to all architects and artists throughout the Uni
tod States, setting forth that all plans sent in for
the approbation of the Committee, must bo
drawn upon sheets of paper two feet square, on
tho scale of 4 feet to the inch, providing a base
60 feet in diameter, having 13 sides, and in each
side a niche or entablature containing some de
vice representative of each of the thirteen States,
a shaft or column over all. The plans are to be
sent to A. G. 'Waterman, Esq., Philadelphia, on
or before tho Ist of January, 1860. The Com
mittee have resolved to award for tho best plan,
which will be adopted, $300; second host, S2OO.
All plans sent in are to bo the property of the
Trustees of the Monument.
—« m •
Advice. —Almost the only commodity the
world refuses to receive, although it may be had
gratis.