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162 [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 tgmE 80VX3RSU VXS&D Eli® YXBSBXINB. 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.