Newspaper Page Text
PLAIN TALK ABOUT THE F. AND F., ETC.
Augusta, Ga., Oct. 29, 1859.
Mr. Editor: —This evening I had an argu
ment against fearful odds, which caused me, af
ter I had exploded all my eloquence and logic,
and was retired to my room, to resolve to write
you a letter, commencing thus:
“Mr. Editor: May I tell you all that people
are saying about ” but there I stopped short,
remembering what a fearful risk I ran, —of ha
treds incurred,—of the man who gained a sum
of money by minding his own business, and
another who lost the same, by not doing the
same, Ac. But being a person of some perti
nacity of spirit, the result of my reflections were
as follows: “ Well, I just will do it. He said
he wanted criticisms, essays, Ac., of two or three
oolumns in length. The idea of telling a woman
how much to say on any subject! First, its
downright cruel, and then, it’s impolitic-, for any
man who knows the least about women, knows
he will surely be disobeyed. Any how, he did
not circumscribe me with regard to subjects,
and—well—no I’m not a coward I declare! So
I know what I’ll commence on.”
So Mr. Editor, hoping you will bear in mind
that I am a “new hand, ” I make my first bow,
—oh, courtesy, I forgot—before the public and
begin.
The Southern Field and Fireside !
“O wad some power the glftle gie us
To soe oursels as ithers see us.
It wad frac raony a blunder free us
An' foolish notion.”
Uncle Billy —“ Martin, go and tell Miss Kate to
send me the Southern Field and Fireside.
11 Southern Field and Fireside! a paper started
for the encouraging of Southern Literature, the
fostering of Southern intellect and genius, Ac.—
God help Southern intellectual-literary genius, if
this is a specimen!”
' Enter Kate -with paper—“ Hero it is, uncle.”
“Well Kate, anything readable to-day ? Be
gin.”
“ Master William Mitten, continued—Chap”—
“ There, there, Kittie, that'll do, go on at some
thing else if you please. When you can say
‘concluded,’ I’ll listen, and then you can tell me
the rest.”
-Rnt/i.-Whatl that not finished yet?”
Anna. —“ My dear, you should remember that
writers are paid by the column 1”
R. —“ Yes, but all writers are not Tbackerays,
and Editors should remember that.”
Kate. —“Of course, and while I was out ‘calling’
to-day, I heard that people were most generally
disappointed in the Field and Fireside. Some
one compared ‘ Master Mitten ’ to ‘ a woman’s
• nothing, long drawn out,’ and such words as
‘ trite ’ ‘ commonplace ’ ‘ ordinary ’ were
plentifully sprinkled about in the converaation.”
Charleyjkicking thefire.)—" Yes, and I heard
some gentlemen the other night say that, the
selections ”
Louise — (from her work-table.) —“ Hold your
tongue, Charley,you had better study your gram
mar lesson.”
“Why, Louise?”
“Well, Uncle—”
“ Why, where havo you been, you mouse ?
Have’nt you a word to say when some one is
being flayed ?”
“ Pm in a hurry to finish mamma's gown."
“Oh! Louise hates the Field and Fireside, she
said it was ‘ trash ’ and
Louise. —“ Charley, do you wish to be sent to
bed?"
Unde Billy. —“ Undoubtedly trash,”
Louise. —“ I beg pardon, Uncle, I—l—l
Ruth.—(interrupting with a wicked smile )
“ Oil, Louise ttunica H a sign of a narrow mind
not to retract on discovering ourselves in error.
Louise does retract; she does not think the Field
and Fireside ‘ rubbish."
Louise. —“ I think. Undo, that, perhaps, the
Editor is a little puritanical.”
Shouts of laughter, and “Pepper,” "salt,”
“vinegar,” “capsicum,” from Robert, behind
his Latin grammar.
“But there is much that is commendable”
“ Oil, Oil,” cried Ruth.
“ And I’m sure no one will ever be hurt by
reading the S. F. A F.”
“ From one and a half to three dollars a col
umn,” from Willie, a dull boy, who never could
learn ‘ parsing,’ and would much rather do his
sums ‘ in his head,’ than on the black-board, and
had lately ‘ got a situation.’
“ Why, Willie, you against mo, too 1 I thought
-you wore delighted that I had changed my vo
cation, and you had escaped my castigations.”
“ Am delighted with you, Auntie, but not with
the F. A F.”
“ Why, dunce-cap, what do you know about
literature ?”
“ I’m not deaf, auntie. I hear what people
say.”
“ People say ! people are like sick children—
they don’t know what they want.”
“ Come now, Louise, don’t get into a passion.
You had better give in. The odds are certainly
against you.”
“ But I won't give in—l never will, while
there’s a spark of right on my side” —getting
up and throwing down the work —“ Why what
do you expect of an editor ?”
“ Go it, Lou !” shouted the boys.
“ Expect him to give folk bread and meat, if
not oyster pates, and not mush and milk.”
“ Expect him to cater to public tastes and opin
ions.”
“ Cater to public tastes and opinions ! Why,
Anna ! You know what I said to the Doctor
about that ?”
“ I know what you said at the Doctor after he
was in the street!”
“ Hurra ! Louise afraid of somebody!”
L. —“ I’m not afraid of any one, but Ido not
choose always to say my mind.”
Uncle —“ Well, never mind, vixen ;we all
know you are not afraid. What was it you said
to the Doctor, and what was it he said to you ?’
L. —“ Well, 1 just said—”
Boys —“ Hear, hear! Louise has the floor. ” ’
U. —“ Silence, boys! or I’ll turn you every
one out. Go on, Lou; what did the Doctor say ?”
L. —“ Why, Anna was so foolish as to tell him
I wrote, but could not sell my pieces, and he re
marked that writing and editing was a business,
and it was necessary, to be successful, to cater
to public tastes —that few could change it. It
required a very high degree of art and genius
to do so. Somo few could, while the many fail
ed.” \
U. —“ Wall, and vour reply?”
L. —“ Why>j told Anna, Ruth, and Kate, to
day ” \
Julio —“ Oh! nv the Doctor!”
L. —“ Do hush, J sjjo, and lot mo alone. I told
them to-day, when they were teasing me about
altering my stories for i<s,blication —catering to
public opinion!—that I would'nt do it. —
They might lie and moulder\ m y drawer first.
I would—well, you know I 6kn make dresses
first rate—l would, I declare, put out a sign :
‘ Louise Manheim, dress-maker,’ and take that
sewing-machine there and wear oftmy foot,
sooner than chango anything for the mko of
being popular—unless I was convinced of Toeing
wrong. Cater to public tastes, indeed! Thatis
gaimm rwm vx&ksxde.
what the F. AF. will never do. Because, for
sooth, public taste is vitiated—”
“ Vitiated, Louise ! What, we Southerners ?”
“ Y-e-e-e-s, we Southerners. Oh ye princes
of the Earth! Princes, at least, in self conceit.
, Yes, I say vitiated, and none know this better
than the editor of the F. AF., if I translate his
, rejections rightly.”
“ Thought you did’nt read the Field and Fire
; sidet"
t “ Oh, she skims through it sometimes, a* she
i says Kate skims through everything except Joc
, olyn. Poor Kate, when she gets through three
hundred pages in twelve hours, Louise calls her
, a silly thing—when she mopes whole mornings,
i turning her beloved Jocelyn into rhyme, Louise*
, says she is a little fool.”
“ Hush, girls, that is irrelevant.”
! “No it ain’t, Uncle, that just gives me a point.
Young, inexperienced, silly, sentimental things,
. like Kate, attempt things utterly beyond their
| depth, are elated with themselves, and send
their' 4 effusions’ to the Field and Fireside ! Ido
, pity that man, when I think how much horrid
trash he must have to wade through during ono
week! What does the F. AF. profess to be ? A
means for the encouragement of Southern Lite
rature. How long has it been in existence ?
(I’m sure I don't know.) Every one knows how
indolent Southerners are. Os course there are
a few men and women of high literary talent at
the South; but those who are forced to it for a
livelihood, have long since found engagements
elsewhere, and a bird in the hand, Ac. And
then, we know that literature is badly paid for
1 in America. Our own fault. Americans are es
sentially a vulgar people ”
Julie. —Hall, there, Louise, I’ll take my hat.”
“ I assert it!”
“ Softly, softly, Lou, can’t you moderate a lit
* tie?”
“ Uncle, do you know what ‘ vulgar’ means ?”
“ Why, ves, I rather think so—”
“ You really must excuse me, but as you ob
ject to its application to Americans, I am forced
to doubt your knowledge of its signification, and
I repeat it We are Parvenus , pretty nearly all,
and ignorant people always will admire tinsel
and glare more than sterling worth. Just as the
uneducated, unrefined chandler’s wife and daugh
ters imagine they are grand people, because be
ing millionaires they can sport fino horses, car
pets, mirrors, silks, feathers, Ac., (and doubtless
such often wear their adornments with a credi
table degree of aplomb, for no people on earth
are so graceful, so handsome, or so naturally
shrewd and clever as Americans) just so, peo
ple who ‘ set up’ for geniuses, fancy that scrib
bling rhymes and tales constitutes the highest
degree of intellectuality. The Fireside at first
created a great furor. It has acquitted itself
with less eclat than was expected. Well, let us
see. Contributions poured in from all quar
ters. Every college boy, who should have stuck
to his geometry, and construed his Latin; every
love-sick young lady, who ought to have been at
school learning dictation, and grammar and
punctuation, contributed their mite of sweets.
Sweets, sweets, sweets! I’m sure the editor
must have had such a surfeit as to have caused
him vertigo sometimes. People expect too much
from a little. The S. F. AF. does not profess to
be the Living Age —it does not glean from the
London Quarterly, Blackwood, the Athemeum, Ac.
It is encouraging Southet n Literature, just in its
infancy. Were it in ordinary hands, we might
fear, judging the future by the past, that it might
retrograde. But it is not in ordinary hands, and
its fame and credit will iucrease. It is not a mo
ney-making concern, only. It professes to have
ainio, mb4 it uj, «dU it June boon, and trill bn
regulated by those sentiments (!). It never will
cater to public tastes, either. If people want
exciting and flashy reading, there is no dearth
elsewhere. Let them seek it. The editor feels
his vocation, and he will never be faithless to it;
I know it. A man who can scold women as he
does, when he thinks them wrong, do you think
any other consideration will make him swerve ?
Cater! Fancy him doing something he don’t
like to, to please people. No, he will breast any
storm —survive it, or perish at the helm!”
(Applause.)
WiUie —Of course, he can’t make dresses us
you can—he’d bo obliged to die or—give in.”
But he won’t 4 give inho will wait and
watch. He won’t always be bothered by a
whole host of nothings from college boys, sen
timental young ladies, aud married blue stockings,
whose greatest ambition is to see themselves in 4
print. He won’t always be the victim of
the vanity—oh, the cursed, pitiful vanity!
—of this American people this running
after the shadow for the substance, the blessed,
blessed invaluable substance of knowledge—this
degrading wearing of paste for diamonds! Rich
people, who have time and means to cultivate
themselves to the highest degree of excellence
—who could climb that hill, a little rough at
first, “but else so smooth, so green, so fair!”
—who could climb it without hearing the wail of
a neglected child—without feeling the hunger
paiu at the heart, the biting of the cruel cold at
the numbed feet and fingers; or who could
climb it, lending a helping hand, a smile of sis
terly or brotherly sympathy to many a one less
favored, less strong. Young ladies w'ho could
perfect themselves in one or several accomplish
ments or intellectual pursuits, towards which
their genius led them, must waste their time
scribbling novelettes—must be content with a
seat on the very lowest round of the ladder of
literary art—literary fame! How many such
can show, in her private drawer, for her oion
sweet pleasure, the story of a Max Piccolomini,
translated from the German by herself —a Max,
whom she fondly hopes will resemble her Max,
somo day in the sweet uncertain future, and of
whom she is striving to be worthy? How many
such can weep and tremble over the beauties of
Ipromissi Sposi in the beautifu Uingua Italiana? —
how many can depict on canvass, or with the
less tedious and unhandy crayons, charming
pictures of southern domestic life, or the grand
scenery of their country—her mountains, val
leys, cascades —her sail-studded lakes and riv
ers? How many can make the heart se server
with alternate joy and paiu—the cheek pale, the
frame quiver with the truthful rendering of the
passion and poetry of a Beethoven, a Handel, a
Myerbeer?—how many alas! among millionaires’
daughters, or the highest, the noblest of our
land, feel the force of the grand old French
maxim, noblesse oblige! Few, few —alas! one
might count the exceptions in this vast and noble
country of ours. But many dabble m rhyme,
rush through polkas, valses, varsoviennes—heel
and-toe-affairs rattle oft’ “variations” and
“opera pieces” glibly enough, but without in
the leaSt comprehending the author's idea or
passion; they write novelettes, alas, with a want
of discrimination between good aud bad, a touch
of levity, a sickly romance, that must some
times cause a shudder to the perusers, destitute
as they are of elegance of style’) and the glories
of intellectual adornment. Oh! my country
women, gifted, beautiful, rich-hearted as ye are,
—oh that, within your homes, ye were blessed
with guiding lights that could direct you to a
fairer, better goal, than the one towards which
ye are driving, alas, too many I 'Would that
American mothers comprehended aright the hue
beauty of intellectuality—the grand, blessed,
privilege of intellectual occupation—the charm
of completeness of perfection, as nearly as human
power can reach unto it. But nothing is thor
ough in this poor fair land—nothing is complete,
save the love of gaining and the love of shining
—of shining, too, at least amount of labor and
cost —shining in tinsel and paste—shining, the
i leprosy that attaints even the blessed inno
i cence of childhood.
And then, forsooth, from the contributions of
such idlers, such dilettanti, an Editor must
make good selections !
These are the fame-thinkers, that are glutting
our literary market with night-shade, and chok
ing out plants of a more healthy growth. These
send their literary, abortions to mercenary Edi
tors, who, sooner than pay for what is good, will
print for nothing sheet upon sheet of effemina
ting stuff: and thus,those who have truly an intel
lectual vocation, who follow it for a living, who
would perfect themselves and prove its credit,
its adornment, are driven into mechanical and
uncongenial pursuits, which almost invariably
causes bad men and bad .women. For what is
more galling, more palling, than to be forced to
work at what affords no pleasure ? It i 3 that,
alas! which makes half the suicides, half the
cynics, half the wicked, mischievous people one
meets in this world, because their intellectual
parts are—
“ Like a swonl laid by.
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously,”
for there are, alas! few Sydney Smiths in this
world, and then
“There, stop a minute, Lou—, I hate to interrupt
you, but I can’t get over something you said at
the outset. You said Americans, Southerners,
wrote vitiated trash. Trash—well yes, perhaps
—but vitiated—now you see that don't hold of
us Americans ”
“It will, I repeat it—effeminate, vitiated ”
Charley —“ French, you mean.”
All —(Laughter)—“ Hurra for Charley!”
“ Pshaw! you all can’t tease me about what
Mr. Editor said; you know—
A woman convinced against her will,
Remains of .the same opinion still.
I did not form my opinion in a day. No one
could have been more prejudiced than I was. At
any rate, if French writers do depict sin some
times, they give you a glance down inte some fiery,
flaming, raging crater of human passions, that
inspires, at least, the awe of horror—that makes
you shudderingly prostrate yourself—cover up
your face from the fearful spectacle of wicked
ness—the wonderful deceit and wickedness of
the human heart. And how often, at such mo
ments, does God hear the agonized “ Lord save
me, or. of myself, I perish!” although such
44 make no sign” to man. No one believes more
than I, all that Pope says about vice being
44 A monster of such frightful mien
That to be hated, needs but to be seen.
But seen too oft, familiar with his face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
No one, I hope, feels more than I the sublime
beauty, the humility of the prayer, “ Lead us
not into temptation/but deliver us from evil!”—
but still I know that temptation, and even sin,
are the ordeals through which many a glorious
nature is led up to a greater good and perfection.
I still think, as I said at first, that the Editor of
the F. and F. may be a little puritanical in his
selections —that he may reject much that is
amusing, piquant, and of a higher order of wri
ting than the selections that are complained of,
for the sake of its moral tendency. We cer
tainly cannot too highly esteem such a spirit on
the part of an editor. But, there is a certain
finesse in doing good in a general way —I don't
mean "catering," —that I wouldn't do—but peo
ple might be led to good, might be helped to
discriminate, aud not left to judge entirely for
themselves, like poor Rosamond with the colored
jars in the druggist’s window. How often, as a
child, havo I wept over poor Rosa's bitter dis
appointment, and thought what a cruel mother
she had! “ I’m sure,” I used to sob out, “if she
had only told Rosamond the jars wer’nt real red
and blue glass, she would have believed her,
and never made her foolish choice.” Leave
poor, weak, pleasure-loving humanity, to learn
right only by bitter experience, or keep it from
wrong-doing by tying it up! Why, if good ad
vice be utterly useless, where’s the use of
authors or editors? Mothers don’t cease to
lecture their children, or teach them only by the
force of example, because they are “ bad, and
4 won’t mind; ” nor do they lock up the misera
ble little miscreants all the time in the nursery.
Warnings cannot be too often or too kindly re
iterated. People should be told over and over
again, “That road looks green and fair and
flowery but the blooms are poisonous, and be
neath their bright petals nestles the adder; the
trees are Upas’ and will deform you, soul and
body, with their poisonous exhalations, and the
way leads at last, bleak, drear and rugged, down
to a dark pool called ‘Retribution,’ fed by a
burning river called ‘Remorse,’ and around their
ghastly shores are heard 4 wailings and gnash
ings of teeth.’ This way, less inviting at first,
grows fairer as you proceed, and leads to gardens
of Eternal Peace and Love. Ido implore you
by my love for you, and by yours for what is
good ami pure, come this way! ” People should
be told untiringly that
•“Twixt us, and care, and all life’s ills, (save sin
Whose never-endless ring weds to immortal woe)
Time's regal call shall place divorce.”
They should neither be blindfolded into doing
right, nor left entirely to their own promptings.
An editor should occasionally show the two
ways, tell us which is right, bid us follow it some
times earnestly, tenderly—sometimes in an au
thoritative “crushing'’ we of the first person
plural. The S. F. and F. should not—mind, I
don’t say it does, I only suspect it—turn off or
change articles that have a good deal of merit
and some wickedness or or, defects! He
should publish and then reprove roundly (and
sure he can). Writers would then learn to cor
rect their faults; he would then direct, control
the current of our Literature ; make himself
the master, the teacher beloved of our warm,
but undisciplined Southern hearts and heads.—
There are few moro fitted for such a responsibil
ity than the S. F. and F. lie wouldn’t shrink
from lopping off a rotten limb, not he —nor two
of them —so must he, then, prune our Southern
Literature of its cxcresenees, if he would suc
cessfully fulfill the “ mission ” on which he is
intent heart and head. It is not enough to say,
with a bitter sneer, a cutting sarcasm, “ There,
that’s w'rong, ridicnlous, improper—go and make
it better.” Oh, oh, if he could know the mis
ery, the pityful pain and sin such a course will
cause to some natures—the agonized shame, the
cruel sell-mistrust, I’m sure he would say nine
times out of ten, “ Come now, this won’t do.—
You must change it—let me help you. This and
this is wrong. Try and chango it. Do say yes.
I’m sure you can.” Now just suppose I had
been a timid little coward and had never dared
show my face again after my first castigation, I
would'nt bo here now, saying what he ought
and ought not to do, and defending him against
what people say of him.
But of course he can’t do a great dea!%>f di
recting and aiding now. Ho is deluged, over-
1 ~ ' ——
I whelmed with foolscap. I don’t wonder Mas
. | ter Mitten has been spun out, in order that he
1 may have a breathing spell and rally his be
i wildeisd forces.
The Southern Field and Fireside professes to
encourage southern literature. It will do so.—
The materials from which it has to cull its week
ly bouquet, are i*»ugh enough, soft enough, and
sad enough, i\o do^bt; but we should have all
faith in decision of and purity of in
tention. and southern firogressibility and resolu
• tion - (?) will be better by and by, if people
wfil only be patient and reasonable. Romo was
not built in one day, an* the V. and F. cannot
attain to the colossal nsagnitirfo of a Black
wood, an Edinburgh, or a\ in six
months. Southern literature is yet in swaths.
The bulwarks of Southern intHjeet cannot be
raised by the bend of a fairy bitches
and trenches must be dug first, thdibundavions
securely laid, or it’ll all come down in
i a few years, and there’ll be no Southed litera
ture after all. \
But there will be a Southern literature\ Mr
Editor has said it. Just wait a little tilN a ll
these butterflies that are fluttering around hf\
' half blinding him with their tantalizing
when, in the calmness of desperation, he deals
somo score of them a skillful thrust in tierce of
the “ third personjust wait, I say, till he rids
himself of some of these, and then you’ll see. The
true literati will keep their poise quietly on Mr.
Editor’s desk—they will combine the qualities of
the wasp, the bee and the butterfly, and then
people will know if the South can show real
geniuses or not. Mr. Editor won’t then have so
much drudgery to do, so many capitals, semi
colons, commas and periods to make—so many
incorrect French words to erase or change, and
, he will then be able to lend a helping hand to
some true but errant child of genius, whose im
petuosity has somewhat bewildered him—he
will smooth down gently the refractory blouzed
ringlets of somo fair Sappho, disordered by the
brisk air in the unwonted elevation to which
her enthusiasm has hurried her. Master Mitten
will be married hopefully, we hope; Jack Hope
ton will havo won Helen Bently, or found out
he was not the man to love such a woman after
all, and his “ volcanic friend” will have carried
off the prize—Mr. Editor will have learned a
short lesson regarding long stories—thus far he
will “cater,” but no farther. He never will pub
lish what is really injurious in place of what is
harmless—he never will “give in.” If he
wouldn’t to a woman, wliat else do you think
would rout him ! And he’s right
And then, I’m sure there is not a column of
“Jack Hopeton” or “ Master Mitten,” that is not
pregnant with useful comment, some pretty,
moving or amusing picture and some very ele
gant language. What else do people want?
Variety! Yes, I know, like sick babies, an
apple and a cako and a trumpet and a sword,
when the poor little weak arms and hands can
scarcely hold one at a time. I’ll just bet not
one of you can repeat a sentence verbatim from
“ Jack Hopeton” or “ Master Mitten.”
“ What a wonder! No more can you learn the
closing sentence in ‘ Evadne,’ tho’ you’ve stud
ied it six weeks. There’s nothing to catch at.”
Ruth. —“ Well, Lou, are you done?”
“No, I could say plenty more if I wanted to.”
Anna. —“Ah, but then ’twould be more than
three columns.”
Julio. —“ And that’s what you call a 1 criti
cism,' is it? My'dear Lou, I shall have to send
you over my Macauley or Lord Jeffrey.”
Charley. —“ Better say an oration.”
Kate —“No, an appeal!”
Rnth —“You ore all wrong-—a pot jxwtv.”
L —“Oh, I don’t care—it’s what I call the very
truth, and that’s more than Lord Jeffrey could
say when he retracted his first criticism of Word
worth’s poetry—that beautiful White Doe, Ac.”
Julia —“ What, blasphemer, you don’t dare!”
Yes, but I do dare.
Uncle Billy —“ Come, now, let her alone, all of
you. You’ve done very well, my dear— give
me a kiss, and when I'm rich, you shall publish
your books yourself."
There was a tear in Undo Billy’s eye, and a
quaver in his kindly voice. I bestowed the de
sired caress, and then, without turning my face
to my merciless tormentors—for I had been a
good deal in earnest, Mr. Editor, if it was a
criticism—l bade a quick, and, as l intended,
cheery good-night, and sprang to the door.
44 1 say—Louise—stop—don’t go—we forgot
to clap you,” said Julio, springing after me and
catching my scarf, which I left in his hands,
and, as I ran down the hall, I heard boisterous
enough applause, and repeated encores, which
changed into gay laughing and chattering, as I
reached my chamber door, and closed it for the
night. •*
And so, Mr. Editor, with many hopes that you
won’t “ cut me,” for telling you the truth, and
giving you some advice—the “ hottest” of all
doses for a man to swallow at the hands of a
woman—l make my courtesy and adieux.
Louise Maxiiiem.
AUTHORS'AND
Campbell, the poet, proposed the health of
Napoleon 1., because the Emperor had shot a
bookseller. The anecdote is an old one, but
has recently been revived and published in the
newspapers.
In regard to Campbell’s relations with his
publishers, there are statements not altogether
harmonious. One account is that the poet sold
the mauuscriptof the “Pleasures of Hope” to
a book-seller, who made thousands of pounds
out of its sale, and yet did not allow the author
any moro than he had agreed to allow him in
the beginning. Another account is, that further
remuneration was allowed to Campbell, and that
he had the profits accruing from the sale of a
quarto edition of his work.
What blame attaches, in either case, to Camp
bell’s bookseller?
According to one version of the story, he was
simply just; he gave the price agreed on for the
commodity he bought, at his own risk. Accord
ing to the other version, he added generosity to
justice.
If Campbell based his horror of booksellers
on this experience of his own, it would seem un
justified. Perhaps, considering the conduct of
booksellers at large in his time, he may have
been rightfully enraptured with the emperor,
w'ho had shot one of them. But his own pub
lisher seems to have used him fairly enough.
Authors and inventors, at the present time,
grumble a great deal about the publisher or sel
ler of book or machine. Often they seem to
think that the publisher or seller, who makes
money out of his risk or enterprise, in present
ing any work of theirs to the public, ought to
go back of the original bargain, made in view
of such risks, aud allow them a large share of
the profits. This is a one-sided view of the
subject. In general business, if a man makes a
good bargain in a fairway, it is considered just
that he should be allowed the benefit of his bar
gain. The taking of unfair advantage is always
and decidedly to be condemned. But in hold
ing parties to the terms of a fair agreement, no
unfair advantage is taken, and no sufficient
canse of complaint is afforded those parties.
r »" ■■■
CHtLDEEN’B COLUMN.
i (We propose, under this head, to have, week
ly, in our paper, a column or less of matter for
the especial amusement and instruction of “the
[ little folks at home.”)
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
A SKETCH.
“Call me darling, auntie, call me darling, and
then I’ll go to sleep,” plead little Aliee Morton,
as her sweet blue eyes peeped into her dear
aunt Mary’s face, to read the old glance of ten
derness, so familiar to her young heart.
Aunt Mary folded the little one to her bosom
with almost a mother’s tender affection, mur
muring, “My darling? Yes, my darling, God
bless your Innocent heart” In two minutes the
flaxen locks of her favorite drooped over her
supporting arm, the large blue eyes hid their
loving glances beneath their heavy fringed lids,
and with a sweet smile of content playing around
her little mouth, little Alice found herself in
dream-land.
How significant of woman’s nature! Ever
desiring some strong arm of support, while the
X heart is waiting for the kindly voice to whisper
5 “darling” or some other loving pet name in her
e ?V Woman is in this respect but a grown up
3 clnla^
3 W <Nmay talk of “ woman’s rights,” the
dearestlvto be beloved; of her “privileges,”
f the most brad is, to have her timid fears and
> heart-aching \>ubts soothed by affectionate en
-1 couragement; a3 g j ie strives to overcome
> P ecu “ ar trialv to know that one faithful
. friend can understand and appreciate her efforts.
r \ * S. C. S.
, The Boy who UxdeusTw) the Fifth Com
mandment. An old schoolrhuter said one day
’ to a clergyman who came to es*mi ne his school,
“I believe the children know the word
‘ word.” n.
“But do they understand it? Th*t j g the
question,” said the clergyman.
The schoolmaster only bowed respectfully,
and the examination began. A little boy liM
repeated the fifth commandment; “Honor thy
father and thy mother," and he was desired to
explain it. Instead of trying to do so, the little
‘ boy, with his face covered with blushes, said
almost in a whisper:
! "Yesterday I showed some strange gentle
men over the mountain. The sharp stones cut
my feet and the gentlemen saw they were bleed
ing and they gave me some money to buy me
r some shoes. I gave it to my mother, for she
had no shoes either, and I thought I could go
barefooted better than she could.”
A WarniNo to Boys who Stand on their
Heads.— The Portage (0.) Sentinel says: We
regret to record that our townsman, Dr. W. M.
Prentice, has sustained a severe affliction in the
death of his little son Frank. While visiting re
cently with his grand parents, in Boardman
township, Mahoning county, he was taken sud
denly ill, and upon investigation the cause was
found to proceed from too violent muscular ex
ertion—he being accustomed, like many other
boys, of performing such feats as walking on
his hands, standing on his head, Ac. He con
tinued to grow worse, from day to day, the dis
ease acting upon his physical nature, and not at
all influencing his brain, until Tuesday of last
week, when he expired. A few moments before
his death he bade his parents, little sister and
all his friends, good bye, and noticing the feel
ings exhibited by them, took the hand of his
father, and said, “Poor Papa and Mamma," and
oontfxwed himself for that sleep which knows
no waking in this world.'
When Sir Walter Scott was at school, a boy
in the same class was asked by the dominie
what part of speech with was. “ A noun, sir,”
said die boy. “ You young blockhead,” cried
the pedagogue, “ what example can you give of
such a thing ?” “ I can tell you, sir," interrupt
ed Scott; “You know there is a verse, in the
Bible which says: “They bound Sampson with
wifha” “That is right," said the teacher, —
“ with, in the example given by Walter Scott, is
a noun. But the noun is very seldom used. Al
most always when you see the word iu print, or
in writing, or hear it spoken, with is a preposi
tion.”
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ENIGMA, NO. IV.
I am composed of twenty-two letters—thus:
My 15,20, IT, IT, 8,15 —is dreaded by travelers.
“ 16, s,lß—is a bird.
“9, 10,11, B—is coveted by all.
“ 20. 18, 21,1, 2—is a slow animal.
“ 8,19,10,6,18 —Is an insect
“ 9,18, 4—is an insect
“ T, IS.22—is what wedoevery day.
“ 4, 5,12,11 —is what every one should learn to du.
My whole is an interesting book.
Answer next week. J. W, K.
RICHMOND FaCTOEY, Ga
Answer to Enigma No. 8: “Thou shall not kill.”
Correct solntions were furnished by Sarah, of Richmond;
Walter, of Green county; and Anon, of Greensboro’, Ga
|yEnigma No. 5, by U„ has been received. One
error is found, which has been corrected—“ 22” should
have been 28. Will appear next week.
~KBr"l>urtng the week, solutions have been received
from W. G. It, of Tuscaloosa, Ala, and J. H. K„ of Au
gusta, Ga—the first to No. 1, and the second to No. 2.
S3P““Lncy" is quite right “16” should have been
(as written) 6; great care should be taken In writing fig
urea.
fWAn original (and pretty fair) Enigma has been re
ceived from Penfield, but which, of course, will not ap
pear until the author sends his full name.
|3yThe author of the Enigma sent /torn Charleston,
must communicate his name.
Will “Fanny,” of Washington, send her full name ?
A Lady op the Olden Time.-stMts. Troupe,
the accomplished wife of a captain of the British
Davy, gives a lively account of a call she, with
two other ladies, made upon Mrs. Washington,
who, like her husband’s mother, was distin
guished for her management of household affairs.
“As she was said to be so grand a lady,” says
Mrs. Troupe, “we thought we must put on our
best bibs and bands. So we dressed ourselves
in our most elegant ruffles and silks, and were
introduced to her ladyship. 'And don’t you
think, we found her knitting , and with a chJtk
apron on! She received us very graciously and
easily, but after the compliments were oi«r, she
resumed her knitting. There we weiw without
a stitch of work, and sitting in state, but Gene
ral Washington’s lady*with her p«vn hands, was
knitting stockings for her husb* n d.”
A Chain op Cities.—chain of cities ex
tending along our Atlrftic seaboard, it is ex
pected, will show a increase in the census
to be taken next y»ar. The population at the
last census in 18*0, was:
Bangor, Portland, 20,000,’ Ports
mouth N. 5. 10,000 ; Boston, 137,000; Provi-
EO; New Haven 20,000; Brooklyn
ew York 515,000; Newark 38,000;
i 409,000; Wilmington, Del., 14,000;
69.000; Washington 50,000; Alex
)0; Richmond 27,570; Petersburg
rfolk 20,700; Wilmington, N. C.,
leston 43,000; Savannah 16,000;
Mobile 20,000; New Orleans 150,000: Galves
ton 4,200.
187