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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