Newspaper Page Text
Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 1.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
4 DO THOSE LOVED ONES MISS ME 1
rs BY ELSIE EARNEST.
Ah! do tho3C loved ones miss me
From the old, frequented haunts *
From the greenwood's leafy shades,
tL Where the mock-bird gaily chants —
Y * Where the breeze, in gentle whispers.
Speaks, with sighing sad and low,
) Os her who loved its murmuring ? "
Those loved forget me? No!
J Ah ! I know those loved ones miss me ;
y For I feel it in my heart,
/ Whose tendrils twine around, and draw
~\ Its loved ones, when apart
* Yes, they miss me, for I feel it;
Kindred souls by love entwined,
V Commune by a mystic union
L Heart with heart, and mind with miml!
v Macon, Ga., 1859.
J
y [For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS
P 08,
O THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN.
4 BY WM. W. TURNER.
' CIIAPTKR XXI!.
f “ Fitz," said 1, one day when we were pretty
well satisfied with traveling through the peniu
-1 sula, and were thinking of turning our faces
" northward, “ I cannot get my consent to leave
j Florida without seeing Helen Bently again.”
For a moment there was no reply, and I
| looked up. My friend’s face wore an expression
i of pain, and as I caught his eye, lie put his
hand to his jaw.
f “Does that tooth trouble you again?” I
asked.
j. “A little,” was tho reply, in a deep but gentle
> tone. “ However, I can bear it without swear
. ing, as I did before. The pain is almost gone
now.”
& “ Have the blamed fang pulled out.”
f “I will, if it annoys me much more.”
“ But” resumed I, “ will you go to Bentwold
f with me?”
“ No.”.
L “Why?”
r “ Because I have uo business there.”
, “Do you go only where business calls?”
“ Then I can have no pleasure there.”
& “ Well, we must part, then, for the present.”
f “Yes.”
“ Fitz, if you will stop somewhere—at Talla
/ hassce again, for instance—l will rejoin you,
alter seeing ‘ my star.’ ”
j, “I can’t stop, Jack. I must go straight into
' Virginia.”
j “ Why, I thought you were to spend some
time with me at Hope ton ?”
t “I know I promised to do so, and if you in
i' sist, I will rodeem the promise yet; but you
will excuse me, when I tell you that late devel
f opment9 render me exceedingly restless, and
anxious to go back.”
b “Tell me your excuse,” said I, “and perhaps
P I may relieve you of your obligation.”
p “ My excuse, sir Jack, is my own business.”
“ Well, if it must be so. But when shall I
$ see you again ?”
s' “I don’t know.”
“ And I don't care.”
y “Good-bye, then, Jack.”
“ Farewell, my friend.”
1 Aud in this way wo parted. Aud so we
7 generally parted. To judge from our eonversa
p tiori, at times, one would say there was precious
little friendship between Fitzwarren and myself.
» He was almost always cold and reserved in his
i' manner. Ours, indeed, was a singular intimacy.
' Sometimes Fitzwarren would show some sem
y blance of warmth of feeling. I saw this, how
ever, that though generally reserved with me,
1 with others he was actually ropellant; and he
P sought my company, while ho avoided most
p people. From these circumstances, I was con
vinced that ho felt a sentiment of esteem for
& me.
y We had never exchanged letters. I had
’ never proposed any thing of the sort, because I
y had frequently heard him express his aversion
to Sometimes, when we parted, there
1 would be a time and a place fixed to meet again,
* but generally, as in the instance above recorded,
p the next meeting was left to chance or whim,
f A few more days elapsed, and I was in the
» grounds at Bentwold, driving slowly along
s' through that unsurpassed grove. I leaned out
' and looked all around and before me. At con-
Y siderable distance ahead I saw, walking along a
meandering path, which just there ran close to
1 the carriage-road, a lady. It was impossible to
f mistake that form and that queenly gait. I
p approached more rapidly, and got out to pay
f my respects to Helen Bently, who was enjoying
A a ramble, in company with her little brother,
s' As I alighted, and made my -way towards
> her, she turned suddenly, and as she recognized
y me, a surprised expression stole over her face.
That, however, was not all I wished, and I
\ looked intently to see if I could traeo aught of
f pleasure. A faint blush suffused her beautiful
I JAIMES GARDNER, (.
I Proprietor. j
AUGUSTA. GA., SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1859.
features and, vain fellow that I was, I imagined
I could detect evidence of a nature flattering to
my hopes.
“You see,” said I, as I stood by her side, and
offered my hand, “ I could not stay away.”
“Yes, I see, Mr. Hopeton, and I am surprised.
I thought that travel and adventure possessed
more charms for you than this tame, secluded
spot.”
Walter and I shook hands like good friends,
and then he, a clever, sensible little fellow, ex
claimed :
“Sis, Mr. Hopeton can go with you to the
house now. I waut to run by the pond.”
And away he darted, followed by his dogs.
1 blessed the boy, from my very heart.
“You are surprised, Miss Helen,” said I,
"butnot displeased, I trust."
“ Certainly not,” was the reply.
“You know,” continued I, “that l ’tis home
where’er the heart is.’ ”
“ I have heard it said so."
“Then you can account for my quick return.”
Helen looked at mo, as if again somewhat
surprised, and meeting an earnest gaze, dropped
her eyes, and was silent.
“ You will think me," I resumed, “an impetu
ous. artless, foolish boy, but ”
I stopped again, and once more essayed to
read my fair companion’s thoughts. We were
strolling slowly along toward tho house. It was
a delicious afternoon. A light breeze occasion
ally rose, and wantoned idly with tho stray
ringlet which fell over that cheek of matchless
beauty. A deeper color than ordinary rested
on that cheek, and I fancied I could see a little
tremor in her manner. But I was under the in
fluence of a spell, which it was impossible to
resist.
Still, I was growing rather embarrassed. I
had persuaded myself—how, I know not—that
Helen Bendy regarded me with rather more
than ordinary kindness—in fact, that she might
be brought to love me. The dream was pleas
ing—intoxicating—and now I dreaded to try
farther, lest I should utterly destroy it. But
Miss Bently could see no reasou in such silence.
“ Mr. Hopeton,” said she, “ you have been
traveling all over our State, and uo doubt you
can entertain us with a variety of incidents.”
“I have witnessed some thrilling scenes,”
answered I, recollecting the events of the day
passed at M , “but lam thinking of far
different topics now. Wherever I’ve been, I my
heart untraveled, fondly turned to thee.’ I
must speak, Miss Bently, unless you absolutely
forbid. However rash and simple you may
consider me, I must tell you how I love you.
You may believe that love at first sight is imag
ination. Nevertheless, I loved from the very
moment I saw you. I felt, when my eyes first
rested on your countenance, when they first en
countered the light of yours, that you were to
be the arbitress of my destiny—that you would
have the power to render me happv or misera
ble.”
Helen continually blushed and averted her
eyes. She actually trembled. I mustered cour
age to take her hand.
“ Miss Helen,” said I, “ you steadily turn
your look from me. I cannot think it is anger
which induces you to do so. Oh!” I continued,
“if you could only sound the depths of my
love! Could you know how it forms a part of
my being, and, if it be disappointed, that life
will be robbed of its best portion! Could you
lock into my heart and see your image deeply
impressed there—could you read my thoughts,
and know that you are ever present in them,
you would be forced to think kindly of one so
devoted to yon. Say, shall I, dare I hope that I
have inspired you with anything of the love
which lias so completely overpowered me ?”
“ How strangely you would think of me,” an
swered Helen, as she allowed me to retain her
trembling hand, “How strangely would you
think of a maiden who would admit that she
loved one whom she has known only for a
few months, and of whoso very existence, pre
vious to that time, she was unaware 1”
“We live in feelings; not in figures on a
dial,’ ” I answered. *We should count time by
heart-throbs.’ By that reckoning, I have
known you long and well.”
“Do you know,” said I after another pause,
“ that you torture mo by your silence ? This
suspense is cruel. Will you not look on me and
give mo some token, something on which to
found a hope ?”
She looked at me and I read love in her eyes.
One moment I drank in their expression, and
then once more she averted them ; but as she
did so, she faintly murmured:
“By that reckoning I am willing - you should
estimate my ,” her voice almost ceased, but
“lovo” was whispered softly, yet so distinctly as
not to bo mistaken by an ear sharpened by its
influeilce.
CHAPTER XXIII.
I went home, after a short but delightful time
spent at Bentwold. Perhaps some of my read
ers would like to have accounts of more love
scenes. Alas 1 lam not good at such descrip
tions, and though they might please a few, they
would probably disgust the majority, so I will
not even try.
For the first time in all my life, I[o[>cton, af
ter a few days, seemed dull to me. I was con
tinually thinking of Ileleu Bently, aud congrat
ulating myself on tho possession of her love. I
had obtained permission to write, however, and
this was some relief. I used to sit down aud
scribble sheet after sheet full of the outpourings
of love, and in answer to these came precious
epistles, which I enclosed in one large envelope
and endorsed on it “ The apple of mine eye.”
But these were not all the tokens T received.
One day I had pleaded for and obtained a raven
ringlet, which I wore with her daguerreotype—
the faithful likeness of her lovely features—
next my heart, of course.
Aud let me see—what else did I do? Oh !
I used to carve “ Helen Bently” on the bark of
trees, taking very good care, though, to cut them
out as soon as carved, that no one might find
out my secret. Os course, too, I used to write
the dear name in the sand. Besides, no night
passed that I did not dream of Helen. In
6hort, I had all the symptoms regularly. You
know them, reader, so it is useless to enumerate
further.
Finally. I concluded to pay Tom Harper a vis
it and sec whether he was leading a happy life.
With my gun aud dogs, and Howard, I set out,
aud late in the day came in sight of my friend’s
comfortable iiachelor quarters. Just as I went
in tho front door, Tom came in the back way, in
shooting jacket and with a well filled game bag.
My object was to watch him narrowly and see
if I could discover any trace of remorse. Scru
tinize as closely as I would, however, I could
see nothing in his fine, open, manly countenance,
save the same rollicking gaycty which attracted
mo toward him when we first mot on the west
ern frontier.
If any evidence had been wanting, the jovial
voice in which he saluted me would have sup
plied it.
“Jack Hopeton, as I live!” he exclaimed,
grasping my hand in his hearty way. “So you
liavo been able to escape long enough from the
siren to see Georgia once more?”
“ What can you mean, Tom?” said I, know
ing pretty well at the same time, but wondering
how he had made his discovery, for I had told
him nothing of it in Florida, knowing he was
too much absorbed to feel much Interest in a talo
of love.
“Ah, you rogue,” he replied, “you’re a sly
one, but I tracked you up."
“ But seriously, though, Tom, enlighten me.
Os course I have no secrets from you, and will
tell you everything: but first, I am curious to
see if you know anything concerning my adven
tures.”
“Well, here’s the way of it, then. Coming
home from Florida, I passed through D , and
there, while smoking a cigar in the veranda of
the hotel, I heard a knot of young men convers
ing about a certain Miss Bently. who, according
to their account, is a perfect paragon; and
one of them remarked that a Jack Hopeton,
from Georgia, was said to be smitten in that
quarter. Nor is that all, Jack, for another one
said that he had seen Hopeton, and he was a
gallant looking fellow- -just the very man he
thought to captivate Helen Bently.”
“ Spare me, Tom,” I said, blushing with pleas
ure, in spite of myself—l was young , reader—
“l must plead guilty to the smiting, but as for
the rest, time will show whether that kind young
man was right or wrong.”
“ But come,” said Tom, “ I am keeping you
standing hero in this cold hall. Come in to the
lire.”
Ho led me into his snugge y —sitting room
and library combined—and seated me in a luxu
rious arm chair, while lie went out to get rid of
his hunting suit and muddy boots. He soon re
turned.
“ Take a seat, Tom,” said I. as lie entered,
“ and let me tell you all about it. First of all,
though, let me show you my excuse for falling
in love.”
Tom sat down in a chair like the one I was
occupying, and I drew forth the daguerreotype
which I constantly wore next to my—in the
breast pocket of my coat. Opening it, as he
leaned forward, I showed him the picture.
“There,” said I, “anchorite, look at that and
say if I am to be blamed for falling in love at
first sight."
“Fore God, Jack!” exclaimed my companion,
as ho took the case from my hands and gazed
admiringly on the features portrayed, “ This is
an excuse, old fellow —provided it is not a fancy
sketch, which I very strongly suspect it is.”
“No fancy about it, Tom. It is a daguerreo
type taken from a living original, whose hand I
pressed a short time ago, and who allows me to
think that she loves me.”
“ Then, sir,” was the reply, “ I only wonder
you didn’t go quite crazy.”
“But this picture, Tom,” said I, “does not
render justice to the original. You cannot see
iu this, nor could you see in any daguerreotype,
the dancing light, the varying expression of the
eye.”
“ That is very true,” said Tom, gravely.
“ Now listen to my tale,” said I. And I re-
lated to him all that the reader knows, concern
ing my love.
“ There is one thing that may trouble you,
though,” said Tom, as I finished.
•‘What is that?”
“You know your excellent mother thinks that
Kate Morgan is the very girl for you.”
“Yes, but Helen Bently’s mother is a dear
friend of my mother, and nothing would afford
the latter more pleasure than to see me wooing
and winning the maiden we are speaking of.”
“Then,” answered Tom, “farewell to my
bachelorhood. 11l court Miss Kate myself.”
I could not help thinking of the tale of
Tom had told me in the live oak grove, nor
could I avoid looking intently and searchiogly
at him. He caught my eye and returned my
gaze steadily.
“I know what is on your mind, Jack,” said
ho in a firm, cheerful tone. “You are thinking
of the scene at the three oaks and of what I told
you afterwards. I do not contemplate these
things or speak of them in a spirit of levity, but
I recollect them without the least feeling of re
morse. Under the same circumstances I would
pursue exactly the same course. The remem
brance of them does not make me unhappy.”
44 I am glad to hear it, Tom,” said I, heartily.
“ But seriously, I wish you would conclude to
marry.”
“ Seriously, then, Jack, if Kate Morgan will
conseut to eutrust her happiness into my keep
ing, I will marry. You rascal, you,” continued
Tom, “ I would have made love to her before,
but for the fact that I thought it would be inter
fering with you.”
“I wish to then, I had known it,” was
my reply. “ I could have told you of your mis
take.”
“ Doubtless,” said Tom, “ but I was so sure
of your predilection, I made no inquiries. How
ever, I'll make up for lost time, now.”
“ When will you go to see her ?’’
“ Where can I see her ?”
“ At her father’s house.”
“ Oh, the mischief 1 Won’t she be at Catoo
sa ?”
“ Perhaps ; but can you wait so long ?”
“ Let me see. It is now toward the last of
March. April, May, June. The watering place
season will commence by the middle of July.—
Three months and a half. Well, that is a long
time. I don’t know —I may wait, or may not.”
“ And while you are waiting, Tom,” suggested
I, “ some one else may step in and bear off the
prize.”
“ That is true, Jack. Well, I’ll dream on it:
to-night."
And I suppose Tom did dream. I know I did.
I remained with him only a few days. The night
before I left him, I inquired where he would go
in July.
“ When I said something to you about Catoo- :
sa, the other day,’ 4 he replied, “I entirely forgot
that I had almost forsworn fashionable company.
But here it is. If I don’t see Kate Morgan be
tween now and the time you mention, I’ll go to
Catoosa. Perhaps I may see her, or somebody
like her.”
“ Then I’ll meet you there," said I. 41 It is
likely my adored will bo there too.”
“ What, Jack! Don’t you expect to see her
before then ?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ You are a very quiet lover, then, my boy.”
“ Why, you are hesitating whether to see
Miss Kate before then.”
“ True enough, but she has never told me she
loved me. My case is very different from yours.
Were I as sure of a welcome as you, a band of
Camanches could not keep me back.”
44 By the way, Tom,” said I, “ you must hold
yourself in readiness to stand as one of my
friends, when the trying time comes.”
14 You allude to your marriage, Jack, of
course,” said Tom, as his eye grew serious, and
his voice changed to a sadder tone.
“ Os course,” said I.
“ Don’t you recollect, Jack, what I said to
you about woman, out on the prairies ?”
44 Yes.”
“ Let me entreat you then, my dear friend, not
to be too sanguine. Ido not say this to mar
your present happiness. You are convinced of
this?”
44 Certainly.”
44 But I wish you, Jack, to remember a homely
adage: 4 there is many a slip betwixt the cup
and lip.’ lam anxious to guard you against fu
ture disappointment.”
44 1 take it all kindly, Tom,” answered I. “If
my love should see fit to prove capricious, I will
find refuge in this theory. It may be yours, or
it may be mine. I don’t recollect. I have fal
len in love with a certain character. The char
acter with whom I am in love, would never de
ceive me. If Helen Bently deceive me, she is
not the character whom I loved. Therefore, in
that event, I never loved Helen Bently.”
“Ha! hal ha!” laughed Tom. “You-are
philosopher enough to bear a jilt, and I am glad
to find it so.”
I left Tom undetermined whether to go iinme
eiately on a courting expedition, or wait and
risk a season at “ The Springs.” When I got
hqme, though, I was more restless than ever,
j Two Dollars Per Annum,
| Always In Advance.
and I unburdened my heart to my parents.—
They had noticed some of my symptoms, and
had been amusing themselves vastly at my ex
liejise, when I was perfectly unconscious of their
suspicions. My mother, though, was well pleas
ed, when she hoard who was Helen’s mother.
“ Provided she resembles her parent in ap
pearance and character, Jack,” said she, “ J am
not surprised that you fell a captive so easily.”
“ Ah ! mother,” was my answer, “ I have
praised her so much, that I am ashamed to hear
myself repeat the same tiling so often; but Mrs.
Bentley never could have been the being that
' Helen is.”
“ ’Being,’ ‘being,’Ha! ha! ha! Well, Jack,”
said my father, “ you Arc far gone. When a
young gentleman calls a girl a ‘ being,’ his case
is hopeless."
“ Perhaps it is,' 1 said I, a little confused by
the laugh in which my mother joined heartily
against me, “ but the time has been when you
no doubt thought ray mother here a being”
“ Certainly ; and half a dozen more before
her.”
‘‘That is complimentary tome, at least,” said
Mrs. llopetou.
“ But go ahead, Jack,” said my father. “ Re
collect this, though : If you marry the first girl
you court, you’ll be devilish lucky."
A few days after this conversation, l set out
for Bcntwold agaitL A happy time I had too.
To tell the truth, I began to think it allowable to
talk of appointing a time for the marriage, and
I hinted as much ono day ; but Helen, with a
mischievous look, safd there wasjno use in hast
ening matters, since she was quite young, and 1
was not very old. “Time enough to go on yet,”
was her observation.
It was in vain that I pleaded, as we strolled
among the orange trees, and Helen hung on my
arm, with love looking out of her glorious eyes.
“ I have admitted that I love you,” said she,
and I read sincerity in her face. “ I admit it
still. It would be folly to deny it; but indeed I
am too young to marry yet.”
I need not record more of the conversation. I
again left Bentwold, more in love than ever, and
prouder yet of the feeling with which I had in
spired the belle of Florida.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Bentlys were to be at Catoosa, and thith
er I went. The omnibus took us—there were
a dozen passengers bound for the same place—
at the depot, and rattled away cheerily through
a broken country, along by old I ndian orchards
and pine-log houses. Up and down hill, we
bowled along—across a pretty deep creek—at
length a little branch—then a sudden turn to
the right, and we were in full front view of the
hotel, which stands on the top of quite an emi
nence. Up the Jong ascent we drove, amid the
clang of brass-band music, and drawing up be
fore the principal entrance, got out, dusty, weary
and travel-soiled, uuder the concentrated gaze
of hundreds of eyes, belonging to well-dressed,
fresh-lookiug persons collected in the colonnade.
This of course, can be borne by gentlemen,
but it must be very trying to ladies. Could it
not be arranged better ?
“ And so you've come, Jack,” called out a
cheery voice, as I ascended the steps.
Hooked up and saw Tom Harper.
*• Certainly,” was my reply. "But, by Jove !
Tom, I am glad to see you here.”
“ And a little surprised, too, I expect,” said
Tom, as he took my arm and we strolled a short
distance from the throng.
“ Let’s promenade a little, till the baggage
wagon comes.”
“At least let me go and register my name,
though,” said I, “ that I may stand some chance
to get a room.”
“ Never mind that; you can't get a single
room. They’re all occupied, but I’ve reserved
a bed for you in mine.”
“ I am under eternal obligations,” answered I.
“ You may consider yourself so, for it has
beeu all I could do to hold out. When I first
came, I saw how crowded it was going to be, so
I took a room with two beds, and prepared to
stand a regular siege for your sake. For a few
days I was allowed to retain peacable posses
sion, but then the gents came pouring in and
they, in conjunction with the hotel keepers, be
gan to make their approaches. However, I de
fended it manfully, until to-day. I began to
waver this morning, when the first omnibus
came in, and no Jack Hopeton. If you had
failed to come in this last, I should have been
compelled to capitulate.”
“ You forget, though, Tom, that unless my
advent is recorded, and my claim put in, they
will give the berth that you reserved for me, to
another.”
“ Aye, but I’ve got the key in my pocket.”
“ Nevertheless, let me register my name.”
“ Como on then.” And we went into the of
fice and attended to this little matter.
“ Tell me, now, Tom,” said I, when we had
again got away from the throng. “ Tell me who
is here.”
“ Well, there is Mrs. Holmes, and ”
“ Indeed, and where is Uncle Charley ?”
“ I dou't know. He ought to lie here, sure
enough."
I NO. 27.
