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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.