Newspaper Page Text
Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 1.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
DO NOT LOVE ME.
BY UrEDITTA BELMONT.
Do not love me—do not love me!
, Do not make me happy now;
Let me think of God above me.
Let me go to Him, and bow.
Let me there pour out my spirit,
With its weight of earthly woe—
Let not the love of man, but Heaven s,
Calm my spirit ere I go!
Leave me all alone in darkness,
Let me wander hero alone;
Till the Saviour take me kindly
By the hand, and lead mo home.
Place no laurel wreath or chaplet
On my weary, fevered brow—
Do not love me—do not love me,
Oh! 'twould chill my spirit now!
I am tired, faint and weary—
Such a weight is on this breast!
Wandering ever—oh how dreary
Is my path to final rest.
“Guide me, oh thou great Jehovah!
Pilgrim through this barren land,
I am weak, but Thou art mighty.
Hold me by Thy powerful hand.”
Lot me not forsake the lowly
Paths, where Thou thyself hast trod—
Lead me only—lead me only,
In those footprints, oh my God 1
Like Noah's dove, my soul is driven
O’er shoreless waters, far and wide;
Stretch thy hand, oh blessed Saviour,
And Uke the wanderer to thy side!
- December ' st, 1859.
—
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS
OK,
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP A GEORGIAN.
BY \VM. W. TUCKER.
CHAPTER XXVI.
After breakfast next morning, I concluded
that a long walk in the wild woods—a protrac
ted communion with Nature, in her solitude, —
might calm and soothe my perturbed and restless
spirit. It was one of tho«e delightfully,cool days
which sometimes come, even in our hot- climate,
about the last of July, and I passed by the
springs and, taking 9 road which wound around
through the fine clad hills, was soon out of
sight and hearing of the thing we call society.
I was always fond of these lonely rambles.
A keen huntsman, still I loved often to wander
forth without guu or dog, far away from the
haunts of men. where I could muse undisturbed
ly. In my troubles heretofore—but they had
been very few, and compared with my present
one, very light—in all my troubles these strolls
had been most effective in restoring me to cheer
fulness.
I had not consulted Tom Harper or Uncle
Charley concerning my griefs, because I knew
they were botli absorbed in plans of their own,
and I did not believe they could assist me in the
least. Fitzwarren I did not seek that morning,
because several circumstances which will occur
to the reader’s mind, had raised within me a
half suspicion against him.
A little path, leading out of the main road,
attracted my notice, and I turned into it. It
ran close to the way I had left, for some dis
tance, separated and hidden from it by a thick
clump of whortleberry bushes. Aftof a while I
sat down on a log to rest, and soon I heard ap
proaching footsteps and voices. I recognized
Fitzwarren’s deep tones and heard him address
his companion as Mr. Bently. With the suspi
cions I had of the former and the inexplicable
change in the deportment of the latter, am I to
be blamed for sitting still and silent?—especial
ly when I heard my own name called ?
At any rate, I did not move, and they walked
along the road, close by where I sat.
“ I assure you, sir,” said Fitzwarren, “ he is a
villain of the deepest dye. His word is totally
unworthy of belief.”
“I can hardly think so, Mr. Fitzwarren,” was
the reply.
“Wliatl Have I not given you proof suffi
cient?”
“No sir.”
“ Is not that newspaper notice sufficient ?”
“I. repeat, Mr. Fitzwarren, no. I require
further proof, before I will believe so harshly of
one who has proved himself such a friend to my
son, and who in all his acts which have come
under my knowledge, has proved himself the
gentleman."
“Well, one thing is sure, Mr. Bently; what
I have undertaken, I will accomplish. I have
undertaken to place Hopeton before you in his
true light ”
“ That is precisely what I wish.”
“Well, suspend your judgment awhile. You
shall have proof so overwhelming, that you can
doubt no longer. Give me time and I’ll ”
The last few words I heard more and more
indistinctly; and at last, as they passed on, on
ly a confused murmur fell on my car, and then
a total silence succeeded. I sat stunned and
motionless; one to have seen me, would have
I JAMES GARDNER, )
( Proprietor. (
AUGUSTA, GA„ SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1859.
said I was transformed into stone. I don’t know
that I have a very distinct recollection of what
passed through my brain, for some moments.
I only knew that, at first, complete, bewildering
astonishment shut out every other sensation.
“ Fitzwarren a traitor!" It could not be. I
must be dreaming; and I got up to walk about
and see whether I was sleeping or waking.
Long time I wandered through the forest, in va
rious directions, revolving schemes of vengeance.
The truth is, I was almost crazed. It was the
first real trouble I had ever knewn. One thing
I resolved—that I would have quick and signal
revenge on Fitzwarren. I would have him
“out" immediately and we would fight to the
death.
“ Fortunately,” said I to myself, “he is no
coward. He will be willing to fight as despe
rately as I can wish.”
Hav’ng taken my resolution toward noon, I
hastened back to the hotel. Walking up the
steps, I saw Tom Harper, just going into the
parlor. Dreadfully excited though I was, I had
senso enough left not to make myself an object
to be stared at. By a desperate effort, I assum
ed a tolerably calm exterior. I followed Tom,
and found him gayly chatting with some ladies.
“ I crave pardon for interrupting you,” said I,
approaching the group, “ but Mr. Harper, I have
some most urgent business with you. Will you
go with me to our room?”
Tom’s experienced eye read something be
neath my calm exterior, and 119 immediately
walked out with me.
“ What is it, Jack f ’ he said, as soon as we
were out of hearing of the eomyany.
“ I want you to act as my 1 friend ’ and I
want you to make arrangements for me to fight
just as quickly as is possible. Above all I want
you to have it understood that we fight to the
death.”
“ Calm yourself, man 1” said Tom. “ You are
excited. You tremble.”
“ It is with anger, then—not fear, Tom.”
“ Os course I know that, Jack,” answered my
friend, almost reproachfully. “But it is none
the less true that you are too much excited to
act prudently.”
“Prudence! Hell and fury! Tom! You don t
know the cause I have for anger.”
“ No, Ido not. lam anxious to find* out”
Tom said this so quietly and coolly that I
grew ashamed of myself.
“ I will be ressonable, Tom,” I said, “ and in
telligible in a moment more.”
“ That is right, Jack. Take a glass of this
wine.”
“ What kind is it?”
“ A domestic article. One made by an old
widow lady—a poor but worthy neighbor of
mine whom I frequently assist. She is always
showing her gratitude by making me little pres
ents. Not long ago she sent me a half dozen
bottles of wine.”
“There;" he continued, as he poured out a
glass. “ Drink that, and you will pronounce it
good. It is not drugged, at least.”
“ Now,” lie said again, after I had swallowed
the wine, “ who is it you are so anxious to
fight?”
“ Fitzwarren.”
“ What! your friend ?”
“ Yes.”
“ What is his offence ?”
“ The same as Hardaway’s.”
“ Ah!” hissed Tom.
“ The same.”
“ Well you may rely on me to abet you in
any plan by which you may obtain revenge; blit
just now the bird is flown.”
“What do you mean ?”
“ Fitzwarren left on the omnibus about an
hour ago.”
At this intelligence my rage overpowered me.
I did not see, before, how I could even wait to
go through with the formality of a challenge,
and now that my revenge was postponed indefi
nitely, perhaps forever, I was almost frantic.
“Damn him! blast him!” I shouted. “The
dastard! Oh that such creatures should dis
grace the image of man! I thought he had
been a brave villian, at least.”
“ And I,” said Tom, “ think so still. He
could hardly deceive me in that regard. He has
some motive for leaving here of which you
know nothing. Is he aware that you are in
formed of his treachery ?”
“ I think not, for I only knew it a few hours
ago, but he was very well aware that I would
discover it, and he has placed himself out of
harm’s way.”
“ Can’t you send after him ?”
“ I don’t know where to send.’’
“ Don’t know where he resides?”
“ No.”
“ Well, I always looked on the man as a mys
terious personage, but thought he at least had
a ‘ local habituation,’ as well as a * name.’
I stood, musing.
“But givo mo the particulars of the affair,
Jack,” said my friend.
I complied. ,
“ I think,” said I, after finishing, ‘ that I may
perhaps get some clue from or at this man Lor
raine who is, I rather believe, an accomplice of
Fitzwarren, although this last named gentleman
pretended to me to hate him.”
“ Lorraine ? Is he a tall, grave, dark-haired
man with good address and courtly manners?"
“Yes.”
“ Paid considerable attention to Helen Bently,
and courted her family ?’’
“The very same. He and Fitzwarren, I
think, are both seeking Helen’s favor, but, for the
time, they have combined against me.”
“This man went off in the sameomnibns with
Fitzwarren."
“ God give me patience 1” I exclaimed. “Well,
we may meet again, and must, if they are about
the Bentlys much. Go back now, Tom,” I con
tinued. “ Enjoy yourself as best you may. I’ll
stay here awhile.”
So completely miserable and even desperate
was my tone and manner, that Tom looked at
me sympathizingly. I believe he really feared
to leave me in my own han^s.
“Remember, Jack,” he said, “the day of re
tribution will come. We must, if possible, find
out of what you are accused.”
I had sunk down moodily and stupidly in a
chair, but these words aroused me.
“Tom,” said 1, “you must promise me one
thing—not to say a word to the Bentlys in my
behalf. Come,” I continued, “I will not bo so
humiliated. I myself will see Helen once more.
I shall tell her that I do not hope nor wish to
renew an engagement which I suppose she con
siders broken off, but that I demand to know
with what I am charged, and who is my accu
ser, that I may hold him accountable.”
“Well, Jack, I promise as you wish, but let
me insist on a promise from you."
“ Well?”
“ Don’t seek Miss Bently while you are
angry.”
“ You don’t think Tom, I would insult a lady t"
“I know you would not. You don’t under
stand me. What I mean is this. Perhaps Miss
Bently does not consider the engagement broken
off and perhaps—”
“Tom,” said I, interrupting him, “she has
judged me harshly and without giving me an
opportunity to vindicate myself from the charges
preferred against me. lam sure she does con
sider the engagement as at an end.
“I am confused, now,” I continued, “and ad
vice can only add to my confusion. Do leave me
alone for a time.”
“ Well, I’ll do it. But, Jack, promise me that
when you go to Miss Bertly, you will not go in
anger.”
“ I'll try—that is all I can promise.”
“ That is sufficient.”
As .soon as Tom left, I fell at full length, on a
bed and gave myself up to despair. To be jilted
was bad enough, but the thought that it had been
brought about by a rival, and that he was out of
reach of my vengeance, was past endurance.
I did not go down to dinner. I was late at
supper. I did not enter the parlor or the ball
room that evening, so I did not seo Helen. —
Late next morning I rang the bell and desired
a servant to take my card to Miss Bently’s room.
“ Miss Bently is gone, sir," was the reply.
“Gone ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ When—where —how ?”
“She and the rest of her family, sir, left On the
omnibus this morning.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
“ Don’t say anything to me about it, Tom.”
Such were my words when I next encountered
my chum.
“ All right. How much longer do you expect
to stay here, Jack ?”
“ I don’t know. Have you seen Uncle Charley
to-day?”
“ Yes, yonder he stands.”
“Jack, my boy,” said Uncle Charley, as I ap
proached the spot where he stood, “you are an
undutiful young dog.”
“Wherein have I proved so, sir?” I asked.
“In that you have scarcely deigned to speak
to me, since I have been here.”
“It has been evident, Uncle Charley, to a
persou of the least penetration, that you have
been very pleasantly engaged and did not wish
to be interrupted.”
“ I do not deny, young sir, that I have been
rather—well, I’ve enjoyed my stay here very
much. Very clever, nice, so ect people here —
very. ’ Much better than any one necessarily
finds at a watering-place. But—”
“No doubt you think so, Uncle Charley, I
answered, laughing—yes. I could even laugh.
“Now, sir,” said my companion, with that ex
quisitely graceful wave of the hand for which
he was celebrated. “Now you do interrupt. . I
was just going to say to you that, although l am
spending my time here pleasantly enough—”
“ I am sure of it,” again said I. for it was a
great relief for me to indulge in a little mischief
with Uncle Charley.
“You incorrigible scamp, said he, I will
leave you and seek those who can appreciate
my conversation better.”
“But, I say, Uncle Charley,” I exclaimed,
catching him by the arm, “ if I am undutiful, you
are ungrateful.”
"How, boy?”
«1 hardly think your situation would be so
blissful, had it not been for some little assistance
on my part. You were both afraid of each oth
er, and if I had not interfered, yon would never
have brought matters to a focus.”
“Ahl Jack,” said Uncle Charley, dropping
his artificial manner, “I am indebted to you,
and but for the fact that you have been absorbed
in your own matters, you would have afforded
me an opportunity, ere now, to thank you and
tell you how I am progressing.”
“Well, sir,” I answered calmly, “ my affair is
all over now, so I am at leisure to listen to your
plans, and to aid you again, if I can. The mouse
helped the lion once, you know.”
“You pain me. Jack. I thought, and so did
every one else, that you were getting on swim
mingly. How came you to quarrel ?”
“It is rather a long tale, Uncle Charley, and
as yet, an unpleasant one. Os course I hide
nothing from you, and when the wound heals
over a little, you may inspect it. Although my
voice is firm, I have not quite arrived at that
point when I can say:
‘ Yea, even the name I have worshi|>ed In vain,
Shall wake not a throb of remembrance again.’
“ I will get there, though. lam well aware
that *To bear is to conquer our fate.’ Let us
hear of your case. Yours is all plain sailing
now.”
“I don’t know, Jack. A man is never sure
unti' the knot is tied. I have great confidence
in the lady who has consented to take me for
better or for worse, but everything is uncertain
in this world."
“ However," he continued, if you don’t marry
before the middle of October, I think I shall
stand in need of your services as brides-inan.”
“ And very proud and very happy will I be
to fill the post, Uncle Charley.”
I remained a few days longer at Catoosa, but
I grew very weary of it. The way to forget one
love is to engage in another. I could very ea
sily have fallen in love with Kate Morgan, but
I believed Tom Harper regarded her with some
thing very nigh akin to the tender passion.—
There were plenty of other beautiful and accom
plished ladies at the Springs, but none of them
struck me. I would have to wait long before I
found one equal to Helen Bently or Kate Mor
gan.
I left Uncle Charley, happy in the love of the
woman he thought calculated to render him hap
py. I left Tom Harper, happy in the prospect
of a favorable response from his love, wnenever
she should go to her home, so that he could ad
dress her. I went forth a restless, aimless, hope
less wanderer.
As long as the world stands, every man wno
is disappointed in love, will imagine that he is
the most hapless of beings—that there is some
thing peculiarly unfortunate in his particular
case. This I know, that never, through the
whole course of my life, bad a thicker gloom
overhung me than at the period of which I
write. Go where I would, try what sources of
amusement I might, the remembrance of the un
fortunate termination to my dream of happiness
was constantly before me.
I concluded to go to Virginia—not to hunt
Fitzwarren specially, but I felt that I must be
moving about, and there was a chance to find
him'there. First, I went to Charlottesville, but
he had not been there in several years. Then I
visited each of the watering-places in the State,
examining the registers of the hotels. His
name was not to be seen.
I had examined the registers at all the hotels,
as I came up the State railroad of Georgia, without
finding the name I sought. Finally, to satisfy
my curiosity, I w'rote to the proprietor of each
hotel in Atlanta, and enquired if the name,
Fitzwarren, could be found on their books, and
what was the date on which it occurred, if it ap
peared at all.
It seemed that he had passed through At
lanta on the very day he left Catoosa. But how
was I to ascertain which Way he had gone from
there ? He might have gone back up the road;
he might have gone down the road; he might
have gone toward Macon, or he might have gone
toward West Point I had no hope of finding
him, but concluded to make one more effort to
satisfy my curiosity, so I wrote to the hotels at
the stopping-places next to Atlanta, on each of
the routes I have designated, asking whether
Fitzwarren’s name appeared on the register.
In due time the answers came, and I found
my man had gone out west. Then I was at my
row’s end.
It may be asked why I did not publish Fitz
warren. I reply that, not for the world would
I have done this. It would have been doing the
very thing for which I had so much reason to
complain in others —condemning a person who
had had no opportunity of defending himself—
perhaps not even knowing that a charge had
been preferred against him.
Not that I entertained any doubt concerning
the matter, but I was young, inexperienced, and
honest enough to set great store by a principle.
Even now, at this age, I acknowledge that the
same failing may bo charged upon me.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
I was sitting before a hotel at Saratoga, quiet
ly smoking a cigar, when who should drive up
but Mr. and Mrs. Bently and daughtor? I was
j Two Dollars Per Annum, I
1 Aiwa) a In Advance. |
not far from’t he ladies’ entrance, and as the gen
tleman alighted, he caught my eye; for I was
looking coolly, though rather curiosly, at them.
He seemed a little surprised, but bowed in his
graceful, unembarrassed manner. Os course, I
acknowledged the salutation as politely as I
could.
After waiting on the ladies, Mr. Bently, in
going to the office, had to pass close by where I
sat. I rose as he approached, and wo shook
hands. His manner was not so cordial as it
was during tho early part of our acquaintance;
neither was it half so cold as when I last saw
him. I formed a sudden resolution, while talk
ing with him.
“ Mr. Bently,” I said, “when you provide for
the ladies of your party, and are at leisure, will
you allow me an opportunity of having a long
conversation with you on very particular busi
ness?”
“ Certainly—after I change my dress.”
The opportunity was soon given.
“Let us take a stroll,” said I. “It is better
than to be pent up in any of these close rooms.”
My position was somewhat embarrassing, and
I hesitated a little as to how I should commence
the conversation •, but I had been tolerably well
trained, and a consciousness of right supported
me.
“In the first place, Mr. Bently, “ were my
opening words, “I will tell you now what, per
haps, I ought to have told you before, but what
you doubtless perceived very plainly. At one *
time, 1 sought the honor of an alliance with
yeur daughter. I also, once, flattered myself
that I had obtained her love. I am now con
vinced of my mistake, nor do I hope ever to
persuade her to look on me with favor. It be
came very evident to me, though, when you
were at Catoosa, that you had heard something
from some source, prejudicial to my character.
Am I right in my opinion?”
“You are.”
“ Then, since I believe you once regarded me
as a friend?"—l paused and looked at him en
quiringly.
“ You are certainly right, again,” said he.
“In the name of that friendship, then, and in
the name of justice, I ask you, of what am I ac
cused ?”
“I am glad,” replied Mr. Bently, “that you
soughtthis interview, though I acknowledge
that, at one time, I avoided like it
Since then, circumstances have caused rpe to
alter my opinion Bomewhat. As I came on here,
I made some enquiries concerning your accuser,
and I believe he is wearing an assumed name.
That, of itself, is sufficient to awaken suspicion
agaiust him.”
“I was not aware of that, before.”
“It is even so, I think. But first I must ac
count to you for ray seeming injustice in not al
lowing you a hearing. The proof of the allega
tion brought against you, was apparently so
plain, and of a nature seemingly so independent
of the character of the accuser, that it appeared
impossible to controvert it."
“ Still, Mr. Bently, you must recollect that the
lowest, most abject, abandoned, friend
less criminal on earth, is not condemned, by law,
without a hearing.”
“That is true, Mr. Hopeton, and I confess
that I was wrong. But you are mistaken, if
you think that I entirely condemned you. I sus
pended my judgment for a time, till the enquiries
which had been set on foot should be satisfied.
During that time—l do not wish to wound you
—but, during that time, I did Dot wish my
daughter to receive attentiou from one who had
been accused—and with such overwhelming ev
idence—of such dark crimes.”
I could not help turning pale with anger at
these words, but I was resolved to be calm.
“ And who," said I, “ was so well calculated
to conduct those enquiries as myself? At
least, who would be so much interested in hav
ing them properly answered? On the contrary,
I did not even know that I had been arraigned.”
“I have already acknowledged, Mr. Hopeton,
that I acted wrong. I now ask your pardon for
so doing.”
“Then, sir, I am sorry I alluded to it the sec
ond time. I will not do so again.”
“ When I tell you,” resumed Mr. Bently,
“ that the enquiries I speak of are conducted by
one who is a warm friend of yours, and who, I
think, will take as much interest as you your
self would, in the matter, my conduct will ap
pear still less culpable in your eyes.”
I considered who this friend could be, and
thought it must be Frank Bently or Tom Har
per.
“ But I see,” resumed Mr. Bently, “ you are
impatient to know with what you are charged.
You are calm enough to listen, I hope?”
“ I think I am. I know my accuser, and no
slanderds too gross for such a villain.”
“In the first place, then, count one of the in
dictment, you are accused of murder and rob
bery in Galveston, Texas, on tlie day of
“ And the proof?”
“ A copy of a Galveston paper, containing a
proclamation offering a rewaiu of one hundred
dollars for the apprehension of onfe John Hope
ton, of Georgia, who had committed murder
and robbery on the day and year aforesaid.”
NO. 29.