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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.