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'''. ' ' ' ' * VOL. 1. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] Cliilde Harold—Byron—Troubles of Poetical Women, &c. 11V “tOl ISR MANHIEM.” Augusta, Ga.. Jan. 4th, 1860.. Mr. Editor: —lt was with some reluctance— half in smiles, half in tears, that I drew forth from its hiding-place with others of its kind, the enclosed, to prepare it for your inspection and sentence: —an emotion, however, which vanish ed when I reflected that the beloved Master, for I whom it was originally written in French, were he not now “ sleeping his last sleep ’’ with oth er high-hearted braves on the battlefield of , j would smilo as gladly and kindly to read the ef forts of his old pupil in your columns, as he did i the day he praised while he corrected the imper fect French into which I had thrown my thoughts. I hope it will not appear that I have presumed in the selection—or in accepting my subject.— The humblest may adore the highest—and very humbly and lovingly do I repeat the praises of the— almost —greatest of Poets and Poems. And it may be that among your readers are many— old gentlemen—“ men of business " —and ladies with “ overwhelming domestic cares/’ who find time for the perusal of your columns, but hardly for the study of “ the Poets," whose memories these selections, so acceptable to all, and once so familiar —may agreeably refresh. Respectfully, “ Louise Maxhiem.” “ Tell you my opinion ofChilde Harold? Non sense!” “ Yes, I do like it dearly —yes, and I am very familiar with it—but then,” “ Give you ray opinions, ‘clearly and method ically expressed’! You surely are not in earnest? What. I!” “ Oh yes, I know all about the mouse who gnawed the net covering the lion—yes—and lit tle ‘ labors of love' sometimes afford more satisfac tion than more dignified and elaborate attempts —yes, certainly, that’s all very well,but then— t)h, you have no idea what you are asking! j Give you my reasons for liking Childe Harold! Mon Dieu ! but that involves a knowledge of Logic, even tho’ it boa poetical subject. Logic and Philosophy are pretty nearly the same things, are they not? Well, I told you Lkuew nothing about either. Besides, did yowL,ever know a woman give her reasons for anything ? but yes—there are women who can talk logic, and practice philosophy too. But these are the brilliant exceptions belonging to a species too high to be ranged with ordinary women—weak women, with us, women of instinct. One meets a greater number of these reasoning women in France than elsewhere. There are those, par ticularly at Paris, who can explain with a clear ness and decision astonishing, why they love and why they don’t. And how consistent and united they are in their tastes! They like, nearly all, but one and the same thing: (money or its pos sessor) and naturally, in spite of their incessant toil to attain their desires, it frequently happens there is full occasion for the exercise of their philosophy. Out of France this species of reas oning women is more rare. In America, thank Heaven, the number is so small that they can no longer be distinguished as a species:—They have rather the right to be called feminine phe nomena* But if I am unequal to the task of writing you an essay on the merits of tho chef-d 'euvre of one of the greatest of Poets, I can at least tell you when lam fondest of reading it, and with that your masculine intelligence can doubtless con sider and deduce for itself—can gather and put into something like order, the crude, and floating particles of reason which may be found in the mind of a “ very woman ’’ —a labor utterly im possible to herself. You say you like to read Childo Harold when you are ‘content’ with yourself (which no doubt is very often). I only read it when mortally sad, which is You permit yourself to read it when you are seeking recreation as a sort of recompense (for your self-contentment possibly). I am driven to it by. a force stronger than my own will. I have quitted a ball often two hours sooner than my young friends—(and in those far off days, how I did love to dance 1) because some lines of Childe Harold kept running through my mind, destroy ing, completely, all the splendor and gayety of the fete; and it has better pleased me to follow the Childe in his wondrous, sad and grand pil grimage, than to listen to compliments (of cour tesy) and to waltz. I have often, on the point of setting out on a longjourney, unpacked a trunk at midnight to find Childo Harold; the silence and solitude of a chamber stripped of loved and familiar objects ♦The writer's opinions as regards the disinterestedness of American women hav<jfound reason for a change lat terly. Americans are a wonderfully progressive people; and the ladies certainly do not lag. Their attainments in logic or philosophy are most startling. There are amon» them a vast number who can express with a frightful distinctness, why they" love or hate” and their predilections singularly resemble those of French wo men. t JAMES GARDNER, i I Proprietor. I AUGUSTA. GA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 1860. having awakened emotions that demanded im peratively the expression, which, of myself, I could not give them. Once the search com menced, I always find the book and I read— •• Hut there are wanderers o'er eternity. Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be," Ac.. Ac. 'Tis night, when meditation makes us feel We once have loved, tho' love is at an end. The heart, lone mourner of its baffled real. Tho' friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend. When youth survives young Love ami Joy ? Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend. Death hath but little left him to destroy,” Aq. Ac. *■ There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison—a quick root Which’feeds these deadly branches: for it were As nothing did we die; but lift will suit Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste;” Ac.. Ac. i Or— “ What deep wounds ever healed without a scar!' The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear Silence, but not submission” Ac., Ac. * “ But ever and anon of grief subdued, There comes a token like a scorpion's st ing; Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back to the heart, the weight which it would fling Aside forever,” Ac., Ac. - And how andwhy we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind. But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which outof things familiar, undesigned. When least wo deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whicli no exorcism can bind. The cold—the changed—jierchanqe the dead —anew. The mourned—the hived—the lost—too many!—yet how few!” I have a great passion for looking at the stars at night, in consequence of which I found it ab solutely necessary to learn by heart the follow ing exquisite lines: u Ye stars, which are the |e>etry of heaven. If in your bright leaves we could read the fate Os men and empires, 'tis to be forgiven If. in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. And claim a kindred with ye; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, arid create In us, such longings from afar. That fortune, fame, power, lite have named them selves a star." But this penchant for star-gazing aud apostro phizing entails ennuis and mortifications ex treme. It so happens, sometimes, that one finds one’s self in one of those assemblages of houses called a town, not so extensive as to preveut nearly all the inhabitants from knowing you'almost personally, and your affairs quite in timately; at the same time, you may find therein some of those very agreeable streets in which your opposite neighbor can easily distinguish the color of your eyes. In such a situation, you find yourself a prey to this celestial emotion, you abandon yourself to it, and if by chance one of the neighbors oppo site, more nocturnal than the rest, happens to see you at the window at midnight star-gazing, tranquilly, perchance mournfully, she rises a full hour earlier next morning, hurries through her domestic duties, takes her embroidery, and goes round to tell all the other the extraor dinary occurrence; whereupon they make their comments and form their conclusions that “no doubt you are a little unsettled in your mind— you never did behave like other people,” “ per haps a love disappointment;” or, perhaps its “ them queer books your ‘ pa’ allows you to read —works on Astrology which have turned your young head, poor thing!” Now, it happens that, despite your poetical temperament, you like a little gossip occasional ly, as well as any one, and towards evening, fatigued with the day’s occupations, whatever they may be, you throw on your bonnet, and go out*to make a few social visits to the old ladies around, with whom you fancy you are a favorite. In the street, to your extreme annoyance and surprise, you find j-ourself more than usually an object of attention and interest. The little chil dren, who listen to everything and do not en tirely comprehend anything, on seeing you, col lect in a group on the walk, and regard you with innocent, wido-open eyes of fear, as if they imagined you a sorceress. You approach them, smiling as usual, aud say ‘ good evening’ in your way which children like generally, but instead of replying, they dash off at full speed, and tumble headlong one over the other, into the first open door which appears, in a tumultuous terror, which resembles the whirring of a flock of partridges, which ODe surprises, sometimes, under a bush in the woods. This circumstance shocks and bewilders you inexpressibly at first, but the air and exercise somewhat dissipate your painful emotions; you regain your good humor and enter gaily the house of Mrs. —. She salutes you with a mournful and constrained air, in re ply to your cheery greeting, giving you, at the same time, a glance of anxious curiosity. You imagine something ails her, are distraite in spite of your efforts not to seem so, and shorten your visit considerably, But your first elasticity of step and spirit is gone, and your smiling face graver, as you enter the door of Mrs. —. Strange! you find her cold also—constrained in her man ners, usually so free and gossipy. After the or dinary compliments of the day, she asks you: “When is the next comet expected? Is there any talk of an approaching astronomical phenome- non?” “Are the Millerites again creating an excitement ?” As you know absolutely nothing of Astronomy, not even to tell Jupiter from Venus, except by the beatings of your heart; i and as you do not take the least interest in the j scientific journals of the day, which cumber l Papa's table, except to wish them to the mischief, ! when a whole pile of the ‘‘horrid things” hide away the ‘Blackwoods’ and ‘Living Ages’, in which that “darling story” is continued, you are overwhelmed with mortification at your igno rance, and endeavor to exci , elf. Bu. you find yourself arrested in ybfir first sentence by a dolorous shake of the head, and a look, which says as plain as a look can say, “ Ah, poor child, don't deny it, it’s useless : I know, alas, I know I” As you are not a philosopher, you begin to lose your patience, and you ask her, with the least touch of asperity in your manner: “ What do you mean ?’’ But in spite of your persistence you can get nothing from her but sighs of commiseration and ominously wise shakes of her head. You bid good evening brusquely, and resolve to go home, in the street, however, you stand unde cided. You iiad counted on making three vis its—you have little philosophy in your composi tion, but great force of will. Notwithstanding that you are almost crying from vexation, you turn with an air of determination towards Mrs. in no wise soothed, for almost the first thing she remarks, is, “How badly you are looking!” “ Are you sure you are quite well 2"—if you are not “troubled with extreme nervousness and sleeplessness?”—and insists on putting intoyour reticule a recipe for a very calming tea, and a parcel of dried rose leaves and violets. As be fore leaving homo you remarked, with a slight blush of satisfaction, whilst tying on your bon net, that you were looking fresher than ordinary, you gaze at her in perfect bewilderment; then, as all the incidents of the past hour rush to ; mind, they begin to wear a ridiculous aspect, and in spite of your indignation at so much unde | sired and needless sympathy, you burst out laughing. This gayety, mal-a-propos. makes matters worse. You receive another glance of intense commi seration, and a sigh so profound that you shud der in spite of yourself. It is clear you don’t stay “to tea.” As you turn homeward, your step is unequal, your gait irregular—now slow, now rapid—sometimes you stop altogether, as you ask yourself in trouble and amaze.— “ But what in the world can all this meau ?” You reach home in a horrible humor, go straight to your room aud look at yourself in the ■ glass. Deeidedlv you are pale and looking ill. So, the consequence of this agreeable promenade is, that you have an intense longing to look at v “ the stars" again that night—a most unusual occurrence that, of being sentimental two suc ceeding nights. But as in these narrow streets the sky is visible only immediately overhead, and it is impossible to look long without break ing your neck, moments of repose are neces sary. There is certainly but “one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.” During one of these resting spells your attention is vividly attracted to the houses opposite by a most singular ap pearance. At several of the windows the cur tains are pulled lightly aside by an invisible hand, and iu the aperture appears a human head, ornamented with the coiffure which la dies, in small towns, usually wear after ten o’clock at night. At first sight you are stupe fied,—then, you recoil!—the mystery of the af ternoon is revealed! Your first impulse is to dash yourself headlong from the window,* but I as there are very few persons gifted with firm ness of head and will to execute this extrava gant desire, it is soon superseded by that of throwing a book at the window opposite. A third reflection, however, shows the inexpedi ency of this proceeding also. Even should you succeed in breaking the window, (and, by good luck, the head thereat visible,) there are plenty others besides —and — to-morrow will certainly come. This thought makes you shudder! It is worse than being dashed to pieces on the pavements. Oh misery! At last your only re sort is to close your window, and as you are not a philosopher, you shut it with a little, noise. Then your rage,*(as is the case with many an other in this world,) not having the opportunity of venting itself on the true malefactors, breaks forth on the first object (often the most innocent and best loved) that finds itself in your path. To-night, it is possibly “Childe Harold,” which happens to be on the window border, and which you send whirling to the other end of the room. Or you go and waken your maid, —who, ignorant of the miseries and delights of the “poetical temperament,” is sleeping tranquilly—to ask her for something you could very well find your self. or to repeat some trivial order for to-mor row. Whenever I happen to find myself in similar cir cumstances, I am really most unhappy. And now, in choosing my own room, I sacrifice every oth * The person for whom this was written, at the early age of six years dashed himself in a fit of passion from a window on the third story, but was fortunately caught in a tree anil uninjured, er comfort to that of having no window with a vis-a-vis. There are many other occasions when I feel it a necessity to quote or to pore over Childe Har old. Whenever, from ignorance, or carelessness, or vanity, I have said or done something silly, and I feel, with poetical acuteness, the coups d'epingles, which 1 have well merited, and some one has had the moral courage, or the ill-na tured malice to inflict, I stay at home studiously, shut myself up in my root “ith my mak ing the fiercest determinate.,, “ never, no never again to go into society; it's so stupid and dis agreeable,” and in my solitude I console myself with— “ But soon he found himself the most unfit Os men to herd with men; with whom he held Little in common” • * * * Or — “To fly from, need not be to hate mankind. All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor Is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoil Os our infection." * * * * But being really of a social and lenient dispo sition towards others as well as myself, this bad humor soon evaporates, and I excuse my world liness, weakness and inconstancy with— “lt is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile on us—the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness—tho’ disgust Hath weaned us from all worldlings.” But soon again the inconstancy, or rather some repulsing defects, ingratitude, cruelty and selfishness, discovered in some admired friend, or those around me. I find myself repeating with intense bitterness — “Ido believe, Tho’ I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing. I would also deem O’er other’s griefs, that some sincerely grieve. That two —or one—are almost what they seem. That goodness is no name, nor happiness no dream." When we arrived at Geneva, —yes, I will say it, though it requires some courage—l was dis appointed! There now! I had read and heard so much about the mountains reachingthe skies, the wild and sad beauty of the eternal snows, that my imagination, always morbid, had pic tured them ten times higher—ten times whiter —altogether grander than they appeared to me at first sight. But I took care to keep a profound silence on the subject of my disappointment at the house, for every one around me was in ecstacies of enthusiasm; so I quietly and seriously set my self to work to learn the French, of which I felt daily need, and very soon in the pleasures of study I became insensible as to whether I was j in Africa, Lapland, or La Suisse. My ardor, j however, caused me to neglect my health, and j at the end of a few months I found myself, as- j 11 ter six weeks of intense suffering, recovered from | an attack of fever and rheumatism, and in capable of any sort of application. The conse quence was, a round of visits, rides, drives, walks with my Genevese friends, refined, intel ligent, comprehensive admirers of the true beau ties of their beloved Switzerland, not fussy “tourists” or “ Mr. Murray," or those wretched commissionaires whose inappropriate and cease less chatter drives one distracted. At the end of a month I found myself drawn towards this grand and sublime aspect of Nature, as a naughty child, who, having brusquely repulsed a new friend whom it had not understood, —after having regarded his face attentively for a few moments, and finding therein that which in spires love and invites confidence, allows itself to approach timidly—then climbs the friendly knee—then throws itself into the extended arms with an ardor of passionate love. But I kept silence still at the Pension on the subject of this new love that I had found. There are so few to wbom we would willingly expose our dearer and more refined emotions. It seemed to me a sort of blasphemy to express what I felt at times by the words I heard so constantly employed around me, by other “enthusiastic travelers—” “ Splendid!” “ Exquisite 1” “ Mag nificent!” accompanied with most extravagant gesticulations. I refused all invitations to join “ excursions” in the mountains and contented myself with taking a book and straying off alone, or with the two children only, every evening about sunset, to a spot from which I could have a lovely view of the surrounding country. This was an im mense field where the laborers were making hay. I did not know the proprietor personally; but the gate was left open to allow the hay-loaded char- < iots to pass and repass, and tempted by the beauty of the aspect, with my American audac ity I entered and seated myself on a little hil lock. Several peasant women were there usually gathering small pink flowers which bloom ed abundantly and brightly around, to'dry them for medicinal purposes doubtless; and several laborers, some tending the oxen yoked to the wagons, others gathering hay. This field which was somewhat elevated at the point where I was accustomed to sit, declined gradually, and at last spread itself into a plain below, covered with the brightest verdure, even at this season; whence rose a large and handsome residence, sur rounded with magnificent chestnut trees, which already wore the first light touches from the brush of autumn. This house and these trees ) Two Dollar* Per Annum, 1 I Always In Advance. I were relieved by the Jura, which at this spot descended precipitately, and at this hour was partially veiled by mists of tho profoundest blue, which contrasted agreeably with the opposite Alps, sloping hero gracefully five miles, and which, lighted by the rays of the setting sun, showed occasional oases of the most brilliant verdure, broken here and there by some ine quality, or gaping cleft, the ruggedness of which was concealed or softened by vapors of violet and rose color. In the west the sun still gilded some graceful clouds, whence one could distin guish the rushing sound of the Arve, which, swollen by some mountain storm, hurried its chilly and turbid waters headlong to join and sully the beautifully blue and limpid Rhone. From the distance came the joyous cries of dogs returning from the hunt, or celebrating the en trance of their beloved masters to the house. I felt no reluctance to show my intense enjoy ment of all this grandeur and loveliness before these beings, rude and ignorant, who worked so tranquilly around me. - Possibly they compre hended little better, this love of Nature, than the other people at the house (the young men, married women and girls who made excursions in the mountains with slippers or “cloth gait ers,*’ muslin flounces, and round hats trimmed with lace and bugles, and who returned at night, very much torn, soiled, tired, and in a horrible humor,) but at least, these respected this senti ment in another, let you alone, and neither de sired you to make, or made themselves, grima ces, gestures and exclamations, to persuade themselves that they felt it. Ah, at that dear time how invaluable “ Childe Harold" to me. I should have stifled I think, with my emotions, had I not possessed this means of giving them vent; repeating over and over again softly those exquisite and expressive lines, whose music accorded so harmoniously with the grand and sublime Nature whose praises it expressed. One day, towards evening, the skies gave signs of an approaching storm. I threw my books aside, put on my round hat (which was not trimmed with lace and bugles) and ran to my favorite spot, where I could see the storm gather on the mountains, before descending to the val ley. It was a scene but how dare I attempt its description, when I have heard “ Childe Har old’s” so often. I remained an hour, till the clouds directly overhead, and several large drops on my hand, warned me to return. I wished much in my enthusiasm to remain where I was and brave the storm, but some little souvenirs of rheumatism inclined me to abandon this idea and run rapidly down the road towards home. Scarcely had I entered, when the storm broke j forth in its full fury. I found every one assembled in the salon anx ! iously awaiting gouter, and conld not help re garding them with a sort of mingled disgust and indignation, and leaned out of the open window, repeating inaudibly those splendid lines of Childe Harold: “Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are Wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength as is the light Os a dark eye in woman! Far along From peak to ]>eak the rattling crags among. Leaps the live thunder. Not from one lone cloud. But every mountain now hath found a tongue And Jura answers through her misty shroud Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud.” But very soon one of the ladies, (one of those who made “excursions”) began a scries of little squeaks of terror every time it thundered or lightened,'and courtesy obliged mo .to abandon my post and shut the window, although the heat was suffocating. The bell soon after ring ing, I followed the rest in to supper, where I partook of bread, butter and meat, with a relish which would have surprised one who had seen me an hour previous; for really the heat, air and exercise had given me an appetite. After an hour in the salon, spent in social chat, I went up to my room. Alone, I recalled all I had seen, and felt myself again prey to the rav ishing sadness of poesy, (possibly I had eaten too much supper.) I looked out of my window— thank Heaven it had no vis-a-vis —naught but the sky beyond, above —to the right, the Alps —the Jura on the left. The storm had not yet ceased. The clouds moved in an inextricable confusion and haste, that awakened almost a sensation of fear; and the moon, dim and wild looking, struggling with pale beams thro’them, reminded me of a beautiful and half-mad wo man, battling ’gainst the horrid spectres that threaten to extinguish the brightness of her in telligence. I passed nearly the whole night reading Childe Harold, Canto 111., verses 92, 3, 4, 5,6, 7,8, Ac., Ac. Oh! that night! Can I ever forget it? It seemed that I had entered a new epoch of ray life —youth appeared forever past, but its bril liant and feverish force was replaced by a strength far more beautiful and valuable to me —the clear and steady flame of an intelligence! “ Conld I have kept my spirit to that height, I had been happy: but clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from the heaven which woos us to its brink.” “ Childe Harold!” Ah, it is the history of life—of every human heart, those hearts somewhat cultivated —not very bad—not very NO. 34.