Newspaper Page Text
* J*j
VOL. 1.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ABES. .
In the far distant Eaat, beneath the clime
. Os India's burning sun, where Ganges rolled
Its broad and placid stream in olden time,
And still rolls on; where Nature's scenes unfold
The self same beauties that a thousand fears
Os change has left unchanged,—its gilded towers
The wide extended city proudly rears
Above the plain, still scatter'd o'er with flow'rs,
Such as of old adorned warm India's sunny bowr's.
Benares 1 Thou proud city of the plain,
How many years of change has fleeting time
Thrown 'round thee, yet thy lofty towr's remain,
Still sparkling In the sun of thy fair clime.
All, all, unchanged; the river bark floats on;
The Ganges, in its course, still bathes thy feet;
The painted Bulbuls, ever and anon,
By moonlight in the fragrant groves repeat
Their plaintive melody, so touching and so sweet
But ah, Benares! are thy sons the same
That once they were, when they stemmed the tide
Os Macedonian conquest;—when their fame •
For deeds of arms was greater than their pride,
Their pomp, their luxnry;—whenPorus’ hand
Upon the river bank was dyed in blood.
To drive th' invader from his native land?
Where are the Malli now, who bravely stood
Upon their city walls, and dftd, as brave men should ?
Oh, Benares 1 that glory such as thine
Should fall beneath a tyrant's heavy chain;
Thy once free sons in slav’ry now repine—
Too hard tneir 101 —caus-t tuvu
A despot's minion, the veriest slave.
That cringing bows and worships as a god
The turban'd Persian, or the Tartar knave.
Or heartless Britain with her iron rod.
That tramples on the wretch, who trembles at her nods
Augusts. A. Z.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
FROM A TOURISTS QUIVER;
OR,
Scenes and Incidents of a Tour
From New Orleans to Now York.
BY ONE OF THE PARTY.
ARROW Till*
How Tim shrewdly ascertains the widow's age, and al
most betrays his uncle's—The Major seriously in love
—His experience in the wars of Cupid—Old bachelors
very likely to be foolish in love matters—But the
widow it lovely, lovable and amiable—Mr. Poyns
thinks so, too —lie hears the confession of the Major—
Compassionates his distress—Encourages him, and of
fers to do a good turn for him —Some speculations
about the widow—Some reflections about her—How
beautiful Is widowhood I—sometimes—A bit of pathos
a propot of widows—The Major introduces Mr.
Poyns—The widow Is witty—She plays with the Ma
jor, and then for the Major—The Major reads, the wi
dow and Mr Poyns talk about Southern literature and
Northern printing, and about“ Beulah’ - —What a cler
gyman thinks about the religious teachings of “ Beu
lah”—The party reach Memphis.
Steamer Eclipse, Mississippi river, near Memphis, i
December, ISO 9. j
We expect to be in the great commercial em
porium of Tennessee within three hours. Thus
far our voyage has been exceedingly pleasant.
What with reading, bringing up old correspond
ence, writing many a long-owed letter, (the un
. looked reception of which must cause old and
neglected friends to open their eyes,) pnd con
versing, have contributed to make time pass
agreeably.
I have made the acquaintance of the widow
“ with the eyes.” She proves to be an intelli
gent and witty person, of unexceptionable social
position, as well as very beautiful and rich, and
only thirty! How did I find out her age ?Of
course I did not ask her. Tim made the dis
covery. Hearing his uncle make a guess at it,
he said, bluntly,
“1 know how old she is.”
“ You ?” ej'aculated the Major. “ Have you
got so far into her confidence as to get a secret
a woman never tells even to her confessor ?”
Tim replied: “ She said two days ago, she
was seventeen when she was married. Testor
day I heard her say she had been married eight
years when her husband died, and this morning
I asked her how long she had been a widow,
and she said, five years. Now, ignorant as I
am, Major, I know enough about cyphering to
put If and 8 and 5 together and make 30 of
’em.”
The Major clapped his hands on his knoes and
laughed. “Capital! The widow has betrayed
herself I Tim, my boy, you’ll do! If the widow
knew how confo.unded deep you were, she’d be
shier of you 1 Thirty! Now, do you know, Mr.
Poyns, I didn’t think she was over five and
twenty I But thirty is young enough I Let me
see: lam thirty-eight A nice difference I" he
added, in an under key, as if reflecting to him
self.
* Errata.— ln Arrow No. 6, F. & F.. 11th February,
page 297, col. 8, near the bottom, read “Orator"' instead
of 7 * Orator.”
In col. 2, same page, nearer the bottom, read “prison
ert in priton" instead of “ persons in prison." True
enough, the “ compositor does not know” that the form
er expression is a “quotation from the New Testament,”
nor lines the editor. Where is it nrav ?
I JAMES GARDNER, I
I Proprietor. f
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1860.
I
“You 'are older than mother, Uncle Bob,’
said Tim, with a stare at the bald head, “ and
she’s ’’ »
The Major stopped liis mouth vtith his hand.
“ Hist, man 1 Stop tiiere! If my sister wa a
hundred, it is no reason I should be a thousand 1
Learn, boy, two tilings as you go through the
world, viz: never to speak of the age of a wo
man or of an old bachelor. Confound you 1 If
the wifipw asks my age, don't hint it.”
“ I’ll tell her she must look at your teeth,”
answered Tim, with a dry smile; and running
his jewelled Angers through his long, straight,
light hair, pushing it back from his high fore
head, a la Calhoun, Wise and Jackson, he left,
attracted by singing in the cabin.
Tho Major sat silent for a minute. He seem
ed to have something on his mind. Have I told
you that he was a sugar-planter in a small way,
with a pretty income of four thousand a year,
enough lor independence, but not for luxury ?
That he is a native of Louisiana, Parish St. Jo
seph, and never traveled, till now, a hundred
miles from home ? That he is a great admirer of
the ladies, but has lived to be four and forty
(that's his ago to a year, sub rosa f) without mar
rying? That he spends his winters in the city
after selling his sugar, and keeps open bachelor
rooms for a few friends, among whom I am re
garded by him as his Fidelis Achates ? That
he is generous, good-hearted, vain, tolera
bly literary in tho magazine and annual way
and a great singer with areally fine voice? That
lie is a friend to bo depended on, and that an
appeal wae never made to his sympathy or purse
in vain ? That he has a susceptible heart,'easily
broken and as easily mended; and that he has,
since he got past forty and bald, a growing pro
pensity to get a wife ? That he had learned wis
dom by three refusals of cruel belles; for the
Major would never fall in love with any but
young turtles, say from sixteen to twenty, who
amused themselves with him, led him on as far
as he wftuld, and they dared to go, and when
they drew from his great heart its tender con
fession, would laugh at him 1 For a year past
he had abjured all wild, “heartless” girls as he
termed these roguish virgins, and given his at
tention to young widows! Poor fish! Thou
hast leaped from the frying pan upon a bed of
coals! The Major ere long found that the widows
with more art and savoir faire, were more heart
less than maidens. I learned, only after we had
left the city of New Orleans, that the week be
fore he had been bluffed by a bewitching Creole
Widow of two and twenty, who had artfully
drawn him to a confession of his profound pas
sion, and then replied that “ Really she preferred
him to all other suitors, but he was so bald
that she was afraid that, on their wedding tour,
lie might be taken for her father; which yoyi
know, my dear Major, would be exceedingly
mortifying to you, and awkward for me 1”
No wonder the discomforted lover resolved to
fly the South! and his sister having at that crisis
come with her son (the neffy) to the city to find
some one for him to travel with, and my pro
posed departure being announced, he at once
made up his mind to take passage with me, as
my reader is already aware, for New York.
Now, behold him, fast in the snares of another
syren I It was her superb voice which he heard
at the cabin piano, the first day out, - which did
the thing! Besides, it is well known that
it is always easier to take on a new passion
while the old one is still warm and tender.
Suddenly my relation spoke out, and in a reso
lute sort of way, unusual to him :
“ I think I will do it. Yes I It must be done i
I'll do it before I leave the boat I”
“Do what, Major?" I asked. “You don't
mean to do aught desperate ?"
“Yes, it is desperate! I mean to propose!
“ To the widow!”
“"Who else? Tim, only, is in the wayl Con
found the fellow I I do verily believe she is ma
king love to him I Heard of su6h things—women
marrying boys I—rich boys! She will run away
with him if I don’t step in and cut her out 1 The
fact is 1 have never before seen a woman who
can make me a happy man 1”
“Don’t fear Tim, Major!" I said encoura
gingly. “It is only a little innocent flirtation
on her part. She enjoys his undisguised and un
sophisticated and open-mouthed admiration of
her I Go in boldly and you’ll win I”
The Major shook his head dubiously, and rub
bed his palm over his shining poll:
‘‘She says she does’nt like bald gentlemen!
She says, she likes a man with black curly liair,
and a moustache and rich, dark beard! Bah!
( That settles my coffee!" and the Major looked
‘ very much depressed; for it was clear he was
profoundly in love; at least, so far as a bachelor
of four and forty can be in love. I would have .
laughed at him, but I saw it was a serious mat
ter with him.
“Come. Major,” said I, “introduce me! I
should like to know her. Perhaps I can forward
your suit, ‘ under the rose.’ ”
“ Do, my dear fellow I I should be a thousand
times obliged to you, if you can sound her, and
8»y a good word for me, and— a bad one for
that scamp, my nephew I"
We Wt my state-room and entered the la
dies’ cabin, which bad become a sort of neutraj
<rround by day, free to such gentlemen as wish.
ed to hear the music of the piano. The widow,
at the moment, was singing and playing for
Tim, his favorite piece, “ The Dumb Wife " tho
life, mirth and merry music of which pleased
him vastly. As we drew near, I had an oppor
tunity of noticing her face reflected in the large
mirror behind the instrument. She was truly
beautiful with fine, bright eyes and a refined, in
tellectdal face, enriched by the sweetest, rosiest
mouth in the world and mischievous dimples in
each cheek. How that young military officer,
her husband, must have idolized and loved her I
How had he gazed into the depths of those
eyes, and pressed with love those beautitul lips 1
And where was he now ? For five years mould
ering to dust 1 And there sits, as beautiful as
the hour ho folded her to his loving and manly
breast I Death and life 1 Corruption and beauty 1
Ye are wedded still 1 I wondered if she ever
thought of him in his cold resting place 1 Ah,
mel It seems as if love and memory ought
never to die where heart has once beat against
heart 1 It seems to me that a widow must ev
er be a Wife!—as if the grave had no power of
annulling the marriago of loving sonls. Beauti
ful the solitary remainder life of the wife whose
beloved and dead husband is still felt to her her
living husband 1 who keeps her nuptial vow
sacred to him who first, and once for all, heard
it spoken by her lips, and who will never utter
it again on earth to other lips! Holy, beauti
ful, honorable the life of the widow who waits
with hope and faith re-union with the departed
husband of her youth 1 Death !—it is not sep
aration 1 Hod forbid that the tomb should sep
arate friends/ sisters, brothers, or wife and
husband t
But I am venttving on forbidden ground.—
The widow, see-'ig the Major approach the pi
ano, smiled on him, and then continued to sing
on, in the roost charming manner, the “ Dumb
Wife,” which Tim applauded by clapping his
hands.
I was duly presented. The Major, with a
sentimental look, asked her to sing. She de
sired that he would name a song. “ Meet me
by moonlight alone 1” he answered —this being
a song which he sang well, and in which he in
tended to join and display his fine te-or.
■‘Don't ask me to meet you by moonlight
alone, Major Bedoit,” she answered smiling,
with a look of badinage; “especially before
your nephew 1 What will he think ? ”
The Major blushed. He protested he did not
mean to —that is—he, did not ask her—that is
—it was the song he wanted, not the lady 1
After several songs delightfully sung by her,
the Major joining in, we retired to a lounge,
where, seating ourselves, we conversed. The
Major prided himself on his fine sonorous read
ing. Suddenly, while I was talking with her
about some persons we discovered were our
mutual friends, said the Major:
“Listen to this, if you please. Hurrah for
the South 1 ’’ and he began to read from a news
paper what follows:
SovTiiKBM Litbbatpbb. —lt Is (says the N. Y. Jour
nal of Commerce) but Justice to the brotherhood of let
ters in the United States to say that our literature is not
sectional, and that the South has actually furnished a
larger share of interesting and important books than the
North. We know that this may seem strange to the
croakers who are ever harping upon the literary barren
ness at the South, yet it is nevertheless true that some,
not only of the most able, but of the most remunerative
books published in the United States, have been and are
by Southern authors. The Journal finds, on inquiry,
that only two New York publishers have issued, within
a few months, the one, fifteen different publications, and
the other seventeen; all written by Southern authors,
representing Mississippi Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia,
South Carolina, Virginia and Kentucky.
“ Now,” said the Major, laying down the pa
per, “ who will say we have no Southern litera
ture ?”
“ Yes ; but all the books, it seems, are print
ed and published in the North,” answered the
widow. “ How is that, Mr. Poyns ?”
“ Because the mechanical labor is far cheap
er there than with us 1" I answered her. “ But
it will not be so long 1 Attention is being
drawn to the publishing business in the South.
It will take some time to get rid of our old habit
of looking to uie North 1 But we shall ere
long, print our own books 1”
“This is a Southern book, I hold in my hand,”
she said ; “ but see 1 it bears the imprint of a
Now York house—Derby & Jackson 1”
I glanced over the title and read “ Beulah.”
“ Yes," I said, “ Miss Augusta Evans’ book !
It has reached the fifteenth edition. A very
successful novel 1 Have you read it ?”
“ I have nearly finished it 1 The authoress is
evidently, in “ Beulah," unconsciously illustrat
ing her own moral nature, and unfolding her
personal, spiritual life I”
“ I have read the book,” I said. “It is re-1
markably well written, and remarkable for its
analysis of character. Miss Evans is young—
not yet twenty-four 1 Sho has produced a great
book I"
“But it has a marked defect,” said a clergy
man who stood by.
“ What is it, sir ?" she asked.
“ She makes her characters work out a sort
of Christianity for themselves, which gives
peace and rest to the spirit, without the instru
mentality of a Church or sacrament. She brings
the Doctor and Beulah to the goal of life with
Heaven in view, Ignoring the Heaven-appointed
means of grace I She leaves them jwui, Chris
tians, without flieir being baptised, commun
ing, or making any public or open profession of
Christ. If the doctrine her clever book teaches
be the true one, then the Lord’s supper, bap
tism, public profession of religion in communion
with the church of Christ, are unessential and
superfluous. If her hero and heroine are at
last saved, as the talented authoress intends,
and takes it for granted they will be, then
Christianity with its font and altar are an impo
sition on the world. I admire." continued the
clergyman, who is the same who was our com
panion at table, “ the genius of Miss Evans ;
but I cannot endorse a doetrine that subverts
Revelation, and ignores the ordinances of the
Church of God 1”
“ I am told,"*aid the lady, “that the author
ess is a Methodist." >
“ She may have been so,” he replied ; “ but
she is now, at least, a mystic of the ultra Uni
tarian school of writers, of which Emerson and
Channing are tho Apostles. She follows neither
alone, but her system of faith is plainly a blend
ing of the two philosophies. She is not by any
means a safe guide for the young reader in
theology.”
We were now called to see two boats racing,
and our conversation terminated.
Memphis is now in sight. It presents a fine
front, a mile in extent on the river, and rises
boldly along a rango of lofty alluvial cliffs.—
Here we leave the boat, and take the Memphis
and Charleston railway. Au revoir.
a
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE RUM DEVIL;
An Auto-Bloerophy of a Driinhard.
BT I. BIWTOB BXBBTBILL.
(OOSCIBBBD.)
Ere I was aware of it. I was again in my
room, lying on the bed, picking the counterpane.
There was an old gentleman sitting near one of
the windows, reading a newspaper. I thought
it was my father. I knew my father was dead,
and it made me uneasy to see him there. I
turned in the bed and moaned. The old gentle
man came and asked me what I wanted. I told
him. water. He brought it to me. and bidding
me keep quiet, resumed his reading. I closed
my eyes and tried to sleep, but in vain. I won
dered if the scene I have just described was not
all a dream. The more I thought of it, the more
I felt convinced that it must be. But wheTe
was I? and how came I there? Was I still in
tho home of nty childhood, with my father sit-'
ting near me? Was I stills boy, and were the
confused memories of the past which crowded
upon me only shadows of a vanished dream ?
I was lying with my fac# to the wall, with
these thoughts running through my mind, when
I again became aware of the presence of my
mysterious visitor. I did not see him, but I
felt his gaze on 'my countenance, like the sensa
tion caused by the reflection of the sun from a
mirror. He bent over me, and whispered to me
to go with him. I thought of the danger into
which he had led me, and told him that I would
not go. He repeated his command; I felt my
resolution waver; the strange influence which he
had acquired over me, could not be shaken off.
I arose, and followed him as far as the door,
when I was caught/and carried back by-the old
genleman. I struggled to loose myself, but his
grasp was like that of a vice. He forced me on
the bed, and told me to remain still, for I would
certainly die if I went out. I lay for a long
time, studying how I might elude tho vigilance
of my father—for such I still thought the old
man to be.
Looking towards the door, I saw the stranger
smiling and beckoning to me, I arose and glided
out of the room. My motions were without
effort, and so noiseless that I did not hear my
own footsteps. I moved as one floating down
a gentle current. When I got into the street, I
found that It was night. My companion helped
me into a splendid barouche, beautifully mount
ed with silver, and drawn by a pair of fiery black
horses. Down the street we dashed with such
a furious speed, that ray head grew dizzy; sparks,
thick as those from a locomotive, flew from the
iron-shod hoofs of our steeds; and houses, and
trees, and steeples, seemed chasing each other
for a wager. And yet we moved as silently as
if we were gliding through the air.
A drive of a few minutes brought us to the
gate of a largo garden, which wo entered, leav
ing ojr barouche on the outside.
The garden presented the most beautiful scene
* had ever beheld. Thousands of lamps richly
ornamented with gold and silver, hung among
flowers and ripened fruit,on the bending branch
es of orange trees, and illuminated the whole
garden with a light brilliant as the> day itself.
Statues of Graces and Yehuses, carved in the
finest style of art from the purest Parian
marble, stood around, holding in their hands
porcelain basras, from which went up jets of
clear water, which sparkled like diamonds in the
brilliant lamplights, and wreathed the brows of
the statues with rainbows. On each side of the
broad, meandering walks, were clumps of Shrubs
laden with flowers of a thousand hues, which
j Two Dollars For Annum, I
| Always In A4vanee. f
filled the air with a sweet perfume. Here and
there were open spaces with seats ranged around
where the green, velvety grass formed a carpet,
on which tbs fairies of the old poets would have
delighted to dance. But more beautiful than
all wese the fair women and bright-eyed, rosy
girls, arrayed in loose robes of gossamer texture,
which served only to heighten the voluptuous
ness of their beauty, who thronged the garden,
some plucking flowers and oranges, some sing
ing, talking, laughing, and some dancing to the
strains of swqpt. music, which came, knew not
whence.
I sat down on a grassy mound, and gazed
with rapture on the intoxicating scene. Pre
sently a troop of little boys, dressed like Cupids, -
with gauzy azure wings, came from a summer
house, carrying sweet-meats and goblets of
wiuo on silver trays, which they passed around
among the company. One brought his tray
to me. I quailed the wine as eagerly as the
weary traveler in the desert quaffs the cool
spring water of the oasis. I drained goblet af
ter goblet, but each successive draught only in
creased my thirst for more. The wine soon
mounted to my brain; the straips of music grew
louder, faster and more melodious ; rosy, tempt
ing lips smiled on me, and bright .eyes gave me
tender love-looks, as tho fair forms glided softly
past me, and I was overcome by a sensation of
wild, intoxicating delight. I glanced toward
my companion, who was leaning against an or
ange tree a few steps from my seat. I liked not
the triumphant look and half-sneering smile
which be begteWed me. Just then, one ol
the girts, a fllerry; blue-eyed creature, snatched
the rose-colored kid glove from his hand and
ran to the other side of the garden, shaking her
golden curls and making the air ring with her
silvery laughter. With a dark scowl, he hastily
thrust the hand into his bosom, but not before I
had discovered tlat it was stained with blood!
A thrill of horror ran through my frame; the
music ceased, and the dancers stood mute and
palo with fear. I was dragged to the carriage,
forced into a seat and driven rapidly to my lodg
ings.
I know not how long a time elapsed before the
next appearance of the mysterious stranger, for
my brain was too confused and busy to note tlie
flight of time. I half dreaded, half longed for
his coming. I felt quite sure that he intended
to accomplish my ruin, but still I could not throw
off the fascinating spell with which he had
bound me I felt that I must follow him, though
he led me to the gates of death.
He came at last I knew his footstep and
met him at the door. There was a twinkle of
malicious pleasure in his sharp, black eyes, as
he extended his gloved hand and bade me “good
morning.” I was greatly depressed in spirits,
and so weak and tremulous that I was forced to _
hold to his arm in walking.
Wo went to a part of the city I had never seen
before. The streets were narrow and dirty, and
the air redolent with the fumes of gin, and tho
fetid smell of decomposing matter. In and
around the doors of ihe miserable, dilapidated
hovels were groups of sickly children, covered
with rags and filth and vermin. Drunken men
were seen on every hand, some staggering along
the streets, swearing, singing and yelling, and
some lying by their door-steps, hugging their
brown, stone jugs, with the fierce rays of tho
summer sun falling on their bloated, upiurned
faces. Dirty, ragged, brutish females, with un
combed hair and red, swollen faces, leered and
giggled at me as they swaggered past with their
black bottles, or assailed me with the most pro
fane and obscene epithets. Here and there I
could see in the squalid rooms the pale, sad, and
Still beautiful faces of poor creatures, who looked
as if they had been reared araiu brighter, purer
scenes.
Passing through a long, narrow alley, we came
to an old, weather-beaten building, which we
entered, my companion closing and fastening
the door after him. The building, I found, was
used as a dram shop. It was dark and filthy,
and reeking with the odors of gin, beer and to
bacco. I was very sick and faint, and my com
panion poured some dirty liquor into a mug and
made me drink it. The taste was bitter and
nauseous, and the effect so stupefying that I
could no longer stand. I lay down on an old
lounge and told my companion that I believed
that I was poisoned and wished him to send
for a physician.
“It is too late!” said lie. “There is no help
for you —you must die.” And he langbed a
wild, mocking laugh, which was echoed by fifty
unearthlv voices in the next room.
“And'now,” he added, with a taunting grin,
“and now that you are about to make your exit
from the stage of life, let me impart to you some
information which may serve as food for sweet
reflections during your endless sojohrn in the
regions of the damned. You were greatly shock
ed last night at the sight of a little blood. Do
yon remember the pale young man, with the
broad, fair brow, who lost all his money in that
game of roulette ? He was the only son of a
widowed mother, and hia body was found, a
few hours ago, in the Delaware. _ The sea-cap
tain, who followed you, stabbed, in his frenzy, a
policeman to the heart He was carried to pris-
NO. 40.