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Southern Field and Fireside.
\VOL. 2. !'
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
LINES TO
In other lands where other skies
More clear and bright will shine,
Where other hearts will love fhee well.
And other's smilos be thine:
Thou wilt forget the passing dream that o'er your path
way shed
One beam of lustre—one bright ray—and </*«», alas! it
fled;
But there's a voice, whose accents soft, one lingingpray
er will be,
*• Ah! Bello Straniero, Dio la guanli!"
And other voices whose dear tones
To thy young heart will seem
One melody of constancy,
'Till knowledge burst the dream.
Yet trust, trust on, and never may it be thy fatal lot,
Like others here, to look for Truth and, weeping, And it
not —
But, like a bird of summer clime, sing ever wild and
free,
Ah! Bello Straniero, Dio laguardi!
From land to land trip gaily on;
Stop not to learn or think,
For Pleasure on the surface lies;
Beware— that only drink.
And, if the sparkle beckons you to see what shines
within,
Pane on , for lo! weird shapes appear—Guilt, Treachery,
and Sin;
But on thy way of dance and song one constant prayer
will b^
Ah! Bello ®raniero, Dio la guard!!
E *
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
IRENE STANLEY.
BY ANNIE B. BLOUNT.
CHAPTER VI.
By night and hy day
We linger in pleasures that never are gone.
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining eomes on.
MooitK.
“ Suppose we get up private theatricals, tab
leaux, or something of the sort, to amuse us,”
said Irene, one morning! “Jessie Grey, Adele
Whitney, Clara, Lucille, and myself, can be the
lady actors. Charlie Glenn, Richard Whitney,
Mr. Purcely, William Thomas, and you, Henry,
the gentlemen necessary. We can arrange the
rooms properly in a very short while.”
“Ouraudience, Irene?”
“ Oh! we will have plenty of auditors. I will
invite some of our friends from town; and the
neighbourhood is largely populated. If you ap
prove of my plan, Henry, I think we will have
a very pleasant lime.”
“ I approve of all that you suggest, darling.”
The rich colour of her cheeks testified her joy
at his approval. “ Will you look for the books,
while I talk with the girls ?"
“ I will do anything to oblige you."
“ That is clever." ghe smiled and held out
her hand. Norton grasped it warmly; and, with
a blush, she disengaged herself from the clasp,
and ran out of the library.
“ Tableaux or private theatricals, Lucille ?”
“ Tableaux, by all means; they caa lego’.ten
up so easily."
“No; theatricals," interposed Clara. “I want
ta see you play ‘Pauline’ to Mr Norton's ‘Claude.’
You would make such a fine actress, and he, I
am sure, would acquit himself well. I have a
passion for the drama, anyhow.”
“ But, dearest, that would cause so much
trouble and labour. While we perhaps would
be ready, others would not. Mr. Purcely, for
example.”
“Oh, my daughter do you know that the gal
lant major has fallen in love with yon?”
“In love with me, mama ?” Clara clasped
her hands together. “ Oh! Irene, did you ever
hear of anything to equal that ? Major Puicely
in love with me, and / fancied all the while his
hope and ambftion was to be my stepfather."
Henry Norton was attracted by the immoder
ate laughter of the girls, and came running in
to know what was the matter. When he found
out, his merriment equalled theirs.
“And you have made a conquest, Miss Clara ?
Let me congratulate you! The Major will de
clare to you, if he ever knew so much poetry in
his life:
I love thee, and I feel
That on the fountains of my heact was set a seal
To keep its waters bright and pure for thee.
I can fancy how he will flare open his squint
eyes, elevete his hands, and—”
“Enough, Mr. Norton,” said Clara, with mock
displeasure. “You shall not speak in such a
disrespectful manner of my ancient admirer. I
intend to encourage him ; to pay the most de
vout attention to every compliment he utters,
and—”
“ Elevate him to the seventh heaven of rap
ture. As you interrupted me so unceremoniously
j ust now. I take the same privilege. But we
must to business: I have promised to select the
JAMES GARDNER, I
Proprietor. i
1 TF V
AUGUST A, GA., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1860.
scenes; and you, ladies, must collect the actors
for rehearsal.”
Just then the postman entered with letters,
and after they were distributed, Irene opened
one of hers, exclaiming:
“Father and Mrs. Stanley will be at home
pretty soon—and, oh! listen —my stepmother
will be accompanied by one of her sisters, a
Miss—let me see! she writes such an illegible
hand—Miss Arabella Landrum, who visits the
South on account of ill health—a predisposition
to consumption. I should not wonder if thoy
arrive in time to be present at our little festival.
So much the better; we will have more auditors,
But I must now away, and give orders for their
reception. Henry, you and Lucille, and Clara
will look over the naagaaines, while I speak to
Maum Jane.”
She hurried away.
“Good gracious I Miss Irene! dey all coming
hack.” Maum Jane showed the whites of her
eyes, and in her astonishment dropped the
china cup from her hands which she was about
to place away.
“No more joyment now. Missus will come
with her hysterics and all dat; and have every
nigger on de place after her heels. Her sister
too 1 May de Lor Gor A’mighty deliver us! I
hope she ain’t a chip of de same block!”
Irene laughed; but in a moment said grave
ly: “You must not talk so, maumer. The lady
is my father's —your master’s wife; and so her
self and her sister are entitled to all due res
pect.”
“In course, jnistus—in course. I does not
mean to he disrespectable. But there'll be no
more peaceableness in dis house sartain. I see
her now with her great stony eyes a peerin' and
a pryin' into everything.”
M*umer Abby, a genuine African, who sat
in one corner smoking her pipe, now grumbled
out:
“ Him coming home now wid all he fine airs!
Oh Lord; I dunno what Massa were a studyin’
about when he marry dat infunnely woman.
Aljerlishunue too, I 'sped lie was afore he
marry and come here to dc Sous; now he wuss
on us cullrod folks dan any of de white ladies
raised here sous of Mason and Dixon's line.”
“ You do not like Abolitionists, then, Maum
Abby?”
“Like ’em Missus? What I like uni for?
Come here and raise a great row among do fool
niggers, who fool enough to listen to him. Come
wid he fine tales about freedom—freedom. Don’t
want no such freedom. Abby well enough off
—got good master —gib him plenty to eat, plen
ty close to put on he back, nurse him when he
sick, take care ob him when he get old, arid get
crippled up wid de rheumatiz so he can’t work
no more wid de big knots in he arm an’ hand.
What Abby want wid freedom ? Abby free —he
git sick—-no money—no frend—Abby lay down
in he bed—no able to get him doctor —Abby lay
and starve and die on h a freedom."
A peculiarity with Maum Abby, an old ne
gress who had nursed Irene’s father when a ba
by. was to use the pronoun he on all occasions.
This was puzzling to those unaccustomed to it,
as they did not know whether Maum Abby was
speaking of man or woman.
“ Maum Jane, you will attend to all this for
me?”
“ Sartainly. baby, sartain. You go back to de
parlour and ’joy yousef. Everything shall be
ready. I’ll fix the best room for dat Miss Lan
drum."
“Very well; and see that the rooms are well
aired."
Irene returned to the parlour.
“Mr. Henry Norton, can I claim your escort ?
I wish you to drive me around this morning. I
have several calls to make.”
“ I am always ready.”
“Like cold souse,murmured Clara, sotto
voce.
“And I am prepared for the ride, with the
exception of my hat. Ah! here it is on the
piano. Come then I”
Thoy first called on Jessie Grey. Jessie lived
in a small old-fashioned farm house. Vines
clambered over the doorway; and a small flow
er-plot in front gave evidence of the refined taste
of the occupants.
They opened the door without ceremony, and
surprised Mr. Richard Whitney sitting near Jes
sie, engaged in close conversation, while she was
knitting a sock for her father. Both were in
some confusion, but Jessie soon recovered her
self, and dusting two chairs with her apron,
handed them to her visitors, repeating the cus
tomary phrases.
The loom was uncarpeted, and very plainly
furnished. A large, old-fashioned clock stood
on the mantelpiece, with a picture over the pen
dulum entitled: “ Byron and his Marianna.”
A few home-made chairs, a side-table covered
with books, a lounge, evidently of home manu
facture, a sofa worn in many places, a large
and very old mahogany hook-case, and a por
trait painted in the costume of fifty years ago,
completed the furniture and ornament of the
room.
“ How is your father this morning, Jessie ? I
would like to see him, and the gentlemen will
excuse you I am sure.”
Jessie led the way to the next room, where,
in a large, comfortably cushioned chair—a pres
ent from Irene Stanley—reclined old Mr. Grey,
his feet elevated on a chair before him.
In reply to her kindly queries the patieut in
valid said:
“ Thank you, Miss Irene, lam yet alive; and
I suffer less pain to-day than I have felt for a
week. Ido not murmur at my fate, I hope, my
good young lady, but it does grieve me to see
my poor child growing old before her time—toil
ing and slaving to and I auch a help
less burthen on her hands The time has been
when these limbs were active and strong, and I
asked arid of none; but it has pleased God to
afflict me, and I am of no use to any one now.”
“Don’tsay so, father, dear.” Jessie smooth
ed back his white lock* tenderly. “What would
Ido without you in tide cold world? When I
make a great deal of money, I will take you off
travelling somewhere, and we will employ some
skilful physician, who will Cure you; and then,
when you are well again, we will bo, oh 1 so
happy.”
“It is fortunate, Miss Stanley, that the child
has such a bright, cheerful disposition. With
all her misfortunes she refuses to be crushed
and embittered by adversity, but looks at life
through rose-coloured spectacles. God only
knows what would become of me wore it not for
my affectionate, dutiful daughter; with almost
every breath I thank Him for His great mercy
in giving her to me.”
“God will reward her for her goodness. He
who said, 1 Honour thy father and thy mother,
that thy days may be long,’ will not forget the
lonely little girl who does her life-work so brave
ly, and accomplishes the beautiful mission of
woman without show or parade. And now, I
have a favor to ask of you’l shall need Jes
sie’s assistance for a day V two, if you can
spare her so long, in getting up tableaux for our
amusement. I think she will enjoy herself, too:
and I will send one of my servants to wait on
you, in her absence.”
“Thank you, Miss Stanley, you are very kind
to my poor little child. I shall be glad to let
her go, for she needs recreation.”
“ But, father, you will miss me> I fear."
“ Oh! I shall get on very well, my darling;
never tear. I shall spend the time in thinking
how much you will enjoy yourself. And when
you come back you can tell me all about it."
Jrene passed from the room, humble and
thoughtful. The patience and resignation of
that poor old man, under the combined evils of
poverty and physical suffering, touched her
heart. The incek look in his sunken eyes,
and the placid Berenity expressed in his atten
uated face, led her thoughts in a direction they
had not taken lately. She turned abruptly from
Whitney’s voluble speeches, as ho assured her
that he would be “supremely delighted to par
ticipate in their little amusementsand bid
ding Jessie an affectionate adieu, she looked at
Henry Norton inquiringly, and lie immediately
escorted her to ttie buggy.
, “We will drive to Judge Whitney’s next.
Henry, what do you think of young Whitney’s
attentions to Jessie ? lam really uneasy. I
do not believe that be will marry her; he has
too much false pride for that. I am afraid he
will win her warm young heart by his delicate,
assidious attentions; for she has- but little so
ciety, and no admirers, except one or two coun
try boors, who of course elicit no other emotion
but disgust in a girl of her refinement and cul
tivation ; consequently, she has bo one with
whom to compare him. He is jjiung, hand
some, and attractive, to one who IMS seen but
little of the world. He plies her with tlatteries
—pretends to sympathise with hot—wins her
trust and confidence—and, oh I Henry, lam so
afraid he will make her unhappy. She is a girl
of uncommonly strong feelings, *nd if she loves,
it will be no ordinary emotions but a passion
withering her young life, and eodjng only when
death comes to still the throbMgs of her im
passioned heart. Poor Jessiaig ,tremble for
her—placed in a false jXJijlupnWealing keenly
her individual superiority W>|fiiation in life—
bowed down very often |y tb*w>als and toils
which surround her—ani then*ith this fine
young gentleman coming’ in otMHOnally—call
ing by accident to have a flsbinfSfne mended—
or to beg a bunch of violits-t-aißShen pausing
to make some insidious, compltaSlhtary speech.
Ohl Henry, your sex are very eften unjust to
“ I know it, Irena, and I deptMfc it. I be
lieve this Richard Whitney to oB wfcrineipled.
I have met him often is New YsfjSfcd Wash
ington City, and his associates not
such as to reflect credit on the sought
them. He frequented billiard salSons, to my
• knowledge, and very often lost large sums of
money, which his father woold pay, with the
laughing apology that his ‘dear boy was sowing
his wild oats,’ and would reform in time to set
tle down to a steady business man. I doubt it.
much. Richard has fine abilities, and some tal
ent, but he is spoiled—he has been flattered to
death by Northern belles, who were anxious to
secure a Southern husband, with the attendant
appendages—plantation and ■'negroes—despite
the Abolition proclivities of their fathers and
brothers. If you have noticed his mouth care-
fully, you must have seen indications of lack of
firmness—indecision of character. He is easily
swayed by circumstances ; and without being a
deliberate villain, might be led into crimAbe
cause he had not sufficient force of
and strength of will to resist temptation. I
will not give him credit for being systematic in
his villainies. As I said before, be is
of circumstances. But, if you say
speak to him about your friend Jessie. I think
I can do so, if I am cautious, witMut firing hiß
pnde, and causing him to inform me, with a pis
tol shot, that I had better attend to my own
business. But, here we are, at the gate. Judge
Whitney has quite an aristocratic residence.
There is a look of ostentatious pride, however, in
all the surroundings—a something that tells the
passer-by: all this was erected for display. Do
you know I would to be a family who,
raised in abject been suddenly el
evated to wealth, and now wished to impress
tho rest of manlwri gauge of their su
periority and like the old Judge
tolerably well— in his man
ner—a conversation—that
will make itself rough the awkward
cloak made of reserve which he at
tempts to wear—which attracts me. The jewels
and velvets of his lady-wife and daughter quite
overpowered me; and when the elder one be
gan to tell me the value of 'the family dia
monds,’ I immediately vanished into nothing
ness.”
They were ushered into a grand looking par
lour, darkened by heavy damask curtains.
“We have made a mistake. We are in an
upholsterer's shop,” whispered Henry Norton;
“ saw you ever such a formidable array of sofa
bottomed chairs, marble-top tables, and the like V
Here are two pianos, both new, and Bacon’s
best—and everything else in proportion. I’o
lion is piled on Ossion.”
“I wonder how long they will keep us wait
ing 1 I have almost determined to ring the bell
again, such a long time has elapsed since we
sent up our cards. I fancy the ladies are une
grande toilette. Shall we read, play chess, or
sing, to amuse ourselves?” laughed Irene.
“What sort of books are those near you ?"
‘•Gift books and annuals, with very showy
gilt bindings. I see nothing that would indi
cate a very refined and cultivated literary taste."
“If you did, it would be surprising. Rich
ard lias the only intellect in the family, and I
fancy you have already formed a correct esti
' mate of his mental calibre.”
While she was speaking a rustling of silk was
heard at the door, and Mrs. Judge Whitney,
with an affected simper, and a manuer she meant
to be excessively dignified, entered; and mak
ing a grotesque courtaey, gave each of them
two fat fingers, loaded with showy rings.
Her toilet was indeed elaborate, for morning
—a green silk morning dress, faced with crim
son, and trimmed with ribbon bows of fiery red,
made her too rosy face intensely rosy. She
wore, too, a profusion of jewels, heavy brace
lets, breast pin, ear-rings, and an immense
watch chain, to which was appended several
trinkets and charms; thus proving that, although
her golden key had admitted her into the charm
ed circle of society, she had not profited much
by her advantages in matters pertaining to
dress.
She sat sc ry stiffly on her chair—made some
irrelevant remarks about the weather, general
health of friends, Ac., and then talked pompous
ly of Washington City—the first trip to which
place had been the hegira of her existence.
Her guests who had “ done ” Europe, as
would-be travellers express it, might have been
amused at her ignorance, and her vanity, and
doubtless they were, but too well bred to evince
any other emotion than one of interest, while
listening to her extravagant eulogium of a place
as familiar to them as home ground and house
hold words.
The entrance of Miss Adele, who affected
French manners, although she could not speak
one word of the language correctly, diverted the
strain of conversation for a while. Miss Adele
was flounced to the waist, although it was
morning; and wore her hair in short, crispy
ringlets about the forehead. She frisked in
with about as much grace as a pet spaniel, and
nodding to Mr. Norton, embracing and kissing
Irene, threw herself on an ottoman at her
mother’s feet, placed her curly head on the ma
ternal lap, with an air she meant to be quite
childlike. Miss Adele affected youtbfulness
and great simplicity of manner : prided herself
on saying rude, silly things, and would interrupt
the gravest conversation with some childish re
mark. Miss Adele lisped too. In her warped
judgment, to pronounce one’s words indistinctly
was to be in the height of fashion.
“Mr. Norton, I am tho glad you came thith
morning. I wath tho lonesome, all alone by
mythelf. I tried to read, but books are tho thu
pid—don’t you think tho? Modem ones, I
mean. I like Homer'th Illiad, and Pope'th
Odyssey, vory much.”
Here Irene smothered a laugh, but Henry
was not so fortunate, even a cough could not
save him, as he managed to stammer :
“ Pardon, me, Miss Whitney, but the idea is
too amusing. A charming woman, bothering
I Xivo Dollars l*er Annum, (
) Always In Advance. >
her brains with such stupid books ! You fair,
frail ornaments of ereatitjn ware-only made to
look beantiful, qjng' charmingly, and break our
poor hearts.-Such grave slMies"' should lie left
for man—the counterpart otGod's handiwork.’’
“May God forgive me,!’ he .fluttered, aside,
“but how else was I (o get oht of it,” •
J Adele was mollilied—the laugh
had surprised, the comjtimeni pleased, her van
ity!* MrsT Wtotney began : >
“ I agree with you perfectly, Mr. Morton —I
mean Norton—vulgar persons rarely call your
name correctly—yes perfeoUf. I have always
told Adele it was no nil to cram her brai««
with French, Italian, and Latin, and Greek
To play, and paint, and dress well, are about the
chief aims of a lady’s existence, having one end”
in view "
“Now, mama, don't.” And Adele placed a
pretty hand on the maternal mouth.
“To marry well. I will say it. For what
else do our sex wear tight shoes, paint tßeir
faces, go the Spring* and spend so much money,
but to secure a husband and an establishment ?”
“ Mamma is so intensely vulgar,” said Adele,
in a loud whisper to Irene; for that young belle
had walked across the room in high dudgeon.
“She reminds me of a counterfeit dollar—no
polish can hide the original pewter.”
Then, rememembering that by degrading her
mother she did not elevate herself, she paused
a moment, and added: “but we must excuse
mamma’s eccentricities : where she gets them I
do not know; our families arc of noble extrac
tion on both sides.”
Irene was too disgusted to reply, and to evade
further remarks, she asked Adele to play for
them.
Norton gallantly led the simpering and seem
ingly reluctant beauty to the piano, raised the
lid foe bar, and arranged the mimic
“What shall I play ?”
She looked up at him with a die-away glance.
“Anything," was the answer ; proving he
was no musical artiste.
The old joke about “ anything;” with which
everybody is familiar, was revived. Will some
one tell me why the stale old witticism is resus
citated on such occasions ?
“Sing Kathleen Mavourneen,” asked Henry,
when her laughter had subsided.
“But, Mr. Norton, I do not sing ballads, I
play only the most scientific operatic pieces.”
She dashed off, without further prelude, into
Bmething from La Somuambula. This over, as
a relief, Henry requested that she would favour
him with the serenade from Don l’asquale.
The piece was so beautiful, that not even her
affected style of playing could mar its sweetness.
Her small, but select audience, applauded rap
turously; and Mrs. Whitney, who did not know
one note from another, indulged iu resplendent
praise:
“Adele plays with so much style. The dear
child has decided musical genus. Her teachers
always gave her the prizes ; and Signor What
do-you-eall-him, said in his dear broken English:
‘ Signora, I do vidh you vas poor : you would
make von fortune on de stage.’ I never play,
now. I took music lessons for fifteen years,
and the last time I played, I sang, ‘ Wilt thou
ever think of me,’ to my poor, dear, rejected
lover, Sam Bacon. I never saw him again, and
since then I cannot bear to touch a piano.”
“Fifteen years, mama! You must have been
very obtuse. Why, I could ‘do ’ the harp, pi
ano and guitar, and everything else, in four.”
Mrs. Whitney felt that she had committed a
faux pas, (fox paw she called it,) and so she sat
rebuked, but in dignified silence.
Our friends mentioned the tableaux, and the
two ladies readily assented, the one to be a par
ticipant, the other an auditor. Adele grew quite
animated, thinking of her costumes; and even
the presence of Henry Norton could not re
strain her from displaying her inordinate van
ity.
! When they reached home, Irene was surprised
to find that her parents had returned, ner
! father met her at the gate, gave both her and
i her companion quite a cordial greeting, and led
i the way into the house.
r “ Your mama is not well, daughter. Fatigue
i and exhaustion are the results of her long jour
l ney. Go to her, however, she is strong enough
r to receive you. - ’
• Irene entered the darkened chamber, where,
. on a luxurious couch, reposed Mrs. Stanley, en
! veloped in shawls, altnough it was a bright
i summer day.
f “ Out of the depths ” came a very faint voice:
; “Is it you, dear ? Oh! lam exhausted—l
■ can scarcely speak—travelling does serve me so
1 badly, my health is so delicate. Had a pleasant
■ time? No; ennuied to death—everything stu
pid—no balls, no anything worth mentioning.
Hand me that glass, dear —I am so feeble. You
say you have had a delightful summer so far.
■ And you are engaged to Mr. Norton, your papa
tells me. I fancied it would be so, when be left
all enjoyment and camp to this dull place for the
sake of being with you. I am looking shock
ingly, am I not ? No ? Ah! I fear you are a
flatterer.”
Irene was not; there were few handsomer
women than Mrs. Stanley, and she made, what
few fashionable women do, a pretty interesting
NO. 31.