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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.