A SKETCH OF SOUTHERN LIFE.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

(See Plate.)

A SOUTHERN plantation lying, as so many of them do, at some distance from any town or village, presents a phase of life peculiar to itself, and very singular to one unaccustomed to it from childhood. It has not the loneliness of isolation, for each planter's house is in its way a sort of a palace, the residence of the superior authority, while at a little distance are clustered together the cabins of his retainers, sometimes in such numbers as to form almost a little village of their own. Yet the members of the family are often separated for weeks or months from all congenial companionship, excepting what they can find in each other; for, besides the distance, the state of the roads is often an insuperable obstacle to all intercourse with their far-off neighbors. Eminently social as Southerners usually are, this is no slight drawback to their enjoyment, and the arrival of the post is looked forward to as the one great weekly event to relieve the monotony of "the leaden-footed hours."

Bessie Egerton was in this respect more fortunate than many of her companions, her father's plantation being but about five miles from the village of Oxford, in South Carolina. This was only a pleasant ride when the roads were good; but there were weeks during the winter and early spring when even Bessie Egerton, general belle and favorite as she was throughout the surrounding country, had nothing but the mails to remind her that there were other interests and more stirring events in the world than those of which her home was the centre.

Mr. Egerton was not one of those wealthy planters whose income rivals that of the merchant princes of the North, and would be a pretty fortune for a person of moderate wants; but he was in comfortable circumstances, and Bessie's home was a very pleasant one. The house stood on a gentle slope, and with its wide verandas covered with roses, jessamine, and honey suckles, and overhung by live-oak trees, from whose gnarled branches hung drooping long fringes of the gray moss, giving them the venerable appearance of age, it suggested ideas of coolness and shade, the peculiar comforts of that part of the country.

It was in the latter part of February; the early spring was already coming on with the laggard steps of one sure of its dominion, and therefore in no haste to assert it. The rose-bushes, that had but a few weeks before shaken off their summer's burden of leaves and flowers, gave tokens that they were about to take it up once more, and the yellow jessamine in the woods, with those many beautiful, but as yet unnamed vines and flowers that adorn the swamps and marshes of the South, had already begun to awaken from their winter's slumber.

Bessie had been busy all the morning. Her mother was a confirmed invalid, and upon the eldest daughter of the house were devolved all the active duties that belong to the mistress of a plantation—much heavier and more arduous than those of a Northern housekeeper, requiring the exercise of more thought and discretion. After breakfast, with her basket of keys, that invariable accompaniment of a Southern housekeeper, she went to the store-room to give out the dinner for the family. There, after having measured out the flour and spices, and counted the eggs, and portioned off the vegetables required, she stood to see that everything was replaced in its proper order. Her next visit was to the smoke-house for the meat, and there she was often required to superintend the distribution of certain portions of it, both to the house and field-servants on her father's place. Then giving a scrutinizing glance at the poultry-yard as she passed, she sought the spring-house, which was a dairy also, and remained there for an hour overlooking the operations of the dairy-woman. From thence she bent her steps to the negro-quarter, where there were two or three sick servants, of whose condition her mother wished to have a particular account. To obtain an idea of their ailments and their needs was the work of no little time, for to be sparing of words is not a characteristic of either the ignorant or the suffering. She ended her duties here by a visit to her nurse, now a bedridden old woman, and, after talking with her for a little while, and reading to her, as was Bessie's daily practice, she returned to what was called, par excellence, "the house."

When she entered her mother's room to give a detailed account of all that she had done, she was greeted with—

"Bessie, dear, I want you to cut out directly a shirt and a pair of trowsers for Peter. He has just been in to say that his old ones are not fit to wear to church, and, if he don't have some new ones, he cannot go next Sunday; and, as it is communion-day, I do not like to have him compelled to stay away by any neglect of mine."

"But he ought to have given us a little more time, I think," said Bessie. "To-day is Friday."

"Yes, dear; but Dinah can make the shirt, and you can have Elsie, your little maid, to help you with the trowsers. She is quite a neat seamstress."

"But I told Elsie to sew on my new dress to-day. I intended to wear it next Sunday."

"You have plenty of old ones that you can wear, my dear. Peter must be attended to first in this case, I think."

Bessie was so accustomed to be the hands to do the bidding of her mother's thoughtful and considerate head and heart, that she made no farther objection to complying with Mrs. Egerton's suggestion. Since she was fifteen, she had been in the habit of cutting out, under her mother's supervision, not only nearly all her own clothing, including her dresses, that very abstruse and difficult portion of female attire, but also the clothing for all the servants, men, women, and children, on her father's place; so that the particular portion of the work assigned her was quickly and skilfully performed. But, pressed for time as they were, she had also to assist in the sewing, and she was busily employed with her needle, preparing for Peter his Sunday habiliments, when the noise of a carriage driving up to the door attracted her attention.

"It is Nannie and Virginia Lanning," said Bessie to her mother, after a glance from the window, and she ran to welcome her guests.

"Now, I hope you have come to stay with me two or three days," said Bessie, after the first greetings were over, with the hospitable warmth common to the class to which she belonged; an invitation to pass the night at their houses being usually the shortest time to which a Southern planter restricts his invitations, equivalent to the "Stay and take tea with us," of the Northerners.

"Yes," replied Nannie, "we have come to pass Sunday with you, and the idea of going to church once more is quite a treat; it is three months since we have been off our place. The roads have been so bad, and Prince got lame, and pa, who thinks almost as much of his horses as he does of us, would neither sell him and buy another, nor allow him to be used till he was quite well; so that we have really been prisoners. It is a great favor that he allowed us to drive with him so far, but we promised to come very slowly. We have been nearly six hours coming these ten or eleven miles."

"Don't you often feel very lonely?" asked Bessie.

"Yes, indeed. Sometimes for two or three weeks we do not see a human being out of our own family; and it comes very hard at first, after we have been travelling about all summer; but it is astonishing how soon we get accustomed to it. We have occasional visitors, though, that break in on the monotony, if they do nothing else. You know we have no tavern within twelve or fifteen miles of us, and, as father has the largest house in the neighborhood, travellers are often directed there to pass the night, and sometimes they prove to be very agreeable people."

"Yes," said Virginia, "there was a lawyer from Philadelphia travelling through the country on business, that Nannie declares she fell in love with; and then there was a Yankee quack doctor that stayed with us nearly a week, and amused us very much. He took our house for a tavern, and ordered the servants about, and made himself quite at home. He told father that he thought that he had rather a tumble-down sort of a place, but, if he would just spry up a little and go to work, he might fix up considerable."

"And," continued Nannie, "when he was going away, he pulled out an old pocket-book and said, 'Wall, Squire, what's the damage?' And when pa told him, 'Nothing, that it was a private house, but that he was very happy to afford travellers the shelter they could procure nowhere else,' the man looked quite confounded. 'Wall, really,' said he, 'ef I ain't beat out. I hadn't the least idea that this wasn't a public house; but I thought you had a dreadful shiftless way of doin' business. Why, there was enough on your table at dinner to last our folks to hum for a hull week. But, I must say, you've treated me fust rate; and, of you ever get up as far as old Connecticut, and will come to Peterboro', just ask for Isa Jeffries, and I will do as much for you.' And he went to see if his horse was ready; but he soon came back with a bottle in his hand. 'Here, Squire,' said he, 'that youngest darter of your'n has a very peaked sort of look. Ef she will take some of my Electron here, it will do her a sight of good.' And so he left the bottle for Virginia. Poor Virginia! It was quite a shock to her to hear herself called peaked-looking, especially since Mr. Chapman has persuaded her that she was sylph-like."

"It only shows with what different eyes different people look on the same thing," said Virginia, with philosophic composure. "And now let us go to your mother."

"You seem to be very busy, Bessie," said Nannie, after they were seated in Mrs. Egerton's room. "What are you doing?"

"Making some clothes for Peter, our waiter. He is something of a dandy, and made the discovery this morning that he had nothing fit to wear to church next Sunday, so we have been a little hurried about it."

"Oh, we can help you after dinner; and, together, we can soon finish them," said Virginia.

At dinner, Bessie asked her father if he could not send Peter to the post-office that afternoon.

"Why, Bessie," said her father, "I sent him for you yesterday, and I cannot conveniently spare him to go every day. You seem to have a post-office mania lately, coming on at regular intervals."

"Yes, father," said Agnes, Bessie's younger sister; "ever since the 'Lady's Book' began to come so mysteriously, Bessie is never easy till she gets it; and I want it quite as much. Do, please, send for it."

Of course, Mr. Egerton could not resist his children's entreaties, and Bessie had the satisfaction of seeing Peter set out for Oxford soon after dinner.

Towards the close of the afternoon, Bessie proposed that the work now nearly completed should be left to Elsie to finish, while they went out to enjoy the fresh, soft air, full of the sunshine and life of the early spring.

"Don't you think the other side of the house is less sunny?" suggested Nannie, as Bessie seated herself on the green bank by the house, with Agnes standing at her side.

"This is much pleasanter, I think, and the sun will soon be away. But take my parasol, dear; I have a bonnet, and do not need it."

"Oh no, thank you; I am going to finish this story, and could not trouble myself to hold it. Virginia and I pride ourselves on complexions that neither sun nor wind can affect."

And, in truth, their clear, dark, colorless, yet healthful complexions gave to their features the firm, unimpressible look of finely polished marble.

"I will tell you," said Agnes, "why sister always chooses this seat. We can see Peter from here long before he reaches the gate."

"Then," said Nannie, "I quite agree with her in thinking it decidedly the pleasantest. I am as impatient as she can be to see the 'Book;' but I candidly confess that the fashions are its chief attraction to me. It is a great thing to know exactly how other people dress, so as to be sure, when you come out of your winter's shell, that you are not making a fright of yourself."

"Pa and I like the stories," said Agnes.

"So do I," said Virginia.

"But ma likes the serious part of it," continued Agnes, "and Bessie the poetry, especially if it is marked. I see her crying over it sometimes."

"Oh, Agnes!" said Bessie, while her face flushed suddenly.

"I would like to know what all those blushes mean," said Nannie; "whenever we mention the 'Lady's Book,' I see Bessie's cheeks growing red. What can be the association of ideas that produces such a remarkable effect?"

"You know Wallace Cuthbert?" said Agnes.

"Agnes, hush; you do not know anything about it," interrupted Bessie.

"Yes, dear, I know Wallace Cuthbert. Go on," said Nannie, encouragingly.

"Do, just let me tell this," said Agnes, too eager to impart what she considered her wonderfully acute conjecture to show her usual deference to her elder sister. "You know, Wallace Cuthbert asked pa if he might not write occasionally to Bessie when he went away, and pa would not consent to it. But ever since he first went to Philadelphia the 'Lady's Book' has been coming regularly, and I have no doubt he sends it, and marks the poetry, too."

"Now, Agnes, I hope you have finished your revelations," said Bessie, a little impatiently. "Of course," continued she, turning to Nannie, "this is a mere conjecture of Agnes's, and a very childish one."

"On the contrary, I think it a very shrewd one; it is putting cause and effect together in a wise and discreet way that is entirely satisfactory to me. For one, I feel myself under great obligations to Wallace Cuthbert, and intend to tell him, when I see him, that he could not have chosen a more judicious means if he wished 'to keep his memory green,' and connect pleasant associations with thoughts of himself. Pa has promised me that, when I am eighteen, I may take the 'Lady's Book' for myself, and I am quite impatient for my next birthday to come."

"See, there is Peter!" said Virginia, who had, with her usual quiet sagacity, seated herself so that she could catch the first glimpse of him. "He seems to be waving something."

"Oh, he has brought it!" said Agnes, springing up joyfully. "I am so glad! I was afraid it would not come before Monday, because, when you wait and watch so for anything, you are almost sure to be disappointed."

"Peter seems to understand what we are expecting, and to be as delighted as any of us," said Nannie.

"Oh, yes," replied Agnes; "he knows how glad we are to get it; besides, he feels sure that it comes from Wallace Cuthbert, and he has always been very fond of him. He said to me one day, after the 'Book' first began to come regularly, and when we were all wondering about it, I am certain sure, Miss Agnes, Mas'r Wallace has a finger in dat pie.' That gave me my first suspicions about Mr. Cuthbert; and I asked pa about it, and he said, 'Very likely.' Peter says, too, that if 'Miss Bessie will only marry Mas'r Wallace, and take him for her head waiter, his earthly hopes will be suspended.'"

"Agnes, how can you repeat such nonsense?" said Bessie, in a state of desperate confusion.

"I like to hear little people talk," said Nannie; "a great deal of useful information can be obtained from them. You seem to have a wonderful faculty, Agnes, for putting this and that together; but I have a little sister at home that is almost equal to you."

"Give it to me, Peter," said Virginia, springing forward to take the offered prize; "the others seem to be absorbed in such an interesting discussion that they will not care about it."

But, notwithstanding this assertion, the cover was no sooner torn off, which Bessie took an opportunity, when unobserved, to slip into her pocket, than the four heads were crowded together over the engravings and fashion plate with an eagerness and delight that it would be difficult to express. For the first few minutes they all talked at once, exclaiming, "Isn't this pretty?" "Isn't it lovely?" "I wonder what it means!" "Let's read the story about it."

"Do look, what an odd fashion! It is pretty, though. I mean to make my new dress so."

"See here, girls," said Mr. Egerton, leaning over the veranda, "if you go on in that way I shall have to make the same rule the Scotch laird did with his thirteen daughters—that not more than seven of them should speak at a time. What has caused this outburst of enthusiasm?"

"The 'Lady's Book,' pa," said Bessie. "Look at that picture; isn't it beautiful?"

"It is, indeed," replied he, taking the "Book." "How much they have improved lately in the art of engravings! Why, when I was a boy, a picture like that would have been considered wonderfully fine, and would have been carefully laid away and preserved as a rare treasure; and now they are flying about on the wings of the post-office department into the most distant parts and by-places of the country. They must be of no small advantage in cultivating the taste of the community, coming as they do to many persons who see but few other books during the year. Here, Bessie, you had better take the 'Book' to your mother; she is always pleased to see it, and this evening we will have a family reading party."

Excusing herself to her companions, Bessie hastened to comply with her father's suggestion, but returned with the welcome arrival after a few minutes, when an animated discussion was held over the fashion-plates and the descriptions of them. The conversation was serious and earnest. No assembly of divines ever debated a knotty point in theology with more intent gravity than these young girls wasted over the questions as to whether bodices, which were evidently going out, were not in the main superior to round waists, which were coming in; whether basques were likely to be a permanent fashion, or a mere fleeting freak of fancy, was also warmly discussed; and the question of trailing skirts, or those just long enough to touch the ground, might have caused a schism, if Bessie, with great presence of mind, had not changed the conversation to the arrangement of the hair. Here all differences were swept away by the unanimous agreement that bandeaux of curls, À la Jenny Lind, was a much prettier and easier way of dressing the head than any other.

A summons to tea interrupted all farther discussion. After tea, the whole family assembled, as was their custom, in Mrs. Egerton's room. Mr. Egerton, without his hat, which many Southerners seem to think as useful in the house as out of it, was seated in the large arm-chair by the side of a blazing fire, which the chilliness of the evenings still rendered necessary; Nannie heaped up the cushions on the lounge, a home-made, chintz-covered affair, and made herself perfectly comfortable; the other two girls, constituting themselves the readers for the rest, seated themselves by the centre-table; while Agnes sometimes sat on the bed by her mother, and sometimes hung over the reader, to make sure with her own eyes that they were scrupulously giving each word—skipping was, in her eyes, a most unjustifiable and unpardonable act.

"There is still enough to occupy us to-morrow evening," said Bessie, as she closed the "Book;" "but it is time now for mother to go to sleep."

As she bent over to kiss her mother for good-night, Mrs. Egerton whispered—

"That was a very cunning plan Wallace hit upon, dear, to evade your father's prohibition about letters. He gives us all so much pleasure that we do not think of objecting to it. Don't you think he must be a very designing sort of a man?"

"We don't know at all that it is Wallace," said Bessie, stoutly.

"We shall see what we shall see. Has he marked anything?"

"There are a few foolish verses marked; but I do not know who did it," replied Bessie.

"Well, leave the 'Book' with me; I would like to read them."

That was very hard. Bessie had only had time to glance hastily over some lines signed W. C., and speaking in woful strains of the pangs of absence and hope deferred, but breathing the most devoted constancy and love. These verses which, in her reckless confusion, she had stigmatized as foolish, she was longing to read over and over in the silence of her own room. But she would not, for the whole of Carolina, have expressed her wish. She quietly laid the "Book" on her mother's bed, placed the candles near her, and retired with her companions.

"Did you hear, my dear," said Mrs. Egerton to her husband, when they were left alone, "what Mr. Littleton, who has just returned from Philadelphia, says of Wallace Cuthbert—about the high estimation in which the professors of the university hold him? One of them told Mr. Littleton that he regarded Mr. Cuthbert as one of their most promising students, and that he bid fair to become one of the first physicians in the country."

"No, I have not heard it before; but I always had a good opinion of him. I refused to allow him to write to Bessie when he went away, three years ago, because they were both too young, I thought, to entangle themselves in any way. Bessie was hardly sixteen, and he but four or five years older. And he had not only his profession to acquire, but also to establish himself; for he has little else than his own talents to depend upon. Besides, I did not think Bessie cared much about him; she did not appear to."

"I think she always preferred him; but her preference was not a very decided one when he went away," said Mrs. Egerton. "Indeed, she was too young to know herself exactly whether she loved him or not; but it has happened that in each one of these monthly souvenirs that Mr. Cuthbert has been sending, there has been some pathetic story or touching little poem, by marking which he has contrived to indicate his own feelings, and not only preserve, but deepen Bessie's interest in him. I can perceive, I think, that her liking for him has grown stronger almost day by day. It is very clear that she cares for no one else. Here were George Musgrave and Robert Linn, two of the richest and finest young men about, whom Bessie dismissed without a moment's hesitation."

"Well," said Mr. Egerton, "I am perfectly willing to trust Bessie to make her own choice, now that she is old enough to judge for herself. We will leave the matter to time to settle."

Time justified Mrs. Egerton's previsions. Wallace Cuthbert did not disappoint the high expectations that had been formed of him, and was soon able to claim Bessie's hand as a reward for his assiduity and devotion to his profession.

"I think you may thank the 'Lady's Book' for Bessie's constancy," said Mrs. Egerton one day to Mr. Cuthbert. "If it had not been for some such suggestive memorial, I am afraid she would hardly have resisted all the attacks made upon her."

"Very likely," said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. But, though his words expressed such proper humility, in his inmost heart, with that generous self-appreciation so unusual perhaps in his modest sex, he attributed the love and the patient waiting of Bessie Egerton entirely to his own peculiar merits.

Peter's "earthly hopes were suspended."