Newspaper Page Text
108
LITERARY.
WILLIAM W. MANN, Editor.
The Southern Field and Fireside
IS PUBLIBIUCD EVERY BATTBPAY.
TERMS—S2.OO a year, Invariably In advance. All
Postmasters are authorized agents.
SATURDAY AUGUST 27, 1559.
NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS.
We do not send receipts by mail for subscriptions re
mitted. The receipt of The SonUtaic Field and
Fireside, after the money is remitted, will be ovl
dence to each subscriber that his money has been re
ceived and his name duly entered on the mail book.
- m
BACK NUMBERS.
Persons subscribing to the Field and Fireside can
be supplied with all the back numbers.
111 w
TERMS TO NEWS-DEALERS.
This paper Is mailed to news-dealers at the rate of two
dollars and fifty cents per one hundred copies
TERMS OF ADVERTISING.
For each insertion of ten lines or less one dollar; and
for over ten lines at the rate of ten cents per line.
TO CORRESPONDENTS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
We have to acknowledge the reception dnring the last
week of the following articles :
Music at Nightfall—by Ziola,
The Concert-room —by same.
Lines to Mrs. J. L. K.—by M. J. T.
llymn to God—by Wm. H.
Harry and I—by Indamird.
Lines —by A. Z.
Benares—by same.
Baby May—by M. M. of Walnut Grove.
The Water Sprite—by a Lady.
Rain J ewels—by same.
The Drunkard's Wife—by Ilall.
In answer to several private letters from friends en
quiring concerning the fate of the contributions they
have kindly sent us and to satisfy many who are yet pa
tiently waiting, we would say that, hitherto, it has been
quite impossible to read, critically, the nume
rous articles in prose and verse, as they have reached
onr table. But few, therefore, if any, of the articles
of which the reception has been weekly acknowledged
can be considered as accepted for our columns; except
such as have been actually published. Circumstances
have, quite recently, altered for the better in our small
sanctum. We arc now able to continue our attacks upon
the innss of MSS. before us even after the demands for
our weekly issue are satisfieii We shall resolutely
“stand up to It;” and hereafter, in every number of our
paper, correspondents may expect a list of articles “de
clined,” or “accepted,” to be continued until none of our
friends shall be left in doubt as to whether or not, we
have considered their favors acceptable for our columns.
In answer, particularly, to W. H. W. Jr., we would say
that we do not, except under peculiar circumstances mak
ing an answer absolutely necessary, “give written and pri
vate replies" to correspondents We cannot close this
notice without expressing our grateful acknowledg
ments Vo the large corps of correspondents and contribu
tors who have, almost without exception, exhibited so
much patience and kind forliearancc towards us
—
FROM OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.
Paris, 4th Aug.. 1859.
The war was opened against the wishes of the
French. Once begun, their patriotism—their
national passion for glory made it as popular as
war ever is. But, notwithstanding rapid and
continuous successes, “demonstrated” over with
a sincere enthusiasm, the great, very great ma
jority of the 36,000,000 French were sincerely
glad to hear the news of tho peace. There
are considerable parties, however, whom peace
satisfies as little as the war; they are made up of
those whose hopes are not satisfied and of those
whose fears are not quieted ; of those who
thought they saw in this Italian expedition tho
beginning of a greater liberty for the French, as
weil as the Italians, and now feel that nothing
has been gained for themselves, and doubt that
anything has been gained for tho Italians ; and
of those who, hating all change lest it be for the
better, are still afraid that some reforms will be
introduced among the corruptions of the pater
nal governments of the Duchies, and Rome, and
Naples. To generalise the discontented parties
still further, we might classify them as the rev
olutionists and retrogradists. They might take
for their respective mottoes, each a part of a
line in one of our negro songs ; I forget the
“context,” but the words that lit them are:
“kicking up behind, and kicking up before.”—
They both kick up a great dust; but as for real
progress, there is small difference between them.
They always remaiu abreast of each other, and
behind the rest of the world, which does keep
moving, though slowly. Every year carries just
a twelve month further distant from the Dark
Ages, and just so much nearer to the Golden
Age—which lies in the future; not the past. —
The good time is coming.
So, in spite of breaking of programmes and
disappointments of makers of programmes, and
of those who put too much trust in their own
sanguine interpretations of them, I look with no
great discouragement on the actual state of Eu
rope. A very confused prospect, however, it
presents. To turn our eyes first to Italy: The
Tuscans and Modenese are going on with a firm
ness, and calmness, and legality of forms that
does them great credit, to protest against the re
turn of their emigrant Duke, and to prove their
capacity to govern themselves. The provisional
governments in eacli of these states have order
ed a general election of deputies to a national
assembly. The elections are to take place next
Sunday, so that the assemblage will have met
and expressed the national will before the time
of meeting of the European Congress.
That there is to be a congress of the great
European powers, there is, to my mind, scarcely
a doubt. It is for the interest of all Europe
that the Italian question should be raised
and debated again by armies within the next
twenty years ; and it is for their interest, espe
cially for the interest of England and Prussia,
that its settlement or the attempt at settlement
should not be left to the two Emperors. Na
poleon's actual policy jumps with this interest.
The Zurich conference between the plenipoten
tiaries of the late belligerents will have enough
to do to arrange the details of their tripartite
treaty between themselves. There is large room
for debate between Austria and Sardinia on the
very difficult matter of the Lombard Debt alone.
Napoleon and his clerk for Foreign Affairs have
been for the past week and still are very busy,
conferring with the agents of Austria and Sar
dinia now here, in defining, and so far as may be
settling in advance the terms of the treaty.—
Something after the manner of our politicians at
home, they are holding primary meetings, or in
formal caucuses at St. Cloud, so as to get on
quickly aud without quarrel before the Euro
pean public at Zurich. The conference there
cannot well be got ready before next week, nor
be got through with in a week more—although
Lines —by A. Z.
vmm sovyssmi yxs&d mxb mMMMmm.
many suppose that Napoleon is making special
effort to have the treaty signed and sealed on
the 15th. That would be certainly an apt com
memoration of his fete day, and is a very pretty
fancy of the Napoleonists —as it was another
pretty fancy of theirs that the Congress of Paris
sliouid close its labors, and Empress Eugenie
hers, on the sth day of May, 1856. But time
and tide would neither be hurried nor wait: the
little Prince was born, and the great treaty
signed without any nice chronological concord
ance with the death day of the first Napoleon.
The essential was that they wer,e in a sort,
the resurrection ofhis policy and dynasty. Louis
Napoleon is, as I have often had occasion to ob
serve, much less a Napoleonist than many of his
blind friends—to say nothing of his blind ene
mies—both of whom are apt to confound their
whim of Napoleonism with his Idees Napoleon
iennes—between which there is just the differ
ence of whims and ideas. lie is a man very
little given to fancy and profoundly respectful
toward facts. Therein lies his strength.
To return a moment to our muttons. The
Zurich Conference lasting till past mid-August;
some while longer being needful for govern
ments and diplomats to question each other and
answer, to reply, rejoin and surrejoin, criminate,
recriminate, explain, apologize, and arrange ba
ses, preliminaries, propositions and go through
the rest of the rigamarole of formulas, before
the Congress or general conference can meet:
some other while yet being added for their long
debates—all this intervals may be used advan
tageously by the Italians of the centre to prove
their capacity thus to acquire with the right a
degree of privilege to govern themselves. For
even should they prove themselves wiser in ac
tion than we can hope, their right to self-gov
ernment will be subordinate to the Congress, if
not to the two Emperors. A considerable
French army will remain in Italy,—not to re
strain or repress opinions, but to prevent their
violent expression, say some. You laugh in
credulous. Now lam half disposed to believe
that Napoleon will not interfere by force with
the political action of the Modenese and Tus
cans; nor will lie suffer Austria to interfere.—
They have of their own a force sufficient to re
pel the army of that wretched Duke of Modena,
should he bo permitted to make his foolish at
tempt at a forcible recovery of his throne. A
central Italian league is talked of, which even
Romaguols would be parties to. and Garibaldi
is talked of as their military commander. Now,
if within the coming two months, Napoleon
permitting no fighting and no violent revolu
tionary acts and tho Italians showing that they
can fight, these latter go on-to organize a cen
tral Italian State independent, (the least proba
ble result,) or to declare with any large approx
imation to unanimity their desire for annexation
to Piedmont, (their best practical course), or the
return of a member of the late ruling family as
their monarch partially with a constitution of
elective assemblies (the most probable result,) I
think that their wishes and rights will be heed
ed and graced. And I think that though the
best of these supposed conclusions would fall
short of what we might wish, that the worst of
them will be a great advance on their late es
tate.
Even poor Venice will gain something. Al
though she remains under the heavy sceptre of
Austria, who it is said, will withdraw from Ve
netia but a small portion of tho enormous army
that burdens that unhappy province, some sort
of administration reforms and some shadow of
provincial independence (if the words may be so
joined) a certain show of*autonomy, are likely
to fall to her share. And men like Manin, if
Venice still holds any of nearly his liko, will
regard this little as worth having, because they
will see that more may be made of it. You re
member how he never despaired, the great noble
manl
I should before this have advised your French
readers of Henri Martin’s Life of the Vene
tian AVasliington. But as there ought to be a
translation of it, let me commend it too to all
your readers. It is a-book that American boys
should read for the great lessons of private and
civic virtue which it teaches by example. They
need not fear that because it teaches, it is dull
They and their elders will find in its pages des
cription of incident, portrayal of characters not
inferior in novelty and absorbing interest to the
inventions of romance. No poet nor novellist from
Otway to Cooper has created a hero equal to
Manin, a story equal to the seige of Venice.
This true history surpasses all fiction. While
the warmth of friendship and tho strong liberal
sympathies of the author animate his style, no
tinge of prejudice colors the distinguished his
torian’s impartiality. Happily his theme re
quires no extrinsic aids to enchance the interest.
A glowing eulogy on the “last Doge of Venice,”
it glows only with the light of simple truth.
And in this history, as in life, shining more
mildly, not less steadily, by the side of his bright
fame, are Manin’s wife and daughter. Fit wife
and lit daughter to such a man, holy women, in
whose moral features, softened with all Christian
graces and gentleness, we seem to discover the
strong vigorous traits of the Biblical heroines—
the old Hebraic blood still running in their
veins.
Just here in Paris and just now, though we
still talk more than enough of high polities, we
are really more interested in the approaching
fete. It falls, as you know r on the 15th of Au
gust, that being one of the Emperor's ingenious
combinations by which he brings his own, his
uncle’s and the Virgin’s fete all in to one. The
celebration this year promises a grander specta
cle than any of its predecessors. Besides, the
illuminations of the Place de la Concorde, the
Champs Elysees and other public places in a
way to remind one of the fairy tales and tlie
Arabian Nights, and highly decorated arches of
triumph along the Boulevards and “a piece of
fire-works compared with which the most for
midable eruptions of Vesuvius grow pale,” (I
translate this specimen of rhetorical pyrotechny
from a French brother journalist,) and other
spectacles for the preparing of which the city
lias voted an enormous sum—besides all these,
I say, and far surpassing them all in the eyes of
the spectacle-and-glory-loving French, is to lie the
entry into Paris of some 70,000 troops now fast
returning from Italy. They are to pass down
the whole length of the Boulevards under tri
umphal arches, between tlie compact masses of
civilians crowding the broad side walks, who
will be fearfully squeezed and extremely de
lighted and vocally enthusiastic. The windows
and balconies, even the bouse tops, here and
there, and every “coigne of vantage" when a
Paris gamin can get foothold, will be filled with
spectators. The returning victors will be greet
ed with vivats, and flowers, and wreaths; and
tears. For when the bullet-torn flags and
weather-worn faces and hard-used uniforms of
some regiment, known to have fought in the
first front of one of the battles, pass along, or
when such of the wouuded as are sufficiently
recovered to walk, but not yet to bear away,
come limping along, but proud and smiling, some
people, looking as though they had no friends in
the war, even find the shout of applause choking
in their throats, and half to their own surprise
pay their tribute to valor through their eyes, j
It will be a very grand show, what with sol
diers and fire-works and the rest of it, from
morning till into the night. If your young
ers will ‘take their imaginations in both hands
and roll all the fourths of July (without tlie fire- .
crackers) and trainings and funerals and proces- |
sipns and shows of all sorts which they ever
saw—roll all them. I say, into one, you boys, <
and multiply by 40.000 and you will have some j
kind of notion of the 15th August in Pans. I
wish you might be all here to see in my place, ,
and I to escape it. in any one of your places in .
quiet house or field.
You may be curious to know how much a
spectacle of this kind costs. To speak only of
the military triumphal march that say costs,
according to an approximative estimate
lished a few days ago in the Desbats, 17,775 :
killed and wounded —French; 6575 killed and
wounded—Sardinians, aud 38.650 killed and
wounded—Austrians. This estimate, w hich only
claims to be approximatively accurate, is cer
tainly a very moderate one. The number nearly
as great who have died or have been invalided ;
for the rest of their lives, by tho hardships of
the war, in camp, or on the march, is not taken
into the account. So when I see the long lines j
of soldiers marching home triumphant from vie- ;
tory, I seem to see as many others accompanying !
them, the ghosts of those left on the battle
field, or dead in the hospitals. You boys and
the crowd will not see them on the gay Boule
vards next Monday week. Mothers and sisters
will look for them and will see them. Many
they have already seen, for “they ride fast, the
deadand they have been coming home in ad
vance of the. victors, for the past sad months to
desolate fields and firesides all over France.
But this is falling quite too deep “on the
melancholy veins,” yet I have no room left
for pleasant news, only this little scrap of clteer
iness. The soldiers are to have each on the 15th
a gratuity of three francs. It is the substitute ;
for the monster banquet that was to have been
given them on the Champs de Mars. The sum
does not impress you as very generously large;
it does so impress many of them, poor fellows,
and is more pocket money than some of them are
like to have before the next war. It will buy
six quart bottles of wine, you see—bad wino to
be sure—but thirst gives flavor.
—
The Maelstrom Verified. —Os late years
even the existence of the Maelstrom on the coast
of Norway has been doubted. The ancient ac
counts of its terrible power were doubtless fab
ulous, but M. Ilagerup, Minister of the Norwe
gian Marine, has recently given a reliable account I
of it, in reply to some questions from a corres- J
pondeut of the Boston Recorder. The vast whirl |
is caused by the settling in and out of the tides
between Lofoden and Mosken, and is most vio
lent half way between ebb and flood tide. At
Hood and ebb tide it disappears for about half
an hour, but begins again with the moving of
tlie waters. Large vessels may pass over it
safely in serene weather, but in a storm it is per
ilous to tlie largest craft. Small boats are not
safe near it at the time of its strongest action in
any weather. The whirls in the Maelstrom do
not, as was once supposed, draw vessels under
the water, but by their violence they fill them
with water, or dash them upon tho neighboring
shoals. Mr. Hagerup says:
“In winter, it not unfrequently happens that,
at sea, a bank of clouds shows a west storm,
with heavy sea, to be prevailing there, while
further in, on the ct >st, the clear air shows that
on the inside of West tjord (east of Lofoden) the
wind blows from the land, and sots out through
the tjord from the east. In such cases, especial
ly, an approach to the Maelstrom is in the high
est degree dangerous, for the stream and under
current from opposite directions work there to
gether, to make the whole passage one single
boiling cauldron. At such times appear the
mighty whirls which have given it the name of
Maelstrom, (that is, the whirling or grinding
stream) and in which no craft whatever can hold
its course. For a steamer it is then quite inad
visable to attempt the passage of the Maelstrom
during a winter storm, and for a sailing vessel
it may also be bad enough in time of summer,
should there fall a calm or light wind, whereby
tlie power of the stream becomes greater than
that of the wind, leaving the vessel no longer
under command.”
—«• mm-
NEW BOOKS.
From the Book-list of the A. Y. Saturday Press,
for the week ending 20th August, ’59.
A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians, expla
natory, Doctrinal, and practical. With a series of
Questions. By R. E. Patison, D. I), iate President
of Waterville College. Boston: Gould A Lincoln.
Moral Philosophy. By Joseph Haven, D. D.. author of
“Mental Philosophy.” Boston: Gould & Lincoln.
The Messiahship; or. The Great Demonstration. By
Walter Scott. Cincinnati: 11. Boswortu.
Sermon and address, on the Death of Hon. Rufus Choate.
By Rev. N kiikmiaii Adams, D. D., Boston: J. E.
Tilton A Co.
Job and the Prophets, translated from the Vulgate, and
diligently compared with the original text, being a re
vised edition of the Douay verson, with Notes Critical
and Explanatory. By Francis Patrick Kenrick, D.
D., Archbishop of Baltimore.
Masonic Jurisprudence. Illustrating the Written and
Unwritten Laws of Freemasonry. By Dr. A. G.
Mackey. New York: Robert Macoy.
The Rationale and Ethics of Freemasonry. By Aug. C.
L. Arnold. New York: Robt. Macoy.
The Ancient Constitutions of 1723. By James Ander
son, D.D., New York : Robert Macoy.
Notes of a Clerical Furlough, Siient chiefly In the Holy
Land, with a Sketch of the \ oyage Out in the Yacht
“St. Ursula." By Ilcv. Rohert Buchanan, D. D.,
Glasgow. New York: Blackie & Son.
Forty-four Years of the Life of a Hunter ; being Rem
iniscences of Mesback Browning, a Maryland Hunter,
roughly written down by himself. Revised and Illus
trated by Ekward Stabler. Philadelphia: J. Lip-
PINCOTT A CO.
American Constitutions. The American's Guide, com
prising the Declaration of Independence; the Articles
of Confederation: the Constitution of the United
States: and the Constitutions of the several States com
posing the Union. 1 voL, 12mo„ $1 25. Philadelphia:
J. P. Lippicott A Co.
Illustrated History of the War in Italy: embracing a
description of the countries involved in the War, a
geographical analysis of places of interest, personal
sketches of prominent actors, origin and causes of the
War, and a Complete History from its Commencement
to its Close. Embellished with Maps and Engravings,
fully illustrative of the Geography and scenes of ex
citing interest, with Portraits of Prominent actors in
the War. By J. E. Tukl.
Parlor Charades and Proverbs, intended for the Parlor or
Saloon, and reqniring no expensive apparatus of
Scenery or Properties for their Performance. By S.
Annie Frost. Philadelphia: J. P. Lippincott & Co.
Glossary of Supposed Americanisms, collected by Al
fred L. Flwyx, M. D. Philadelphia: J. I*. Lippir
< ott & Co.
The Works of Philip Lindsay, D. D., Late President of
the University of Nashville. In three volumes.
Volume 1., “Educational Discourses,” just published.
J. P. Lippincott A Co.
Caloric- its Mechanical, Chemical and Vital Agencies
in the Phenomena of Nature. By Samuel L. Met
calf, M. I)., of Transylvania University.
Black Diamonds Gathered in the Darkey Homes of the
South. By Edward A. Pollard, of Virginia. New
York: Pud.ney A Russell.
Knitting Work: A Web of Many Textures. By B. P.
SniLLAiiF.R (Mrs. Partington). 1 voL, 12mo. |1 25.
Boston: Brown Tagoaed A Chase.
-
He who imagines he can do without the
world deceives himself much; but he who
fancies the world cannot do without him, is un
der a still greater deception.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
bouthilleer de ranch
BY EMMIE EMERALD.
In a splendidly decorated saloon, sat a young
and beautiful Frenchwoman. Her colorless,
Magnolia-like complexion, tinted on the cheeks
with a faint soufran of crimson, large, black,
brilliant eyes, tiny red mouth, and raven curls
hanging around a neck as white and perfect in
its contour as though carved by Canova from
Italian marble, made the very perfection of a
rare Southern beauty.
The lady’s manners were gay—even light, but
a passionate enthusiasm, the want of which
sometimes renders a pure and exalted character
unattractive, while it gives to a less lovely one
an irresistible fascination, shone in tho spark
ling eyes, and lighted up the pale, perfect fea
tures like a warm, ardent flame, shining through
an alabaster vase. Her dress was magnificent,
and perfect in all its details, from the costly silk
that fell in massive folds arouud her slender
form, the dazzling jewels that flashed at every
movement, to the fairy brodequins with their cha
moised rosettes, and the lace kerchief frag-ant
with a subtle and voluptuous perfume.
The saloon was fitted up with Oriental splen
dor. The carpets were from Persian looms, and
so gorgeous that the feet hesitated to tread on
the bright and ever varying garlands scattered
so profusely beneath them.
On all sides flashed large mirrors reflecting in
endless numbers, statuettes ofivory aud bronze,
vases, pictures, and rare objects of virtu. The
furniture—chairs, fatdeuils and sofas, were cov
ered with crimson satin, embroidered with gold,
and the curtains draping the tall windows were
of the same rich material, ornamented and fring
ed in the same manner. The young French
woman was evidently expecting some one ; her
light form flitted constantly from her luxurious
fauleuil to the window, and when she was seat
ed, her little foot beat impatieutly upon the floor.
As the hours wore on, her brow clouded, and she
murmured more than once, pettishly :
“What can detain Monsieur de Ranee —lie. is
not wont to keep n\e waiting thus.”
At length a step was heard in tho hall, and
a gay, sweet voice humming an opera air. The
door opened, and a man, young and handsome
in person, and richly, though carelessly attired,
entered.
“Ah! Bouthillier, you have come at last,”
she exclaimed, springing forward to meet him.
“Yes, mon amour , I am come again to bask
in the smiles of my adored Knii lie,” he answered,
leading her to a seat, and easting himself upon a
pile of cushions at her feet, he leaned upon her
lap, and looked up into her face with that fond,
worshipping gaze that is so sweet, so beautiful
to us when we behold it in the eyes of one we
love.
“You have been very laggard, and I shall pun
ish you, Monsieur de Rance, by giving you
fewer smiles than frowns.”
‘Call me Boutliilliers —it is a villain name—
but from your lips it sounds like music, and if
you would not have me die at your foet, do not
frown upon me, my angel,” retorted her lover,
with a gay exaggeration of tone and manner.
“Well, I will be magnanimous and let you
live, traitor,” said Emilie, laughingly, “for my
own sake, if not for your’s.”
“And why for your sake, my beautiful 7"
“Because if you were to die, unworthy as you
are, I fear I should ruin mes beaux yeux weep
ing, squander my income buying pater rasters for
your wicked soul, and paying the priests for im
mortelles for your tomb, and besides spend all
my time in that hateful because melancholy Pert
la Chaise— so I will let you live, Monsieur
Rance."
“Monsieur de Rance, again.”
“Bouthillier then, my Bouthillier," she answer
ed, in a voice of ineffable tenderness. The young
man snatched her to his bosom, and imprinted
a thousand passionate kisses on her lips, her
cheeks, her brow, her hands, and called her a
hundred endearing and pet names; but sudden
ly a painful memory seemed to flash upon him,
his manner changed, a shadow crossed his gay
ardent face, and he said sadly:
“Emilie, I have unpleasant tidings for you.—
My affairs compel me to leave Paris for a while.
I go to Mavoir!”
“ Mon Dim /" she cried, growing paler than
her snowy kerchief.
“Nay, Emilie, do not be so overcome, dearest,
I ”
“Oh! Bouthillier, mercy! mercy Ido not leave
your poor Emilie —do not desert me 1” she ex
claimed, clasping her hands imploringly.
“Nay, do you think I would?” he asked re
proachfully. “I have sworn to be true to you,
and love you only, and I will keep my vow for
ever, so help me Heaven! Look up, smile upon
me, Emilie, and do not grieve me with your
tears. I must go—but I will return in July, fly
back as gladly to you as the faithful pigeon voya
geur to his mate; trust me, dearest—and now let
us in to supper.”
He arose, and taking her hand, led her into a
small ante-room, furnished with unless splendor
than the saloon. On tlie marble chimney-piece
were alabaster vases, filled with brilliant and
fragrant flowers, and a soft, subdued light was
diffused throughout the apartment by wax can
dles burning in chrystal candelabra. In the
centre, stood a small, gracefully shaped table,
glittering with gold, silver, and cut glass dishes,
goblets and decanters, containing rich viands
and sparkling wines of the best vintage.
At this table, Bouthillier de Rance and Emilie
seated themselves, lie exerted all bis powers
of pleasing to recall the smiles to his compan
ion’s lip, and he succeeded. Emilie’s eyes glit
tered and sparkled like the champagne in her
glass—her cheeks glovted, and tfio clear, merry
laugh gushed through her carmine lips like glad
music.
La Belle France was clothed in all her beauty,
as she ever is in July, and Bouthillier de Rance
was returning to his love.
His gallant horse bore him quickly onward
through green lanes, by sloping hills, covered
with rich vineyards, by groups of peasant men,
and black-eyed girls, by gray chateaux hidden
away in deep mysterious woods, by little villages
and great cities, by old castles whose names
were linked with high historic deeds, and over
picturesque bridges spanning broad rivers.
Above all, arched the blue sky-like a vast
dome of lapis lazuli, and the sunshine, the
bright, gay, ardent sunshine of France, fell upon
hills, vinevards, chateaux, villages, cities, castles,
and rivers like a golden mantle.
Two months —two weary centuries to lovers—
had passed since Emilie’s lip or hand had touch
ed his, since he had seen her smile, or heard her
voice, and now, oh I joy ineffable, he was has
tening to clasp her in his arms.
The warm blood of youth danced and bubbled
in his veins like champagne, and burned on his
cheek with fiery glow; his eyes sparkled like
brilliants in the sun, and his heart beat raptu
rously at thoughts of the glad re-union.
Onward, onward!
Yonder through the whito morning mists
shine the dome of the Pantheon and the towers
of Notre Dame. Paris is at hand.
Onward through crowded streets, and strug
gling, hurrying masses, by shops, by cases by
palaces and hovels, he goes uuheediugly till he
reaches the house of Emilio.
Springing from his saddle, he passes the little
wicket, the pretty garden, the hall, and reaches
the saloon where awaits —but what means this],?
No glad step springs forward to meet him, no
voice welcomes him.
Emilie is not there.
Dust has gathered on the pictured walls, stat
attes and furniture, and obscures like a dim veil
the polished mirrors.
Flowers were faded—nay, almost shriveled
to dust in their rich vases, and a close, noisome
smell pervaded the atmosphere as though wqpks
had passed since the windows had been opened
to let in the fresh air and sunshine. With a dead,
ly sickness creeping over him, Bouthillier
passed into the ante-room, then the boudoir—
both were deserted and dust stained, like the
saloon. There was but one other room. Em
ilie's chambre a coucher; with a hand trembling
like an aspen leaf her lover threw open the
door of this also.
Great heavens, what a sight I
On the bed lay a bloated and disfigured form,
and by its side stood the femme de chambre
weeping bitterly, and a surgeon holding in
his hands carelessly a head —a beautiful female
head covered with long, shining black curls. At
the opening of the door the man looked up.
“Ah, Monsieur defiance,you have arrived rath
er mal apropos ; do not imagine however that
mademoiselle has been guillotined,” he added
with a coarse laugh, “she died with the small
pox, and I was obliged to make her a head shor
ter to fit the coffin.”
That mass of putrid, corrupted flesh , then,
was the form he had idolized, that he had left
so bright and graceful, and fondly hoped to clasp
to his heart, glowing with health and beauty.
That lip whose warm touch he so well remem
bered ; those eyes whose light he had basked in;
the one was cold and pallid, and the others —
oh, horrible! —starting from their sockets.
Death, the cruel, the fatal —not content with
extinguishing the llame that had warmed and
lighted it, had destroyed and shattered utterly
the beautiful vase.
Bouthillier de Ranee stood for one moment
motionless with amazement and horror —and
then he turned away.
From that hour the gay and handsome man of
pleasure and gallantry was seen no more at
court, in the saloons of fashion and gayety —
nor in Paris.
From that hour, the limbs that had been
decked in silks, in satins, laces and embroidery,
were clad in coarse gray cloth and daily fretted
with the scourge.
lie, whose table had been loaded with the
richest viands rarest fruits and most priceless
wines, fed on dry bread, and often fed not at all.
The lips that had been ever ready to pass the
gay repartee, the song, the jest, and whisper
softly in a lady’s boudoir, were sealed in rigid si
lence or onlyA>pened to murmur prayers and
Ave Marias.
The imitator of Alcibiades, and Lucultus ,
the roue , the debauchee, the Richelieu of
his time — Bouthillier de Ranee , was the founder
of that order the most austure and self-denying
in the world. To a frail woman’s death, and a
lover’s despair we may trace the origin of the
stern ascetic monastery of La Trappe*
Augusta, Ga.
*lt should perhaps be stated, in order that this little
historical romance mav mislead no one, respecting the
famous Order of the TrappisU, that the Cistercian abbey
at La Trappe in Normandy was founded ns early as A.
I>. 1140. The name of the abbey signifies trap-door and
was given in allusion to the difficult and almost undis
coTcrablc way of access to the secluded valley in which
It lav. In the course of time (during the 16th century)
the Trapplsts lierame, from their licentiousness, robberies,
and lawless violence, the tenor and pest of the w hole
region for many miles around. In tnel7th century (A.
D. 1636) the abbey, w hich contained then only six or
seven monks, was conferred on Armand dean le Bouthi
lier de Ranee, a child ten years of age, ns a sinecure
benefiee. In 1661, at the age of 88, after a youth of reck
less dissipation, de Ranee became regular abbot of La
Trnppe. lie Immediately accomplished a most rigorous
reform of the Monastery, and introduced that system of
rigid discipline, religious silent meditation, severe
penance, and hard labor for whieh the Order Is so widely
and deservedly famous.
—♦♦♦
TiieClay Family. —An old letter, written in
1848, by the late Rev. Poster Clay, then preach
ing at Alton, 111., gives the following facts in re
gard to the origin of the Clay family:
In the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Sir Walter
Raleigh brought over to the Virginia plantations,
among others, three brothers, sons of Sir John
Clay, of Wales, England. Ho gave them ten
thousand dollars each, which was a very large
fortune at that tiifle. Their names were Chdrles,
Thomas and Henry. They settled on James
River, near Jamestown. Two of them, Charles
and Thomas, had large families. Henry had no
children. The name of Henry has been handed
down in both branches of the family with great
tenacity ever since. Cassius M. Clay is a de
scendant of Charles Clay; Henry and myself
from Thomas Clay. Thus the two brothers al
luded to are the progenitors of all the Clays in
the United States.
My father, as you have heard, was a clergy
man of tho Baptist denomination. He died in
early life, leaving seven children—four sons and
three daughters—all of whom died without chil
dren, with the exception of Henry and myself.—
My mother was married the second time, and
raised a family of six children; two of them arc
still living—Nathaniel W. Watkins, and Frank
Watkins, residing in Missouri. My brother
Henry has had eleven children —six daughters
and five The daughters are all dead, and
one son, H. Clay, jr., who was killed at the bat
tle of Buena Vista—his wife having previously
died, leaving three children, who are with their
mother’s connections in Louisville. Three of
my brother’s sons are settled near him, in the
neighborhood of Lexington. Two of these, Thos.
and James B. Clay, are married and doing well
—one a lawyer, the other a farmer. John, tho
youngest, whom you saw at Washington, is with
his father at Ashland. Theodore, his eldest son,
is in the Lunatic Asylum iu Lexington, a con
firmed lunatic.
How You MAY Know Goon Fathers.— lt is
a good sign and true when you see amid a little
group of boys, one dart from the rest, and, toss
ing his arms above his head, shout “ There's my
Father /" as he runs to meet him. You may be
sure, no matter what business troubles soever
that man may have, that there is a spot in his
heart still fresh and green, which the cares of the
world have had no power to blight. “ There’s
my father!” With what a pretty pride the little
fellow shouts this! He must l<e, indeed, a brute
whose fatherly heart does not swell with love,
whose eyes do not glisten, who does no*, at sue h
a moment feel amply repaid for that day’s toil,
no matter how wearisome. After all, Love is
the only thing worth having in this world. —
Fame, and money, and ambition, dwindle to
nothing, beside the white, calm brow of death,
though God knows it may be tho youngling of
the flock, whose lips have never even learned to
syllable our names.