Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.