"This daughter of yours lives. She is fair - very like her mother! Shall I bring her hither to-day? She is here now. Hear you not the riot, the oaths, the imprecations, the shrieks of the victims? The castle is thronged from dome to cellar with us. Your daughter has a share in aiding this purgation. She comes — she is on the stairway right above us; shall I bring her to her father's arms?"

Kill me now, or

"No, no! Thermoigne, spare me this, in God's name. leave me. Oh! would to God my hour had already come!" He was spared from the massacre for the guillotine. Thermoigne's last interview, the night before his death, was remarkable as the sealing act of her vengeance and ferocity.

She entered in her martial attire, with a gay and careless bearing that mocked the agony of the doomed man.

She danced around the room of the prison with her companions, and sang wild songs, and uttered coarse, taunting jests of the morrow's jubilee that they would have at the scaffold. Every nerve in his weakened and emaciated form thrilled with the cold shudder of death at the fearful allusions; yet he sat silent, with folded arms, affecting a stoical mood, which was far from his real state. There was one in this terrible pandemonium of unsexed womanhood, that sent a shudder of horror to his soul.

"The youngest and fairest !' He thought of those words. The likeness to his martyred wife was unmistakable. The fearful conviction flashed upon his soul and settled there. Significant smiles and gestures from his tormentors sealed the conviction and seared his brain. That night the last ray of reason fled; his dark eyes, vacant and lustreless, looked upon the terrible paraphernalia of death without a glance betokening a realization of his fate - an apathy that half defeated the vengeance of his persecutors. He died. The object and end of the sinful life of Thermoigne being gained, she gradually relaxed in her work of vengeance. The band, under new auspices, disappeared altogether in 1795.

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By a strange contradiction in her nature, she sank into a deep melancholy after the death of Ethis and the accomplishment of her vengeancechange that was ominous. Her reason wavered, and was at length totally overthrown. She lived a hopeless and revolting maniac through twenty-four years of durance, and died at last, under the sovereignty of Louis XVIII., an object of universal detestation and execration.

MRS. LOUISE CLACK.

THE subject of this sketch, Mrs. Louise Clack, of New Orleans, is

a Northerner by birth; but having been from her infancy associated with the South by the ties of interest and relationship, she was, in feeling, a Southerner, even before her marriage, at a very early age, with Mr. Clack, of Norfolk, Va., made her in heart and soul indissolubly united to our country and our people. Since her marriage, her constant residence at the South, her love for its people, and her devotion to and sufferings for its cause, have made her, to all intents and purposes, a Southerner, and fully entitled to a place among Southern writers. Up to the commencement of the war, the current of her life glided on as smooth and smiling as a summer sea. The wife of a prosperous lawyer in New Orleans, her time was passed in the pursuit of innocent pleasures, in dispensing elegant hospitalities among her numerous friends, and in the delightful cares of wifehood and maternity. It is well said that "the happiest nations have no history;" and if this be true of nations, it is certainly no less true of individuals.

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When "halcyon broods over the face of the deep;" when not a storm disturbs the deep serenity of the soul; when not a cloud so large as a man's hand glooms on the horizon of the future - what then can the historian or the biographer find to say? But when calamity comes; when danger threatens; when the "times that try men's souls" are upon us, and we see the spirit of "weak woman " arise in the majesty of its strength to confront disaster and battle single-handed with adverse fortune, what nobler theme could poet or historian desire? Such is an epitome of the life we would portray; a life, alas! too like in its leading features to the lives of thousands more of our unfortunate country women during and since the late terrible struggle. When Beauregard's call for aid rang trumpet-like through the length and breadth of our land, Col. Clack raised and equipped a battalion of volunteers, and hastened to join our hard-beset army at Corinth. From that time the subject of our sketch endured what many another anguished heart was at the same time suffering. To know that the one cherished idol of her soul was severed from her side, exposed daily, hourly, to desperate danger; never to know what moment might bring

the tidings of his death; to lie down at night with the unspoken but heartfelt prayer that morning might not bring the dreaded tale; to rise at morning from dreams haunted by visions of battle and slaughter-with the awful thought that night might close over her a widowed mother, and alas! after hoping, fearing, dreading, praying for three long years, at last came the fatal blow which, as no fears could hasten, so no hopes, no prayers could avert.

Col. Clack fell at the battle of Mansfield, in the desperate charge made by Minton's brigade on the enemy's batteries, when many a hero's soul passed from the bloody field to the arms of attending seraphs. When the sad news reached his widow, she was a refugee from New Orleans- driven from her home by the merciless invaders who then occupied it, and who had neither respect nor compassion for old age, childhood, or womanhood. To the pangs of her awful bereavement were added those of exile and ruthless spoliation. It was while in this desolate and forlorn condition that her first literary work was produced. Until now, beyond an ardent love for, and a keen appreciation of the beauties of literature, she had no claim to the title of "literary;" but now an intense longing for "something apart from the sphere of her sorrow - something that should lift her out of, wrench her away from the ever-present, torturing subject of her regrets, together with pecuniary necessity, induced her to prepare a volume for the press. "Our Refugee Household" was the result book which unites, in a charming manner, the sad experiences of the writer with the loveliest creations of fiction and fancy. It is a string of pearls strung on a golden thread. The varied characters and changing fortunes of the little "Refugee Household;" the heart-breaking trials and imminent perils to which they were exposed, form a groundwork of intense interest, upon which the lively fancy of the writer has erected a superstructure of fairy-like beauty and elegance. In addition to her first work, Mrs. Clack has also published a Christmas storybook for children, which bears the title of "General Lee and Santa Claus a tiny volume, which unites in its limited space sound patriotic feeling with the frolic fancies so dear to little folks. And she has, we believe, now in press a much more elaborate work than either of the above; one which we hope will place her fame on an enduring pedestal for the admiration of posterity.

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With this brief sketch, we present to our readers the following specimen of her poetical powers, which will, of itself, speak sufficiently in their praise, without the addition of a word from us.

THE GRANDMOTHER'S FADED FLOWER.

"Oh, grandmother dear, a masquerade ball!

A ball, I do declare!

I'll robe myself rich in costume of old,

In a train, and powdered hair."

And a beautiful girl of sixteen years

Knelt by her grandmother's chest;

While that stately dame, in a high-backed chair,
Smiled at each timely jest.

Brocades, and silks, and satins antique

Were strewn in confusion rare

Round the fair young girl, while diamond and pearl She wound in her bright brown hair.

"What's this? what's this?" she jestingly cried,

Holding high a faded flower;

"Why treasure it here, my grandmother dear, With relics of bridal dower?"

"My child, it is dearer far to me

Than silk, or satin, or pearl;

For it 'minds me well of vanished hours,
Of hours when I was a girl.

"Ay, well I remember the day, 'lang syne,'
When my first love, last love— gone—
Came to my side with this then fresh flower;
'Twas a beautiful spring-like morn.

"But he's gone before-yes, many a year!
Hush, Flo! the pearls are thine;
I'll meet him yet in perennial spring:
Don't crush the flower-it's mine."

And the fair girl gazed in mute surprise

At the tear and flushing cheek;

Kissed the tear away, then her thoughts stray

To the ball of the coming week.

The ball is o'er a pure white bud

Flo folds to her throbbing breast;

She has learned the power of the faded flower
She found in her grand-dame's chest.

MRS. GIDEON TOWNSEND.

T contributions published in the "New Orleans Delta," over the

genius, gracefulness, and spirit which characterized certain

nom de plume of "Xariffa," sixteen or seventeen years ago, when that journal was conducted by Judge Alexander Walker, excited much interest and curiosity at the time in literary circles, as to the identity of the no less modest than gifted writer.

An eager inquiry at last discovered that "Xariffa" was a young lady just passing the threshold of womanhood; and that though connected by ties of kindred with many of the oldest and best families in Louisiana, and thoroughly imbued with the taste, sentiments, and ideas of Southern society, she was by birth and education a Northerner. A native of New York, Mrs. Townsend was of the ancient and honorable stock of the Van Wickles, of New Jersey, and the Van Voorhises, of Duchess County, New York. Her mother, the daughter of Judge J. C. Van Wickle, of Spotswood, New Jersey, is a lady of fine mind herself, and distinguished for her elegance of manner and generous hospitality. She is still living at Lyons, New York, the birthplace of "Xariffa." In the very bloom of her literary fame and promise, Miss Van Voorhis formed a matrimonial alliance with Mr. Gideon Townsend, an energetic and intelligent gentleman, who, though of an active and business character and much absorbed in the struggles of commercial life, always manifested a warm sympathy with and high appreciation of the literary tastes and pursuits of his talented wife.

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The happy and congenial couple now live in New Orleans, surrounded by a most interesting family, including a bright little daughter, who is already an authoress at the age of thirteen, and gives promise of unusual brilliancy and vigor of intellect. Since her first appearance in the "Delta," Mrs. Townsend, or rather Xariffa," as she prefers to be known in her literary relations, has been a regular contributor to many of the leading journals and magazines of the day, and a successful essayist in some of our ablest Reviews. In the "Delta," the "Crossbone Papers," which were widely copied and commended; "Quillotypes," a series of short essays, which were attributed,