A French critic has just revealed a portrait of the favorite of Lamartine and numerous other writers on the Revolution—St. Just, from which it appears that he was the author of a long poem entitled Orgaut. The opinion which the historians have caused the public to form of this man was, that he was a fanatic—implacable, but sincere—a ruthless minister of the guillotine, but deeming wholesale slaughter indispensable for securing, what he conscientiously considered, the welfare of the people. He was, we might imagine, something like the gloomy inquisitors of old, who thought it was doing God service to burn heretics at the stake.
A correspondent of the Athenæum observes, that "To justify this opinion, one would have expected to have found in a poem written by him when the warm and generous sentiments of youth were in all their freshness, burning aspirations for what it was the fashion of his time to call vertu, and lavish protestations of devotedness to his country and the people. But instead of that, the work is, it appears, from beginning to end, full of the grossest obscenity—it is the delirium of a brain maddened with voluptuousness—it is coarser and more abominable than the 'Pucelle' of Voltaire, and is not relieved, as that is, by sparkling wit and graces of style. In a moral point of view, it is atrocious—in a literary point of view, wretched. The discovery of such a production will be a sad blow to the stern fanatics of these days, who look on the blood-stained men of the Revolution with admiration and awe—who make them the martyred saints of their calendar—and whose hope by day and dream by night is to have the opportunity of imitating them. Of the whole band St. Just has hitherto been considered the purest—he has always been accepted as the very personification of 'virtue' in its most sublime form. Even the immaculate Maximilien Robespierre himself has never had the honor of having admitted that he approached him in moral grandeur. And now, behold! this 'virtuous' angel is proved to have been a debauched and loathsome-minded wretch! But, to be sure, that was before he began cutting off heads, and wholesale murders on the political scaffold redeem a multitude of sins."
A few days ago the French President received a gift of the most rich bouquets from the market women of Paris, and at the same time an application for permission to visit him at the palace. This was granted, and full three hundred of the flower of the female merchants in fruit and vegetables of the faubourgs, dressed in their utmost finery, were received by the officers in attendance, and ushered through the saloons of the Elysee.
The London Times correspondent says:
"After admiring the furniture, paintings, &c., they were conducted to the gardens, where they enjoyed themselves for some time. Refreshments were then laid out in the dining-room, and they were invited to partake of the President's hospitality. The champagne was passing round pretty freely when the President entered. They received him with acclamations of 'Vive Napoléon!' The President, after the usual salutations, took a glass of wine, and proposed the toast, 'A la santé des dames de la Halle de Paris!' which was responded to in a becoming manner; and 'La santé de Napoléon!' was in turn proposed by an elderly matron, and loudly cheered. The ladies were particularly pleased at finding the bouquets presented yesterday arranged in the dining-room. Louis Napoleon chatted for some time with his visitors, and expressed, in warm terms, the pleasure he felt at seeing them under his roof. The ladies requested that one of their companions—the most distinguished for personal attractions, as for youth—should be allowed to embrace him in the name of the others. Such a request no man could hesitate to grant, and the fair one who was deputed to bestow the general salute advanced, blushing and trembling, to perform the duty. Louis Napoleon went through the pleasing ceremony with much credit to himself, and apparently to the great satisfaction of those present. In a short time the visitors asked permission to retire, after again thanking the President for the honor he did them. Before separating they united in one last and loud acclamation of 'Vive Napoléon.'"
Johnson J. Hooper, the author of Captain Simon Suggs, and several other works similar to that famous performance in humor and in the characteristics of southern life, is editor of The Chambers Tribune, published somewhere in Alabama. Few papers have as much of the quality which is commonly described by the word "spicy." In a late number we have an election anecdote which will serve as a specimen. The hero is Colonel A. Q. Nicks, of Talladega. We quote:
"The Colonel had incurred, somehow, the enmity of a certain preacher—one who had once been ejected from his church and subsequently restored. The parson, besides, was no favorite with his neighbors. Well, when Nicks was nominated, parson Slashem 'norated' it publicly that when Nicks should be elected, his (the parson's) land would be for sale, and himself ready to emigrate. Well, the Colonel went round the county a time or two, and found he was 'bound to go;' and shortly after arriving at that highly satisfactory conclusion, espying the parson in a crowd he was addressing, sung out to him: 'I say, brother Slashem, begin to fix up your muniments—draw your deeds—I am going to represent these people, certain! But before you leave, let me give you thanks for declaring your intention as soon as you did; for on that account I am getting all of your church and the most part of your neighbors!' The parson has not been heard of since."