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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
H M. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
©righted JJoctrji.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE STREAM REVISITED.
BY MRS. E. JESSUP EAMES.
Thy “banks and braes” are fresh and fair, O beau
teous Battenkill,
As when, in youth’s bright hour, I roamed amid thy
haunts at will;
As when my free, unfaltering foot wander’d through
glade and glen,
To chase the bee and butterfly, and silver-crested
wren,
Os pluck the sweet wild violets, that were such trea
sures then.
.Still are thy rocky haunts as wild, thy wood-crown’d
hills as green,
Still droops the willow o’er thy tide, with the same
silvery sheen:
Upon yon green and graceful bough the robin weaves
her nest—
Yet, yet, the trembling lily lays her fair head on thy
breast,
And yet the water-plants are by thy glitering waves
caress’d.
Still the shadows o’er thee fall, O thou rejoicing
stream,
Making thy path of light and shade like the magic
of a dream.
Each spot of fairy loveliness holdeth its own sweet
spell,
The grassy slope, the shelter’d nook, the flower-em
broidered dell—
Rich haunt of beauty and romance, I love thee pass
ing well.
Morn rises o’er thy azure tide, as brightly as of
yore,
And sunset dies ’mid crimson clouds, along thy
winding shore:
Still, one by one the radiant stars come fort h to thy
embrace;
The pensive moon looks down on thee with the same
touching grace,
As when, in year-* gone by, her beams shone on thy
mirror’d face.
The morn, and noon, and twilight hour, have found
me at thy side,
The moon hath seen me watch the stars that gath
er’d o’er thy tide;
And here, in many a poet-dream, I’ve sat entranc’d
by thee;
Here woke my first wild wish for fame and immor
tality ;
And here, —be silent, trusted stream, on all thou
know’st of me!
All is the same, the same on which my alter’d eye
doth range;
Mine ancient friend, thou hast not known the light
est breath of change!
But over me long, changeful years and changeful
hopes have passed,
.Since here a dreaming girl I stood —how stand I at
the last 1
The sky sends now a dimmer light than o’er my
youth it cast.
Oh ! a thousand mournful memories breathe through
thy murmuring tone —
Sweet faces—pleasant melodies, and laughing voices
gone:
The dear —the distant and the dead, seem shadow'd
in thy tide,
And one who oft hath watch’d with me thy rippling
waters glide,
When last I stood by thee, her form was mirror’d at
my side !
—She hears no more the music chimes of each soft,
silvery wave—
-1 he quiet light that falls on thee, is falling on her
grave.
‘After life’s fitful fever she sleeps well”—her raco
is run,
bor her its painful dream is o’er —its weary wander
ings done—
“ He giveth his beloved sleep”—such sleep as she
hath won.
my pilgrim feet have sought thy sunny
side once more,
But I bring no radiant hopes fulfill’d of the rose-hued
hours of yore.
Not with the day-spring’s glorious dreams, do I re
turn to thee,
A sinking frame, a drooping head, is all that thou
wilt see,
Sin illustrate tttecklti lournal of i3cllcs-£cttrrs, Science ani> tijc ilrto.
For a darken’d room, a couch of pain, have been
life’s gifs to me !
But thy “ banks and braes” are still as fair, O beau
teous Battenkill,
As when in youth’s bright hour I roamed among tliy
haunts at will.
No touch that chills, no shadow of decay has fallen
on thee —
Long be it thus ! —and now farewell, O stream still
bright and free!
Yet mid thy gladness keep one tone, one pitying tone
for me !
New Hartford, N. Y., June, 1848.
(Original Sales.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
PAULINE DE MEULAN,
BY J. A. TURNER.
Pauline de Meulan* was the name of a
young lady in Paris of good family, and, in
former times, of allluence. By some misfor
tune her friends and relatives were taken away
from her, and with them her means of sup
port. Thus made an orphan, she was com
pelled to rely upon her own exertions for a
livelihood. She had become a stranger, and
in the large and populous city of Paris, what
was she to do I Could those delicate little
hands of hers do menial service ? And even
if they could, where could a girl of sixteen go
to find employment, when she knew no one
and no one knew her %
These were formidable questions for Pau
line, but she was one of those who know how
to surmount obstacles. Phrenologists would
have said that the organ of hope was large
ly developed upon her head—especially would
they have said so upon knowing her energy
of character; for, what is energy without
hope to rouse, or at least to guide, its efforts \
Our heroine had received a good education
at one of the Parisian female seminaries.—
Her father also had taken particular pains to
cultivate in her what he had perceived to be
a remarkably vigorous intellect. Her fond
ness for reading and literature increased daily,
and she now thought of indulging in the
“pleasures of the pen.” Thus she thought
she could make a source of pleasure the
means of gaining her daily bread. Visions of
fame and affluence, to be gained by her pen,
constantly tilled her mind ; and she thought
that she might one day stand side by side with
such women as Madame Dacier and Madam
de Stael. Indeed her teacher once told her,
after she had read, as a composition in school,
an essay upon Sappho and her poems, that
she would one day rival the distinguished
classical author first mentioned. She had
long intended to make an effort for some of
the magazines, and since her misfortune, she
decided that the time had arrived for her to do
so.
Besides being an adept in the classics, she
was considerably skilled in politics, for her
father had been a politician. She concluded
that it would be best to write on some politi
cal topic, as an essay on such a subject would
be more likely than anything else to insure
attention. She therefore prepared a paper for
La Revue des deux Mondes , headed La Com
munisme en France. When it was finished
it was carried to the editor of the above Re
view, who, after reading it and lauding its ex
cellence to the skies, assured her that it was
hardly grave and dignified enough to suit his
readers. Nothing daunted she carried it to
the editor of La Semeur , who, after bestowing
equal encomiums upon it, told her he thought
* Several of the principal incidents in this tale are
found in a paragraph published in some of the news
papers. The author’s imagination has supplied the
rest.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY I, 1848.
it was hardly light and gay enough to please
his subscribers. Even then Pauline still hoped
—but after she had been refused by half a
dozen other editors she began to despair, and
went home weary and unhappy.
It was night when she reached her room,
and the most fearful forebodings came over
her mind. She began to think that she had
been deceived in herself, and that her friends
had flattered her into the belief that she had
talent, when in reality she had none. She
was extremely mortified to think too that her
vanity had deceived her. In despair and dis
gust she resolved to throw down her pen, de
termined to gain her bread by the sweat of
her brow, or even to beg it, rather than again
undertake the toils and vexations of author
ship’ She concluded to burn the manuscript
which she had in vain offered to so many jour
nalists. In the meantime she had lain down
upon her bed, and burying her face in the
pillow, wept scalding tears.
After the violence of her grief had subsid
ed, a feeling of lassitude came over her, and,
without intending it, she fell asleep. While
slumbering she dreamed that a gentleman of
mild countenance and affable demeanor came
to her, and told her not to burn her manu
script, but to carry it to the office of La Pub
liciste, No. 8, Rue de St. Germain , and she
would find a purchaser in the editor, Monsieur
Bland. This so overjoyed her that she
awoke, and, after lying and thinking awhile,
she got up, as she was unable to sleep any
more, and, having lit her candle with a match,
she found that she had slept about two hours.
She determined upon going to see M. Bland
early next day, but for fear of his raising such
objections as other editors had done, she re
solved to spend the remainder of the night in
writing several other articles, each differing
irom the other in style, hoping that someone
of them might suit La Pabliciste. The night
passed off while she was thus engaged, and
about the time her taper burned out, the sun
came to give her light. By this time she had
finished three or four short articles, beside the
one first mentioned. She then laid down up
on her bed to get an hours rest before she
proceeded to No. 8, St. Germain. After hav
ing slept sometime, her landlady, surprised at
her absence from the supper-table the night
before, called to see her and enquire after her
health. Pauline told her that she had been a
little unwell, and was still so, —therefore she
wmuld not want any breakfast that morning.
The landlady —Madame d’Arhlay—took her
departure, and Pauline rose and dressed her
self preparatory to calling upon Monsieur
Bland.
It was still early when she reached the of
fice of Ist Pvbliciste. The clerks had not as
sembled, but the editor was seated at his ta
ble, when Pauline entered. Want of sleep
and unceasing care had made her cheek pale,
and the lily was to be seen where the rose
generally reigned predominant. M. Bland
being very busy, did not see her when sh'e
first entered. He was gazing intently, and
Pauline thought with rather a vexed spirit,
upon some manuscripts which he held before
him. The editor’s manner was anything but
consoling to our heroine. Was he also to re
refuse her compositions % The thought stung
her to the heart. Her cheek flushed, and she
was turning to go away, resolved sooner to
die than to have anything more to do with ed
itors and publishers. Just at that moment
some word of impatience fell from M. Bland’s
lips, and Pauline, thinking it was addressed
to herself, trembled like a leaf, and turning
back upon him with a flurried look, she saw
that for the first time he had noticed her.—
His eye, which had a tiger-like expression
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 8.
when it was raised from the manuscript, as
soon as it met hers, assumed a look of mild
ness which immediately reassured her. M.
Bland was a gentleman. As soon as he saw
Pauline’s flushed cheek, he imagined the
cause, and quickly rising, he handed her to a
chair near his own, and commenced talking
to her in a gentle way about common-place
topics—such as would serve to make her
easy and at home.
He then proceeded to tell her about the
cause of his impatience when she first enter
ed. He had employed a young man of geni
us to write for his paper, and who was indeed
one of the best, if not the best, contributor he
had. He had formerly written for La Revue
Critique , but falling into dissipated habits,
had lost his place. He had applied to almost
every other office in Paris for a situation, but
owing to his habits, he could not obtain one.
At last lie presented himself at the office of
La Publiciste, and after making many pledges
of reformation, he (M. Bland) had taken him
into his employ. He had dispensed with the
services of the famed Beranger for nothing else
but to afford assistance to this young man.—
Since that time he had again fallen into his
former habits, and the result was that he had
sent in that morning a manuscript which could
not be deciphered ; and even when a sentence
or two could be read, it but served too plain
ly to show that the author was drunk when
he had penned it. “Now,” said M. Bland,
“myjournal must be delayed at least several
days beyond the regular time of publication,
and there is so much competition in the city,
if one’s paper is not out at the very minute,
lo! a dozen subscribers order their paper stop
ped immediately. We editors have a hard
time of it. We have a thousand vexations
where people think we have hut one. No
wonder the fraternity have the name of being
hard-hearted. Such occurrences as I have just
mentioned, when repeated hundreds of times,
serve to make us peevish and fretful. Mine
is a peculiarly hard case. I have sacrificed
much for that young man, and now he has
repaid me with ingratitude. lam dependant
upon my paper for the support of my family.
It has just been started, and here among so
many long-established journals, it is no easy
matter to bring anew paper into notice. I fear
I was kind to that young man at the expense
of my interests. I know I shall lose several
subscribers on account of the delay in my next
issue. If I fail in my present enterprise, what
is to become of my wife and sweet babes 1 —
But I must do the best I can for them, and
trust the rest to Providence, who feeds even
the ravens and young eagles.”
Pauline listened to the above recital with
interest. M. Bland had touched a chord with
in her bosom which awakened all her sym
pathy. She began to think that she might
have suffered an improper feeling to lurk with
in her bosom in regard to editors. But she
felt no stingings of remorse for having indul
ged bad feelings to any extent. She was
deeply imbued with a spirit of piety, and in
deed this was the loveliest trait in her char
acter, “What,” she would often say, “isin
tellect and genius if they are not sanctified
with that spirit cf charity which hideth a mul
titude of faults'? They are but devouring
flames before whose fierce kindlings every
pure and noble feeling of the soul must retire
or be burned up. My own beloved France is
a living monument of this truth.”
From thinking herself an object of pity
and charity to editors, she began to think
there was at least one of the corps who de
served charitv at her hands. As M. Bland
J
proceeded with his narrative, her heart began
to soften, and soon a tear stood in her eye.—