Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.—