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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE. SCIENCE AND ART.
H >l. (. RICHARDS, Editor.
(Original Porirn.
For tiie Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES
ON HEARING of the illness of a brother.
by miss c. w. barber.
Through the dim, endless night, upon thy pillow,
With feverish cheek thou art tossing now ;
I may not linger near —the dark blue billow
Rolls ’twixt me and that aching brow —
Alas! alas ! how gladly would I sever
The cord that binds me here —loose it forever !
✓
It may not be ! I sit, and mirth is ’round me —
Mirth from the beautiful and young;
What, care they now, though pain hath bound thee ?
They never heard one accent from thy tongue —
That tongue, whose slightest whisper o’er my soul
Like angel-music erst could roll.
They do not heed —they have not heard it—
I never here have breathed thy cherished name ;
I cannot bear that idle lips should lisp it,
When in my heart ’tis shrined, fore’er the same.
Oh ! I have pray’d for thee since last wc parted —
Pray’d as they only pray, the loving hearted !
What did I ask 1 Oh ! not for fame or treasure —
Not jewels from the sand —pearls from the wave ;
1 asked for thee the smile of Christ, the Savior—
I sought for thee a home beyond the grave—
Prayed that thy manhood might be given,
An incense-offering unto holy Ileaven !
And thou art ill! What envied eye keeps vigil
Around thy couch through Autumn’s frosty hour,
While the bleak wind, ’mid yellow leaves careering,
Is kissing with rude breath the dying flower 1
Heaven bless the hand that smooths thy feverish
pillow,
Now I am far away, beyond the datk blue billow.
J know not that we e’er shall meet! Ah! never
Again on earth, our paths may intersecting lie ;
Grant, God of Heaven, that he live forever,
In sinless bliss beyond the deep blue sky !
Oh! let him sweep untired, with angel pinion,
Where pain, and care, hold not their dread do
minion !
mmmmm —————
Popular dales.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LA ROULETTE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
CHAPTER I.
“Julian! Julian! why do you weep ? Do
not afflict yourself, my friend ! Oh ! if you
knew how miserable your tears made me!”
And the young wife, while pronouncing these
words, pressed against her bosom the head of
her husband: her beautiful hair fell in clus
ters of gold over his face, brushing away the
tears which were flowing from his eyes.
“Oh! lam very culpable, my Ernilie. I
know your heart: you will pardon me ; but
your mother! —her anger will fall, perhaps,
upon you! This idea overwhelms me--I
cannot support it.” And the sobs of the
young husband redoubled.
“Julian! Julian! cease your tears —con-
sole yourself : my mother shall know noth
ing—l will conceal all f'om her: but prom
ise me that you will never play again. Lis
ten, my Julian; this loss is,, perhaps, the
greatest blessing that could have happened
to us. It will, without doubt, cure you of
Ibis fatal passion, which destroys all our
happiness.”
“ Oh ! I assure you I will never play again;
besides, we have nothing left —I have lost
all. Ah! Ernilie, in what a situation have I
placed you—you, who deserved to be so hap
pyp
“ But I am, and always will be so, while
you are near me —I love you so much, Ju
lian !” And the tears and kisses of the
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1849.
young couple were blended. At the same
instant, they heard the clear, silver sound of
a small bell. Ernilie withdrew precipitately
from the arms of her husband.
“W ho can it be that comes so early ?”
said she, alarmedly. “Oh, heavens! if it
should be my mother! Let me wipe your
face, Julian; I do not wish them to see that
you have been weeping.”
While uttering these words, Ernilie dried
lightly his tears with a handkerchief, imprint
ed another kiss upon his lips, and, assuming
an air of gaiety, light as a young fawn, she
bounded towards the door, which opened un
der the touch of her beautiful fingers.
“Eh! good day, my pretty daughter-in
law : come, and let me embrace you!” said
the person who entered to Ernilie.
Julian glanced towards the door: he recog
nized his father, and became pale as death.
Ernilie threw herself into the arms of her
father-in-law, who pressed in his nervous
embrace her fine and graceful figure. The
features of the old man expressed kindness
and good humor: a smile of frank gaiety
rested upon his lips; in his button-hole was
negligently tied a ribbon of different colors,
indicating that he was decorated by several
military orders. As soon as Julian recogni
sed his father, he arose and approached him.
“Embrace me, Julian! 110w r do you do?
You appear sad!”
“I am very well, my father.” But these
words were interrupted by sighs. In ap
proaching his lips to the cheek of his father,
a burning tear escaped from his eye, and fell
upon the face of the old man, who recoiled in
affright. His eyes, which were before so
brilliant, so full of fire and gaiety, were im
mediately obscured by a sad presentiment.
Tie glanced first at his son, whose counten
ance was full of remorse, and then upon Emi
lie, whose eyes, full of a tender solicitude,
seemed to implore pardon for her husband.
“What is it, Julian? Ernilie, speak!”
cried the old man. “What misfortune has
happened to you? Conceal nothing from
me, mv children; vou know how much I love
you.”
“Oh! I do not merit your love, my father!
I am more and more unworthy.”
“Oh! heavens! do not listen to him!”
said Ernilie, placing herself upon the knee of
Julian, whom she had forced into a chair,
and whom she covered with kisses; and,
with an address, of which a woman alone is
capable, said to him, in a low voice,
“Julian, if you love me, do not distress
your father.”
“In mercy, my dear children, tell me what
has happened. These tears, thissorrow, are
not natural: do not leave me in this painful
suspense.”
“But, my good father,” said Ernilie, for
cing a smile, “do you not know that Julian
is a child ? Since this morning, he has em
ployed himself in creating a thousand mis
fortunes out of nothing; and, because I re
proached him slightly for his conduct, he is
thus miserable —thus tormented.”
Julian wished to speak ; hut an expressive
look from his wife silenced him. These
movements did not escape the notice of M.
Menard.
“ Julian! Ernilie !” said he, “ you have,
then, no confidence in your father!”
“But I tell you that there has nothing hap
pened,” replied Ernilie. “Ah! good father,
do not put on such a melancholy face, or I
will not dare to kiss you.” And ere she had
finished these words, she was upon the knee
of her father-in-law ; her pretty fingers toyed
with his white locks, and her coral lips were
pressed against his rubicund cheeks: the old
man was affected even to tears, lie mur
mured, “Oh! the charming child!”
M. Menard ceased to press his children for
the cause of their tears; for he perceived that,
in speaking more on this subject, he would
augment the sorrow of his daughter, and lie
preferred remaining ignorant, to exciting the
least cloud of sadness in her soul—so good,
so sensible. The embarrassment of the three
increased more and more. Ernilie employed
all heramiability, all the charms of her mind,
to animate the conversation; but her efforts
were useless. Julian remained plunged in a
profound sadness; he dared not raise his eyes,
for fear his father might there read his crime.
M. Menard, on his side, wavered between
the desire of knowing what could trouble the
happiness, the tranquility, which his children
seemed to possess a few days before, and the
fear of afflicting Ernilie in pressing again for
an explanation. He apprehended, besides,
the sad truth; but, however terrible it might
be, he was willing to know.
“ Julian,” said he to his son, “ I have
come to ask you to give me a part of your
morning. 1 have need of your counsel on
some business; will you go out with me?”
“ I am at your service, my father.”
Some minutes after, M. Menard and his
son were in the street, walking side by side
in the most profound silence. At last, Julian
asked his father, in a feeble voice, what the
business was which he had mentioned.
“It is very important,” replied M. Men
ard, “and it behooved me to have cleared it
up before this. But let us go to my house ;
I can explain it better there.”
These words, pronounced in a severe tone,
were as a clap of thunder to the unfortunate
Julian. A cold sweat covered his body, and
he was obliged to support himself upon the
arm of his father, who hurried him to his
house. M. Menard sent away his servant
to some distance, on pretence of business, to
prevent her hearing the conversation about
to take place. He then conducted Julian in
to his room, gave him a chair, and placed his
near him.
“Julian,” said he, “your wife is a trea
sure, an angel of goodness and sweetness.”
“0! my father, she is a reunion of all the
virtues.”
“You would he very culpable, my son, if
you caused her any sorrow.”
Julian shuddered involuntarily. His fath
er continued :
“My son, you have an excellent heart—a
thousand brilliant qualities; but your mad
passion will destroy them all, and cause your
final destruction. Listen, Julian : I have not
been a dupe to the ingenious evasions which
your wife employed to conceal the true source
of your tears. She feared for you my just
reproaches; she was also unwilling, perhaps,
to overwhelm me with sorrow, by confessing
the sad truth; but I doubt not you have been
gambling again. Julian, conceal nothing
from me, my child : open your heart to your
father —to your true friend. This silence,
these tears, convince me of the fatal truth.
Oh! Julian! Julian! what have you not to
lament! What a future are you preparing
for yourself! May I, at least, be laid in the
quiet grave,, before this frenzy of play pre
cipitates you into crime.”
“My father, have mercy ! Y r ou tear my
SOlll.”
“And you, Julian—are you ignorant of
the tortures which your conduct inflicts upon
me ? Do you not know how my heart bleeds,
when I think of the evils which this passion
has already made us suffer ? and, above all,
on those which threaten to poison the exist
ence of. that charming person, whose only
VOLUME L—NUMBER 39.
fault is in loving you too much ? And her
mother, too —the poor woman! I blamed her
for the objections she made to your union :
she foresaw, without doubt, the misfortunes
which would befall her daughter. What
will she say, now? But, Julian, perhaps
your fault is not irreparable. Tell me, frank
ly ; how much have you lost ?”
“ All, my father!”
“ What! unfortunate ch ild! Not content
with having dissipated, in those infamous
dens, the fifty thousand francs of your wife’s
dowry, was it also necessary to give up to
their rapacity the thirty thousand francs
which her mother gave you to prevent your
ruin, and to assist you in laying up some
thing for the ft- e, upon the promises, the
oaths, that you made never to gamble more ?
Julian! you must be destitute of honor. Be
hold ! you have been married six months;
and how much pain have you already caused
your wife.”
“Oh! my father, soften my just punish
ment !”
“My intention, Julian, is not to afflict you
l know your heart; l know that you suffer
enough. But see in what a position you are
placed: what will you do ? what will become
of you, now ? You will not dare to have
recourse again to your mother-in-law ? Oh,
no! I believe you have too much sensibility
for that! As for me, you know that I have
no fortune. I would that I had. Notwith
standing your faults, 1 would not abandon
you. I will dispose of some military pen
sions which I gained in the midst of the
camp, and which I had been counseled to
place in an enterprise which promises great
profit. These ten thousand francs I will
give to you. But, my son, swear to me r up
on your honor, that you will never play
more.”
“ I will not consent.”
“Accept them, Julian,” said his father,
placing a portfolio in his hands. Do not let
a false delicacy make you refuse; recollect
your Ernilie. The only acknowledgment I
claim of you, is the promise to master this
passion, without which you would be so hap
py”
“ I swear to you, my father!” said Julian,
throwing himself into the arms of M. Men
ard ; who replied to the caresses of his son
by embracing him. When he had somewhat
calmed his emotion, M. Menard said to him :
“Julian, now that I have reproached you
as you deserved, and appealed to your heart,
let me address your reason. I demand of
you, my friend, why you continue to give
yourself up to this terrible passion, which
has already steeped you in so much anguish
and bitterness ? What isyour design ? You
desire fortune : and thisinfernal vice, instead
of assisting you to procure it, will conduct
you to misery, to crime, and to death. Have
you not constantly before your eyes crimes
and misfortunes, always new, which this
love of play produces ? Does there exist a
single man, whom it has conducted to pros
perity ? Besides, when you possess so many
resources in yourself, to acquire this fortune,
is it not folly, on youT part, to employ pre
cisely that which will cause your ruin ? Ju
lian, listen to the counsels of your father :
you are standing on the brink of an abyss,
but you have yet time to save yourself.
You possess much talent, fancy and elo
i quence : employ these gifts, which nature
has bestowed upon you, by creating for your
| self a name celebrated as an Advocate. Oh!
; by this course fortune will not escape you,.
You will render yourself useful, and <he rich--
es will be prized much more, which have
been acquired in so noble and glorious a man
i ner.”