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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.”