Newspaper Page Text
SOI!HERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
N ts, C. RICHARDS, Editor.
©riginal soetni.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
SHADOWS.
■
1!Y JACQUES JOURNOT,
Clomls rest upon the mountain’s brow,
The vallies lie in deepest shade ;
The birds are sileni In the groves.
The flowers in wintry graves are laid !
0. cold and dreary seems the world !
The landscape is no longer fair ;
And shadows on my spirit lie—
No gleam of sunshine falleth there f
1 touch my harp, but every tone
Seems married to some thought of pain ;
The strings which oft I’ve waked to joy,
I strive to walce again in vain!
lam alone! No deir one comes
My soul with love-taught words to cheer;
Alone, amid these moving throngs—
Alone, though multitudes are near.
’ t
1 hear Ihe laughter glad and free,
Which springs from hearts untouched by care;
I would not make the happy sad,
And yet their mirth I cannot bear.
Whence comes these shadows o'er me now,
While othe s near the sunl'ght feel!
Into my soul, like twilight shades,
Why do these saddening memories steal !
O, thou All Good, who lifte-t up
The downcast soul, O give me light f
Thy smile shall chase this g’oom away,
And make the morrow’s promise bright.
Auraria, Ga., January, 1849.
s3opular ®aUs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LA ROULETTE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
CHAPTER 11.
The day of Gerard’s trial at last arrived.
Mr. Menard, Madame Bellemont, and Emi
lie, wishing to be present at the trial, Julian
had reserved places for them. The cause
was so celebrated, the crime so horrible, that
an immense crowd had congregated around
and in the court. The seats were filled with
ladies, whose elegant and recherche toilets
would have better become a fete. The seats
reserved for the advocates, were occupied by
the magistrates and the most distinguished
lawyers. Julian occupied the place of the
defendant. The accused entered; he no long
er, by his ragged clothes and sail looks, ex
cited horror in the minds of the spectators. —
Julian had inspired him with hope, and the
serenity of a pure conscience was depicted
in his face. He was not dressed with ele
gance, but with propriety; for his advocate
had convinced him that, although his misera
ble rags might excite pity, they would also
inspire something of disgust. He had, there
fore, purchased for him all the necessary
clothing. To all the questions asked him,
Gerard replied with calmness. Emilie had
her eyes constantly fixed upon Julian; she
listened with eagerness to every word which
fell from his lips. Oh! how happy she was,
when, after the deposition of a w itness, he
arose, and, with force, exposed the improba
bility of his story. Then she pressed the
hand of her mother, looked at her father, and
her eyes, humid w T ith joy, seemed to say —
“ Does not Julian merit his pardon V’
All the witnesses having been examined,
the accusation was supported with so much
talent—the speaker brought forward with
such force all the charges against Gerard,
that the auditors shuddered, and horror was
painted in every sac. Gerard and his de
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
fender alone remained calm. The orator
ceased, and the trembling lips, agitated by
terror, alone disturbed the silence. Julian
rose; every eye was fixed upon him; but
each one thought it was useless for him to
speak—the case seemed too clear to admit of a
doubt. Emiiie herself lost hope, and re
garded with sadness, first Gerard, and then
her husband. The advocate expressed him
self with calmness; his voice was grave and
sonorous, anil his accents seemed to pene
trate the souls of his auditors. He sought
first to fix the attention of the jury; ho de
veloped all his means of defence with a tact,
and justness, that astonished every one.—
Gradually, as he spoke, doubts insinuated
themselves ; he refuted the charges with so
much address, so much clearness, that the
conviction of Gerard's innocence gradually
gained ground. There was so much soul, so
much warmth, in his peroration—he present
ed so touching a picture of the misfortunes of
his client, that he drew tears trom every eye;
and so powerful was his eloquence, that the
multitude, who were, but a moment before,
convinced of the guilt of the accused, wdre
now astonished that he should have been
suspected at all, and even accused the magis
trate of injustice for having ordered his in
carceration. Oh! what a moment of triumph
for Julian, and of joy for Emiiie! Hardly
had the jurors retired, when a crow 1 of ad
vocates and magistrates surrounded him, and
offered their congratulations. Some peers
came and added their eulogies to the others;
and the most flattering murmurs were heard
on all sides. Emijie could not resist the
strength of her emotions at this spectacle.--
She fell into ihe arms of M. Menard, down
whose cheek the tears were silently flowing.
Gerard was unanimously declared not guilty;
and this man so calm, so tranquil, when
threatened with death, gave himself up to
the most extravagant joy, when he heard the
words pronounced which gave to him life
and honor ; he threw himself into the arms
of Julian—called him his liberator, his bene
factor, and proclaimed aloud his disinterest
edness, his humanity.
“You have re-uniteil me with mankind.
I detested them without exception, but you
have convinced me that there exist yet some
among them who are virtuous; the disdain
of death is but a false comedy; the joy I
feel, proves to me that I love life ; yes, I will
live, to prove to you all my gratitude.”
Julian rejoined his parents, and was con
ducted home amidst the acclamations of a
people capable of great crimes or of noble ac
tions. They afterwards accompanied Mad
ame Bellemont home—the triumph of Julian
having completely reconciled her to him.
“Julian! Julian!” said she, “if you will
* *
not play, you will be the happiest of men.”
Three months passed, and the reputation
of the young advocate extended more and
more. He had been most fortunate in the
cases which he had to sustain for M. Tre
zel ; his clients increased every day, and he
was obliged to engage two young men to as
sist him. Emiiie was the happiest of wo
men ; Julian appeared cured of his passion,
and gave himself up with ardor to his occu
pations.
“Oh!” said he to himself, “I am happy to
have ceased gambling All gamblers ought
to follow my example!”
When, however, the parade of opulence,
rich equipages, and valets clothed in gold
iace, were presented to his view, he sighed,
and recalled his past illusions, which he had
sought to realize by giving himself up to
play; and these new thoughts left in his
mind an indefinable sadness, which the love
ATiIKXS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1549.
of his wife, ihe tenderness of his father, and
the prosperity of his business, could not en
tirely dissipate.
“ Yes, I am happy,” said he; “ before
many years, I shall have replaced the losses
which my fatal passion caused. I have an
adorable wife, who loves me ; a father, whose
tenderness is without a parallel; I enjoy al
ready some reputation; I am held in consid
eration by the most respectable persons ; and
still in my soul l feel the want of something
more ; glory pleases me, but above all, when
she is surrounded by the pomp of wealth and
grandeur. However great my talents may
become, they will never he able to procure
for me a large fortune, which I so much de
sire ; or, if they do, it will be when years
have cooled my imagination, and rendered
me insensible to voluptuousness. Whilst by
play, if fortune had only proved favorable
for a few days, I would have gained all, and
soon” —but suddenly the recollection of all
he had suffered—the tears of his Emiiie—the
sorrow he had caused his father and Madame
Bellemont—soon chased these ideas from his
mind. “No! no!” cried lie aloud, “I will
never play more : I abhor play. Emiiie!
my father! you shall never have cause to de
plore the consequences of this fatal passion.”
Being present one day at a meeting of the
savans and men of letters, to which he had
been invited, a conversation commenced as to
which passion disturbed and destroyed the
existence of most men. A grave personage
insisted that ambition had the most disastrous
effect. He represented it as a passion which
devoured the souls of those whom it attack
ed. “It is a burning thirst,” said he, “which
can never be appeased; it stifles all senti
ments of good, and is the mother of crime.”
Julian declaimed strongly against avarice and
incontinence: “These are the passions,”
said h?, “which debase mankind, place them
lower than the leasts, and render them un
worthy of their nature.”
“And the passion of play,” cried a man,
whose white locks and venerable features
commanded respect, “you do not mention it;
yet it appears to me the most revolting pas
sion which degrades humanity. What evils,
what disasters, does it not cause? He who
is consumed by it, is capable of any crime.
He gambles first his ow T n, his wife’s, and his
children’s fortune ; he plunges them into the
most frightful misery, and becomes after
wards a forger and murderer, to satisfy the
monster which controls him. Some, carried
away by their delirium, have plunged the
sword into the heart of their father, and then
thrown into the abyss of play, the gold gain
ed by the sale of rags yet covered with the
blood which their hands had shed.”
Julian reddened and paled alternately.
“Ah! sir,” said he, “the picture which
you draw of play is frightful, but I believe a
little exaggerated.”
“No, young man,” replied the old gentle
man, “ it is true; and this passion is so much
the more terrible, as it never abandons its
prey until death, which is nearly always
tragical or criminal. Oh! the fools; they
see the precipice before their eyes; they are
able to sound its depths; yet far from fleeing
it, they advance towards it with great strides.
The man whom the hope of illicit gain drags
to ruin, ought to be convinced of this truth :
that play is a volcano, upon whose brink it
is madness to trifle.”
The words of the old man made a profound
impression upon Julian. “The love of play,”
he often repeated, “never abandons its prey,
until death. Now, i have had this passion,
yet lam well convinced that I am entirely
cured; for at balls and parties, the sight of
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 40.
the gold with which the card-tables are cov
ered, makes me miserable. This, however,
is not caused by envy,but because I think of
the miseries which those endure who have
lost. Besides, each time that chance con
ducts me before the house where I lost all
Emilie’s fortune, a mortal terror seizes mo,
and I fly, as if pursued by a terrible spectre.
Oh! certainly the old man was wrong; I feel
that it is possible to destroy even the germ of
this passion.”
One evening, as Julian was returning from
the house ot one of his clients, while travers
ing a little alley adjacent to one of the galle
ries of the Palais Royal, he perceived the
number thirty-six engtaved upon an iron
plate—the sign of one of those houses of
crime and horror, where the government lays
an infamous tax upon the honor, the repose,
and the Mood, of its citizens. At this sight,
his eyes became dim, his blood ceased to cir
culate. This was precisely the house where
he had lost all. At this moment, a man
came out of a little glass lodge. “Gentle
men,” cried he, “ I beg you to free the pass
age ; you can speak as well out of doors.”
These words excited the curiosity of Ju
lian; he wished to know to whom thev were
addressed; he put in his head, and perceived
a group of gentlemen pressing around a little
man, and swallowing with open mouths eve
ry word that came from his lips. There was
something singular in the appearance of this
man. Although of a low stature, he appear
ed taller than his auditors, because he was
standing upon the stairs. Ilis clothes were
of an antiquated elegance: although the heat
was very great, he wore pantaloons of color
ed figured velvet, a little the worse for wear;
a variegated vest; his coat was a dingy black,
a little threadbare, attesting its ancient ori
gin ; liis little sunken grey eyes turned in
their sockets with the rapidity of lightning;
a thin moustache* part white, part black,
slightly shaded his pale and chapped lips;
his skin was of a dark olive.
“ Gentlemen,” repeated the man in the glass
lodge, “free the passage; either ascend or go
out.”
But he spoke in vain. Although he roar
ed at the top of his voice, they moved not a
step, so much was their attention fixed else
where. “ What can he say, that is so inter
esting?” thought Julian : and he approached
the group. “ I have been six years,” said
the orator, u discovering this play; but then
it is infallible.”
At these words, Julian was all attention.
“Take care, when you are practising that
play,” said one of his auditors, “for there is
someone here who intends trying to discov
er it.”
“ Eh! what is that you say said the man
with the grey moustache, raising his arm and
trying to assume an air of philanthropy. “1
do not wish to conceal my play; I am not
selfish; I desire tiiat every bank may be
broken; besides, my play is so simple.”
The young advocate, perceiving that the
gambler was about to explain his play, and
impelled by an irresistible feeling of curiosi
ty, elbowed his way into the first rank, not
withstanding the efforts that each made to re
tain his place; and, close by the side of the
speaker, he became one of his most attentive
auditors. The gambler explained his play
two or three times, until Julian was as capa
ble of explaining it as himself. There was
not a voice raided to refute his* assertion.—
All seemed persuaded of its efficacy; Julian,
even, was convinced.
“ How long have you played this play ?”
demanded he.
“ At least a month, and my profits have all