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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