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ready been a hundred thousand francs.” Ju
lian started. “ And now,” continued he, “I
have fixed my profits at seven thousand francs
per day; and when I have gained these. I
generally retire.”
“That is very reasonable,” said a voice.”
“But,” cried another, “every one cannot
play this game.” “Eh ! why not V\ “ Be
cause, without doubt, it requires a large sum
to commence with.” “It requires at least
eighty thousand francs,” replied the gambler,
“for it is better to keep enough money to re
commence, if you should chance to lose.”
“ Eighty thousand francs,” muttered Ju
lian between his teeth. The man who had
so long fixed the attention of this crowd of
persons, retired, and the turbulent multitude,
gnawed by desire and cupidity, dispersed.—
Constrained by some fascination, Julian fol
lowed him; several times he was tempted to
accost him; he turned suddenly, and came
back. A clock was striking the hour: he
looked at his watch : “ Seven o’clock—good
heaven!” cried he, “Emilie will be so alarm
ed. I have so often promised her that I
would always return to dinner at half-past
five !” He perceived that he was in the Rue
de Temple. “ I am very far from home.”
In pronouncing these words, he threw a last
look upon the unknown, and suppressed a
sigh. A cabriolet was near : he got in, and
gave the coachman orders to drive to the
Rue de 1’ Univereite, Faubourg Saint Ger
main. Emilie had been at the window for
an hour, her eyes full of tears, and in the
most dreadful anxiety. She feared so much
that he had been the victim of some unfortu
nate accident. At last the cabriolet stopped ;
she saw Julian descending ; a cry of joy es
caped from her lips, she ran to the door, down
the steps, and threw herself into his arms.—
“Oh! my Julian,” cried she, “how came
you so late ! How I have suffered : but
now that I see you, all is forgotten; come to
dinner—you must be nearly famished;” and
the young wife took her husband’s arm, and
conducted him to the dining-room, where they
seated themselves at the table. Julian took
cate not to speak to his wife of his rencon
tre; he excused his long absence by pretend
ing to have been detained by a client, who
was explaining something about his busi
ness, which it was indispensable to know;
but during the whole repast, he was absent
and absorbed in reflection.
“ What is the matter, Julian ?” said Emi
lie. “You appear sad, and you do not eat;
are you sick, or has something happened to
you ? Tell me, I beg you ;do not conceal
anything from me.”
Julian attempted to re-assure her, assuming
an air of gaiety; he spoke of his father, of
her mother, of all their kindness; tut lie was
soon absorbed in reflection again, and Emilie
dared not disturb him, for fear of displeasing
him; but her humid eyes were fixed upon
him, displaying all her anxiety. For some
time, Julian had passed his evenings listen
ing to his wife’s melodious voice, accompa
nied by the piano; often, also, Julian joined
her in a song, or a portion of an opera; after
which, they amused themselves by playing
games, until they retired to a repose which
nothing could disturb. This evening, the
piano remained mute : Julian was sad and
silent; during the night his sleep was dis
turbed by fantastic dreams ; he imagined that
he saw the man with the grey moustache,
who said to him: “In a month, my profits
have been one hundred thousand francs!”
but suddenly the old man with the venerable
features would appear, and pronounce with
a strong voice: “ Play is a volcano, upon
whose brink it is madness to trifle.” Julian
would then start from his sleep and sigh
profoundly. In the morning he arose gloomy
and pre-occupied with the events of the pre.
ceding night. He shut himself in his cab
inet: there, with his elbow resting on the
bureau, he reflected on the play that chance
3®®lTo BS El &, 0 ITS IE A[E Y Us AB§¥ tg *
had disclosed to him. “It is infallible,’
said he to himself: “experience proves it.
This man has been playing it a month,
and his considerable gains are an irre.
fragible proof. What interest would this
man have in lying'? in exaggerating ? The
persons who surrounded him have been wit
nesses of his happiness. But it is necessary
to have eighty thousand francs—it is impos
sible—let me drive away these thoughts—l
have sworn to my father, to my wife, to her
mother, that I would not play more, and I
ought to keep my word. He then took a
book, and strove to occupy himself, but his
thoughts reverted always to the play, and
his imagination became more and more in
flamed. “Seven thousand francs a day!”
thought he ; “ in less than a year, one might
amass a colossal fortune; this would be, in
deed, to have found the philosopher’s stone ;
but I am anxious to convince myself, with
my own eyes, of the efficaciousness of this
play. Nothing can be more easy : I can go
there without playing, and follow the steps
which this man pointed out. At the end of
several days, I will know all the chances, j
without having risked anything. Oh, no! j
no! I will not go. The sight of that house
makes me miserable. Since lam not willing
to play, I ought not to go. It is true, that I !
have sworn that I would never gamble more, |
but this was on account of the sorrows, the !
• 1
evils, which would result from my losses; i
but if I knew of an infallible means of al
ways winning, it would be very different. I
think that then l could be easily relieved of,
my promise. What, then, shall Ido ?”
And all of a sudden, a luminous idea
struck him. He removed his hand from his 1
face, got up precipitately, opened the door of
his cabinet, took a hat which he found upon j
a chair, without observing whether it was j
his own or not, ran through the study,
through the dining-room, overthrew two or
three chairs, repulsed Emilie, who came to
inform him that breakfast was ready, and
ran out, crying to her from the stairs: “1 j
have not the time, my dear friend; it is some
pressing business, which I had forgotten; but
I will return soon.”
y ‘
(To be continued.)
Original JJoetrg.
For fne Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES .
ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN HOLMES.
*
BY LEILA CAMERON.
Sleep on, brave heart! the trumpet’s war-like blast
No more shall rouse thee from thy quiet rest;
The battle thunders shall disturb thee not,
The strife of war no more thy peace molest!
f.| • *
Thine was a gallant heart, and Georgia’s sons
Full well its high heroic virtue know ;
And long and truly shall each patriot breast
Mouru for the hero in the grave laid low ‘l
Not on the battle field the summons came
To bid thee from the scene of strife away;
No cannons boomed, no banners waved around.
And yet the messenger brooked no delay.
’Twcre easy for a heart like thine to brave
A thousand deaths, while combat round thee
raged;
No shade of fear can blanch a hero’s cheek,
Though hand to hand in mortal strife engaged!
But ah! ’twas hard to die as thou hast died,
To part with life when all thy hopes were high —
When glory wooed thee to press on, and win
The victor's wreath, beneath a foreign sky !
E’en while thy breast with martial ardor glowed,
To conquer, or to share the soldier’s doom,
The fiat of Omnipotence went forth,
V
And fell disease prepared thee for the tomb !
Ah ! many a gallant breast was filled with woe,
And many a manly heart with anguish bled,
When pealed thy doath-knell o’er the prairio wild,
And low in dust they laid thy noble head!
What thoughts were thine, while mourning comrades
stood
Around thy couch, in far-off Monterey,
While pallid brow and waning strength foretold
The shades of Death were tdosing round thy way ?
Was not thy spirit stirred with thoughts of those
Who long and vainly would thy coming wait?
The dear ones, in thy distant Georgia home,
Thy fair young children and thy gentle mate!
Yes ! e’en In death, thy noble heart was true
To her who won thy fervent early love;
Thy last sad thoughts were hers, thy dying words
Commended her to Him, who reigns above!
Alas ! fond wife, thy cherished one has reached
That distant bourne whence trav’ler ne’er returns,
And thou, all lone and,sad, must linger here,
E’en though thy widowed heart to join him
yearns!
But not atone shall thou lament his loss;
For all who knew him loved the gallant heart,
Where every gen’rons feeling had a home,
And base dishonor never shared a part!
Sleep on, brave Holmes ! within thy quiet grave
The call to glory cannot reach thee more ;
A sorrowing country mourns her hero son,
A thousand hearts her grievous loss deplore !
Peal high the requiem for the gallant dead !
From Georgia’s hills let echo catch the sound ;
Upon thy country’s scroll thy name shall live,
And thy last resting place be hallowed ground !
ijomc (fforrcspcmience.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-FOBK LETTERS—NO. 40.
New York, Feb. 7, 1849.
My Dear Sir , —The papers of yesterday
morning brought great relief to many anxious
hearts here, with the announcement of the
safe arrival of the long expected steamer,
United States. Her protracted passage was
caused by the bad weather, from which all
vessels have, lately, more or less suffered.
The packet ship Cambridge reached the
Quarentine on Monday, after a boisterous
passage, from Cork, of some eighty or ninety
days. Among the themes of town-talk, for
the past w'eek or more, have been the non
arrival of the steamer just mentioned; the
staple subject, par excellence , of El Dorado ,
with the departure, yesterday, of the “ Cres
cent City,” with over three hundred passen
gers for Chagres; the result of a commission
lately deputed by the city authorities to Con
gress, touching the establishment of a Mint
in New York; the new and reformed Munici
pal Constitution, now in agitation: the late
action of our State Legislature in relation to
prize-fights, making them penitentiary crimes ;
suggestions about removing the post-office to
Dr. Spring’s church, opposite the Park;
whispers of the erection of anew and ele
gant edifice, for balls and concerts, on the
site of “ Old Drurythe reduction of the
present rates of postage to a uni form'charge
of two cents; the approach of St. Valentine’s
Day; the Anniversary of Washington’s birth
day, and the last French Revolution; the re
opening of the Gallery of the American Art
Union, and the ensuing exhibition of the Na
tional Academy of Design; Mrs. Osgood’s
“ Letter about the Lions;” Lowell’s “ Vision
of Sir Launfal; “Minutes of the Colonel’s
Club,” now publishing in the columns of
the “Literary World;” the grand theatrical
exhibition, to take place to-night at the Ope
ra House, in aid of the Dramatic Fund Socie
ty ; the forthcoming illustrated edition of Ir
ving’s “Knickerbocker’s New York;” the
opening exercises of the Free Academy; the
fire at the New York University; Dubufe’s
pictures of Adam and Eve, at the Academy
Rooms; the new Art-Journal, just issued by
the International Art-Union; the unusual se
verity of the season, with its attendant colds
and the increased demand for Mrs. Jervis’s
candy, etc. etc.
Let us add a word or so to some of these
allusions: Os the California fever, I may use
simply the stereotype phrase, “it remains
unabated.” Os the Mint movement, lam
glad to record that our deputation returns, in
the confident hope that Congress will take
speedy and favorable action in the matter.
of St Valentine, there is every prospect
the pleasant compliments and guises ( T
occasion will be unusually general and m “
ry, and that Cupid will have a nice til
deed. The new series of papers in the Lit’
erary World, entitled the “ Colonel’s Clnl
gives the goodliest promise, in the num>
already issued—Minutes of Meeting rvF-
The jolly old Colonel chats delightfully
his pleasant associates upon all sorts ‘
themes, as they sit in “ Perpetual Commit!
of the Whole on the State of the Work
•Large.” Their circle is one, as the Cold
.says, “the groundwork of whose union i
the combined experience, observation ?M j
opinions of its members—enlisted for the n,„
tual benefit of the whole, to be interchanged
without reserve, and received without cm
sure, so that the acquirements of each shop
be the advantage of all; a circle in w hich
Perpetual Good Humor is the President. Good
Sense the Door-keeper, and Pleasant Recol
lection the Secretary— c in which satire is ad
mitted without calumny, criticism without
insincerity, wifwithout buffoonery, politic,
without partizanship, opinion without dog.
matism, religion without cant.” At the pro
sent meeting, Mr. Attic is quite facetious
but the best thing which he does is a most
capital poem, entitled the “ Carnival in Eu
rope.” Scissorize it for your readers. Mr
Duyckinck will excuse you. These papers
vividly recall to one’s memory the delightful
“ Noctes” of Christopher North, and specu
lation is rife in our Literary circles as to the
identity of the “Chiel thus taking notes.”
Os Irving’s Knickerbocker, Barley, the
“ illustrious illustrator,” as Mrs. Osgood
calls him in her “Lions,” is now up to his
elbows in the designs. The title-page is al
ready completed, and gives the happiest ear
nest of the complete success of the series.
It very felicitously embodies the dream of
Hoff, as he sleeps, like the fat old Dutchman,
which he is, on a bed formed of the shells of
the oysters he has just stored in his inner
man, the pipe between his lips still sending
forth volumes of smoke, as by a sort of per
petual motion : Santa Claus, in the shape of
a dwarfish octogenarian, sits musing by his
side, and the other personages and objects of
his sleeping fancies are dimly shadowed forth
on the earth and in the air around.
The fire at the University was discovered
in the lovvei chapel, between 8 and 9 o’clock,
on Sunday morning, having caught from the
falling of cinders upon the floor. The gal
lant exertions of the fire department happily
confined the damage to the room in which
the flames broke out, but not until every
apartment in the vast edifice had been thrown
into great alarm and confusion. The valua
ble Library of the State Historical Society is
kept in the south end of the building, and
was, at one moment, thought to be in such
extreme peril, that the books were hurried
away, pell mell, by doors and windows. It
was quite amusing, soon after, to watch the
procession of librarians and members, restor
ing the ejected volumes to their places; each
one loaded down with heavy and musty
tomes, which thus received an airing lor the
first time in many long years. The opposite
end of the edifice is a noted den for artists,
and most of the rooms there are occupied by
them as studios; Like the long-unnoticed
folios of the Historical Society, old canvass
es, here, stalked forth, like ghosts irom then
neglected abodes, to see what all this unusu
al rumpus was about. The knights of tin
pencil themselves, on hearing the alaim,
opened their doors only to be suffocated by
the dense volumes of smoke, which Idled al
the passages and corridors of the building
As they were unable to see their hands In
fore them, in the density and blackness e
the fumes, it seemed a hopeless case to .n
tempt an escape in the usual way, evell
the passages below should not be, as tbe>
supposed they were, already destroyed or' ll
veloped in flames. In the dilemma, recour t