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SOUT HE R N LITER AR Y GAZE TT E A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART. i> ;i. C, RICHARDS, Editor. Original j'Jactvii. For the Southern Liierary Gazette. ■ MAUCII SONNETS. Y WM . C . RI C lIAIIDS. I. }1 ill to thee, March ! though with small grace thou • contest, K ude blu. tcrer ! • Not a whit of care thou hast, Whose cheek thou kisscst with thy saucy blast, While with sr/ag froid where’er thou wilt thou hummest, * Stemming the school-boy with half-truant cloak, Who vainly struggles to pursue his track, And fain, at length, to turn on thee his back, Takes grateful shelter le ward of an oak ; Or sweeping th’ old forest-aisles, till the sky Is choked with leaves, for dust, which whirl and fly, Like swallows on a summer eve. And ah ! If oanst but find a poet’s door ajar— Whew ! how thou rustiest in with knowing wink, And scattercst his papers, pens and ink. 11. Nor these are all thy pranks. Full well thou knowest, Bold elf, the line where thrifty housewife hangs Her snow-white linen, fast with wooden fangs, A ml thither straightway with a shout thou goest, Filling with empty wind'the shirt or gown, An l swelling out the sheet like flying sail — And if perchance a single peg cloth fail, Thou clappest hands to see it draggling down. Out comes the housewife to repair her loss', Fuming with rage ; but thou a copper’s toss Host eare not, and the scolding dame’s lip kissest, in which thing, saucy March, I think thou missest It; but when next a fretty lass thou greetest, 1 make r.o uoubt thou think’st her lips the sweetest. wmlll hmm■! n ■ i in w r maitwz-ztb:* vji’* -. * ux* Popular ®aUs. For the Southern Literary Gazette. - h A ROULETTE. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. CHAPTER VI. When ten o'clock in the evening arrived, without her husband, Emilic became very un easy; Julian always returned at nine, and she knew not to what to attribute his pro longed absence. The fears of a young wife, who adores her husband, are easily excited. Eleven sounded, and Julian had not appear ed. She sent for M. Menard and her mother : they hastened to console her, although they shared equally her inquietude. Half the night passed, and Julian returned not. “My God! what can have happened cried Emilie, weeping. She ran to the window and returned, ut tering the most distressing cries. M. Menard himself did not know what to think of his son’s absence; the saddest presentiments fill ed his mind. The idea occurred to him, to open his son's cabinet, which, to his aston ishment, he found locked; the door yielded to his efforts, opened, and presented to his view the fatal roulette. “Oh, heavens!” cried he, “the unfortunate boy has been gambling, and has killed him self.” Emilie, terrified at his words, sprang to wards her father, and fell at his feet without consciousness. From this moment, the house was filled with the cries and lamentations of these unfortunates; every moment threatened to destroy the life of Emilie. The night was one of anguish and sorrow. At six o'clock in the morning, a carriage drove slowly into the Rue de l’Universite, and stopped before the house of Julian. A man, decently clothed, who was following on foot, ascended the stairs, and finding the door open, he walked up to M. Menard, who was supporting the head of his daughter-in-law, her frequent fainting fits having become ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAV, MARCH 10, 1849. alarming. With a sad air, he asked him if he was not the father of M. Menard, the ad vocate. “Yes, sir. Heavens! what do you come to tell me ?” “ Your son—sir 11 “ I undeistand you ; my son is dead!” At these words, Emilie opened her wild eyes: “Your son! my husband! where is he Without waiting for an answer, she ran down the stairs, opened the door—some drops of blood covered a body; the unfortu nate fell backwards, and her head struck heavily on the pavement. Three weeks after, in a chamber plainly but modestly furnished, a young wife was leaning on the holster of a bed, on which was lying a sick man, whose head was so envel oped in bandages, that it was impossible to see any of his features. The head of the young wife was also surrounded with a bandage; her face was pale and thin; she held upon her knees a young infant, which she was nursing; her eyes were moistened with tears. She looked with an air of un quiet tenderness, first upon the child, and then upon the sick man. In the embrasure of a window sat an aged female in an old rocking chair. Her head was bent upon her bosom : the large drops of tears silently roll ed down her hollow cheeks, and fell upon her withered hands. Near a table sat an old man, whose sorrow appeared still violent; his eyes wandered in the chamber, and seem ed to fear resting upon the least object. All his attitudes indicated a man whose soul was given up to the most violent emotions. Some one struck lightly at the door of this place of sorrow, and the three suffering persons arose simultaneously to open it. A man clothed in black entered, and softly approached the bed of the sick man. The three others re mained behind, and were so attentive to his least movements, that they seemed to avoid breathing. The surgeon raised with precau tion the head of the sick man—examined and dressed his wound with the tenderest care. This operation being finished, he turned to wards the three persons, whose looks seemed to interrogate him. “The wound is doing well,” said he to them; “his state is satisfactory.” “For mercy's sake,” said the young wife, clasping her hands, “is there any more dan ger for his life “ His wound is not mortal; the ball was directed by a trembling hand, and traversed the cheek without injuring any vital organ.” ‘* He will live then, you assure me?” “ 1 would assure you, if he had but this wound; but his mind is so affected! The sorrow which gnaws him is his most danger ous enemy. You must inspire hope in his wounded soul.” And the physician retired, after having re plied to all the questions which the tender ness of the young wife could suggest, and having given her all the directions which he thought necessary to recall the sick man to life. Emilie, taking her infant in her arms, approached the bed on tiptoe; she kissed the head of the sick man. and in a feeble and op pressed voice, said : “Julian! Julian! look at me, my friend; do not turn away your head ;it is me—it is your Emilie. You weep; oh! so much the better; that will comfort you. See, my tears flow also, but they are tears of joy. The surgeon has assured us that your wound is not dangerous. Julian, do not regret it ; you know how much wc all love you; your fa ther and my mother would die of sorrow if you were to succumb to yours, and I would not survive them. Julian, my friend, think on your chil l.'” At this moment, someone struck loudly at’ the door. M. Menard, as if awakened out of j a painful dream, rose ailrightedly, and went j to open it. “ Does not M. Menard, the advocate, live here ?” demanded the person who had knock ed so violently. “Yes, sir; hut it is impossible to speak to him ; he is on the bed of death.” “ Ah! lie 1 ives here, does lie ; so much the better —for four hours I have been hunting him. I went first to the Rue de l’Universite; this was the street they said he lived in; 1 knocked and rang at all the houses, hut no person knew M. Menard. I was returning, having given up all hope of finding his house, when an old woman, to whom I had first ad dressed myself, ran after me, bawling at the top of her voice : ‘Monsieur! Monsieur! the young man whom you are enquiring for, is it not the one who blew out his brains about a month since V ‘ I know nothing about it,’ replied I, ‘for 1 do not know him; but, how ever, it would be very unfortunate for him ! for they would not be able to tell him, then : hut sometimes, good fortune happens after death.’ Then she told me that the young man was now living in the Rue St. Severin. No. 15. Not understanding how a young man who had blown out his brains could live anywhere else but in the Ceme'ery, I thought that the old fool was raving; but let me come to the fact. Since M. Menard lives here, and consequently, has not blown out his brains, can I have the honor of speaking to him I” “ I believe that I have already informed you, that it is impossible; but I am his father, and if ■” “Ah! Monsieur is the father of M. Me nard, the advocate ; then, sir, permit me to present to you my very humble respects.” “ Will you enter, sir, and take a seat, and inform me of the motive of your visit V’ “ Willingly.” The unknown entered, and took a seat which M. Menard offered him, and con tinued : “ Since Monsieur is the father of M. Me nard, the advocate, he knows, without doubt, AI. Gerard, one of the richest capitalists of Paris I” AT. Menard reflected a few moments, and then replied : “ No, sir, I do not know him ; I have some recollection of a man named Gerard, accused, i some time since, of a capital crime, whom i my son defended ; but this man was poor —it j cannot be he.” ••It is the same, sir. This man had but ! one relation, whose fate he was ignorant of; this relation had gone to exercise his indus try in the United States : he there amassed a j colossal fortune; lie die!, and Gerard, poor as Job, became rich as Croesus. But he did ! not long enjoy his fortune, for he died three i days afterwards.” “And his fortune goes, I suppose, to the State and” “ No, it belongs to your son.” “Explain yourself!” “My explanation will not le long. Two j days before his death, M. Gerard sent for M. | Blonde], notary, my patron, to whom I have the honor of being principal clerk, and, plac ing a paper in his hand, said to him : • This ! is my will: I confide it to you' —and in this j will was written simply these words: ‘Not i leaving any relation after my death, I insti tute my sole legatee*M. Menard, advocate. Rue de l'Universite, No. 9. I make a dona -1 lion to him of all my goods, without any ex ception or reserve ; and this, as a witness of my gratitude.’ He place ! a letter afterwards VOLUME I. —NUMBER 13. in his hand to his address, praying him to send it when lie no,longer existed. This is the letter; as you are his father, I do not sec any reason to prevent your reading it.” M. Menard took the letter; Emilie and Madame Bcllemont having approached him. lie read, in a trembling voicp-: “ Sir—l am nfcar the tomb : when you read this letter, the hand which traced its charac ters will be cold in death. I die before inv time, exhausted by suffering, my soul afflicted by the painful emotions which have agitated it during the course of my sad life; and to increase my regret for this life of sorrow, fortune presents to mv pale lips, upon the bed of death, the enchanted cup of her fa vors. The only relation l had, left me, at his death, a considerable fortune. I die also, and I give it to you —for who is more worthy of it than you! The injustice of other men has condemned me to a premature death, and you, my liberator, you drew me from the scaffold, which would have been stained with my blood. Oh ! I conjure you, if an unfor tunate man, unjustly accused, presents him self to you, do not refuse to assist him with your eloquence; if he is poor, open to him your purse ; if he has a family, protect and defend them against the iniquity of men. — You will possess immense riches—let a part of it be destined to assist the unfortunate. — Behold my last prayer. My strength is van ishingr -my life ending. Adieu.” Who can express the surprise, the joy with which the father of Julian, his wife, and mother-in-law, were seized ? “Oh! Julian.” cried Emilie, running to the bed of the dying man, and fainting by his side; but a fainting fit. caused by excess of joy, is not of long duration. She re-opened her eyes, and turned them, full of joy, upon her husband. “Julian,*’ said she, “return to life, return to health; now you are immensely rich. Ju lian, dry- your tears, which make me misera ble ; you will now be able to satisfy the de sires of your soul, to be humane, to be gen erous; now you will he happy, since your happiness is to see me in the bosom of riches; and these riches, Julian, will he so much the more agreeable to me, since they arc the re compense of your noble actions. Oh! Ju lian, do not die; it is the truth, I swear it to you, you have an immense fortune.” The young advocate, at the words, * riches,’ ‘fortune,’ as if he had awoke out of a pro found lethargy, made H violent effort to raise his head ; a brilliant light shone in his eyes, J which soon closed, and a deep sigh escaped l from his bosom. I “ Julian, you do not believe me; you think ! that it is a subterfuge which I make to de ceive you, to prevent your suffering more: ! but no, it is the truth. Oh, rny God! how shall l make him belicwe it. Come, for mer cy sake, my mother! my father! and you, Monsieur, the notary', come, I conjure you. He does not believe me ; his head has fallen, and his eyes are closed. Oh, heaven f what a bitter smile upon his lips! Como, he will at least believe you. Have pity upon me, for mercy’s sake.” They all approached the bed. “My son, my friend,” sai l his father to him, “ Emilic has told you theVuth ; do not be any more disconsolate. Do you recollect Gerard, whom your eloquence saved frorjk the scaffold 1 He i.s dead, and has left vow i the immense riches which he inherited from the only relation he had left. Listen to the letter which he wrote to you in dying.” M. Menard re-commenced reading the let t ter of Gerard, and while he was reading, Ju- I Tian seemed to support himself with more