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*ijc her without groaning.”
‘‘You lost her very young,” said the sol
dier.
“Feeble and delicate,” aided the leper
“she could no longer resist so many evils
united; for some time. I had perceived that
her death was inevitable, and such was her
sad lot, that I was forced to desire it. In see
ing her languish and decay each day, 1 ob
served with a fatal joy the approach of the
end of her sufferings. Already, for a month,
her feebleness had increased; frequent faint
jngs menaced her life from hour to hour
One evening, (it was towards the beginning of
August,) I saw her so exhausted, that I would
not quit her. She was in her arm-chair, not
having been able for some days forest in bed.
I seated myself by her, and in the darkness
the most profoun 1, we held together our last
conversation. My tearscould not be restrain
ed; a cruel presentiment agitated me.”
“Why do you weep?” sad she to me;
why afflict yourself thus ? I will not quit
Ihee in dying; l will be present in thy
agony”
“Some instants after, she testifie 1 her desire
to be carried our of the tower to hert tucket oi
hazel-nuts, in order to pray. It wa- there she
passed the greatest part of the *ne weather.*’
“I wish” sail she, “to die looking towards
Heaven.”
“Yet, I did not think her hour so near. I
took her in my arms to carry her in. ’
“Support me only,” sa-1 *he, “I shall, per
haps, have still strength to walk.’
“I conducted her slowly to the thicket, and
there forme 1 a cushion of the dry leaves she
had herself gath ne 1; aid having covered her
with a veil to protect her from the nighl-air,
l place i myself near her; but she lesired to
be alone in her last me litations. I removed
myself without loosing sight of her. I saw
her veil raised‘from time to time, an 1 her
white hands directed to heaven. As I came
again near the thicket, she asked me tor wa
ter: I brought some in her cup —she steeped
her lips in it, but could not i rink.”
“I feel my en 1 near,” ai 1 she, li my thirst
will soon be quenche 1 forever. Sustain me 5
my brother—aid thy sister to leap th:s pas
sage, desire 1, hut terrible. Sustain me, recite
the prayer for the dying.”
These were the last words she al lressedto
me. I supported her head against my breast;
I recited the prayer for the dying. “ Pass to
eternity,” said 1, “my dear sister —be deliv
ered from life; leave these remains in my
arms.” During three hours, I sustained her
in the last struggle of nature. At last, she
gently ceased to breathe, and her soul de
tached itself from earth without an effort.'’
The leper, at the end of this recital, cov
ered his face with his hands The soldier
was too much affected to speak. Alter a mo
ment’s silence, the leper rose.
“Stranger,” said he, “ when grief or dis-
Ciouragement come near you , think of the soli
tary of the city of Aoste; you will not have
made him a useless visit.”
They walked together towards the door of
the gar-den. As the moment of going out, the
soldier put his glove on his right hand. “ You
have never,” said he to the Leper, “ pressed
the hand of any one; grant me the favor to
press mine; it is that of a friend who inter
ests himself deeply in your lot.”
The leper recoiled some steps with a sort
of fright, and raising Ills hands and eyes to
heaven, “God of goodness,” exclaimed he,
* heap with thy blessings this compassionate
man !”
“ Grant me, then, another favor,” reskmed
the traveler. “I am going away; vve shall
wot see each other for a long time, perlffips #
Gould we not, with proper precautions, write
to each other sometimes ? Such a commu
nion would amuse you, and he a great plea
sure to me,” The leper reflected some time.
“ Why,” said he at last, “ should I seek to
delude myself ? I ought to have no other so
ciety than myself, no other friend than God.
8© ® Tf [SHE M UaIUTMAIEY ®AS ST ‘ff
In Him we shall see each other. Farewell,
generous stranger, be happy—farewell for
ever !
The traveler turned away. The leper shut j
the door of his garden, and drew the bolts.
•1 ■ >
For the Southern Literary Gaeette.
THE CONTRAST,
OR
The Man of Gold and the Golden Mind.
The University of G was in commo
tion. An excitement pervaded the little Town,
adorned with this Institution of learning.—
How, indeed, could it be otherwise? There
were congregated ihe beauty, the wit, and the
wealth of many counties. There had a class
of youths commenced their College course,
and for four years formed, each one, a link of
a chain that was now to be snapped asunder.
Professors, feeling for their young scholastic
friends an interest, now ripened into friend
ship, were about to bid them success and fare
well. Perhaps, too, some ties of a much soft
er nature would-now, by a sad separation,
droop and finally perish. The young gentle
men themselves were to take the helms of their
own ships, and steer their course amid rocks
and waves, through tempests and squalls—all
aiming for their different ports; some, alasi
to perish on the breakers, just as they had set
out upon the ocean of life —others to be en
gulphed in its midway current —and others,
again, to strike upon its quick-sands, in sight
of land.
Among the students about to start out into
the world, were Richard Rowan and John
Binton; the former from the mountainous>
and the latter from the sea-board region of an
Atlantic State. They entered College at the
same time, joined the same class, and from
accident, and not through choice, were thrown
into the same room. From such proximity
naturally arose intimate acquaintance, and in
a very short time they were consi dered, if not
inseparable, at least sociable friends. But,
whatever opinions their fellow-students form
ed about them, one thing was certain, that,
although Richard Rowan and John Binton
were apparently spirits of a kindred nature
they had actually no congeniality of feeling.
True, Rowan was proud, an 1 so was Binton ;
but the pride of the one arose from a con.
sciousness of superiority—that of the other
from his gold.
“Knowledge is power,” says a philoso”
pher. Jack Binton did not altogether com
prehend this saying, and often expressed it,
as a favorite maxim, that if knowledge was
power, so also was gold ; and he would like
to have a little of both, but especially a plen- j
ty of the latter. This was about as smart a !
thing as Jack ever said. He was what the,
world would call a handsome man, and no
one was a greater admirer of his own comeli
ness than himself. He felt positive, too, that’
being considered a rich fellow, and that his;
person was scarcely less attractive than his j
purse, he had, to use a vulgar expression
“the world in a sling.” It is no wonder, i
then, that Jack, more intent on the present
than eager from the hopes of the future, had
actually slipped through College, leaving a
much greater share of knowledge behind than ‘
what he was taking with him. Jack, in a
word, decorated his person elaborately, to the j
sad neglect of his mind; and, strange to say,
he thought very few young men in College 1
his equal in mental attainments, thus render
ing his stupidity extremely ridiculous in the
eyes of the more intelligent, and to none more 1
so than to his chum.
Richard Rowan was in every respect the
opposite of Binton. With money, barely
enough, to pay his expenses, and that the
hard earnings of an honest, though laborious j
parent, he entered College. What a noble
excitement this consciousness produced! Of
ten did he think how grateful he should be
for the pains-takiug labor of his father, who
was on the down-hill of life, and who had al
ways striven with adversity, but who, never
theless, blessed trod for his existence, and
was ever consoled, too, with a pure and gen
tle conscience. He looked, moreover, with
eager hope to his son Richard: soon, per
haps, was he to bid all earthly scenes a long
adieu, and who was to be his support, and
the prop of his family ? Fondly did he re
peat, “Richard!”
The son well comprehended the feelings of
his father, and was determined from the out
set.
“Yes,” he repeated to himself, as he was
going to pay some quarterly dues, and holding
in his hand a fifty dollar bill he had lately re
ceived from that kind parent. “Yes—this
sum has caused my good father many an hour
of toil, much self-denial, and all for me, his
unworthy son. Oh, God!” he cried, “give
me health and strength to reward that parent
for his loving kindness, so freely bestowed,
an 1 may I fulfil his hopes!”
Such were the impassioned words of this
noble-hearted youth, as with hurried step and
excited face he ushered himself into the pre
sence of the officer, Mr. Patman; who could
not help exclaiming, “Well, really. Master
Rowan, one would suppose you are making
me a visit of life and death, you seem in such
a flutter!”
“Oh, dear, no, sir,” exclaimed Rowan,
blushing, “I was only thinking about —some-
thing or other ;” thus verifying the old adage,
that “it is better to give no excuse than a bad
one.” Mr. Patman drew down his specta
cles from his expansive forehea 1, an l after
taking a scrutinizing look, very leisurely
came to a conclusion, which, although not
spoken aloud, we will speak for him.—
“Well, my boy, you’ll and-you’ll make a
figure yet —I’ll prognosticate.”
Now, whether Mr. Patman drew his con
clusion from the present conduct of the pupil,
or whether he ha 1 acquired great experience
in determining the character of youth from
their physiognomy, we leave the realer to
judge. We will only add a brief description
of our young hero, as he stood in the Treasu
rer’s room. Just emerging from boyhood in
to manhood, Richard Rowan would not at
tract (except to a close observer,) the notice
that boys generally do; and what attention
was bestowed on him, would rather impress
one with his want of polish, than with either
his comeliness of person or grace of mind.
Just passed his eighteenth year, with a slender
frame and tall, he appeared decidedly awk
ward. But his face would bear criticism.
Imagine a dark grey eye, a finely chiselel
mouth, a fine sett of teeth, (for he did not use
tobacco,) a very good nose, neither Grecian
nor Roman, and light-brown hair, rather dis
posed to cluster, and you have a very good
portrait of Richard Rowan. His dress was
exceedingly plain, but neat. He wore no or
nament, except an old plain silver watch, that
his good old father bade his unwilling son
take with him, to mark his course of time;
“for,” said the old man, “we can go by the
marks on the floor, to tell the time of day,
when you may want the watch at night.”
His shoes were ahVays brightly polished,
although —reader, be not shocked !—he clean
ed them with his own hands. His chum, on
the oiher hand w r as always richly dressed.
Fine boots, gold chains, large fmger-ringsi
and fine broad-cloths, were profusely resorted
to, to decorate his already commanding per
son.
*#■****•*
A year passed away; and still the two
chums kept the same room. Neither posi
tively objected to the other; each having his
object in view, although, as it is easy to per
ceive, there was no congeniality existing be
tween them. Rowan* position in College
was now a bright one. Binton soon discov
ered this, and had discretion enough to know
that the fact of having such a chum would
lend him much additional influence with those
around him. Here, as well as in all the other
views of this narrow-minded man, selfishness
was the main-spring of his actions. From
his heart, he hated his chum, being often
painfully impressed with the conviction that
the plain and unostentatious youth would far
eclipse the splendor of the gentleman, tb
light of aristocracy, that centered in the per
sonage of John Binton ! On the other hand,
too, Richard Rowan had his motives for al
lowing this intimacy to exist He, also, had
selfish ends to accomplish. This was a fault
of human nature, but certainly almost ex
cusable; and some would even extol it as a
virtue. The poor boy had been made to feel
his poverty —his veins swelled with indigna
tion at the treatment he sometimes met frefr*
his rich associates ; his heart beat with tin
liveliest anticipations of some day, when b
could look down upon stupidity, folly and
vanity; and there was a secret voice, inspi
ring him with confidence, to persevere, to toil,
in accumulating knowledge. “ How much
better is it to get wisdom than gold!” and
“Whoso loveth wisdom rejoicelh in his fath
er;” “A man’s wisdom maketh his face to
shine;” “Take hold of instruction, and let
her not go;” were words often sounding in
his ears, and he heeded them.
Can it be wondered at, that a sensitive
youth, who had thus been treated —who wa*
looked upon as an inferior, as of even a dif
ferent species of the human race —desired,
yea, panted, for the time when he could so&r
far above such pride ami pretensions? Hp to
this time, no rupture had occurred betwe&u
them, but this quiet state of things seemed
about to cease. One night, Jack Binton came
sauntering into his room, where he found
Rowan reading a letter lie hat just received.
“I say, Dick, who the d—l writes to you,
for you seem to be reading that letter with
quite a relish ?”
The truth is, Binton was a little fuddled,
having.just taken sundry fashionable drink*
in the space of one hour, and only then corn*
in from the grog-shop. Rowan immediately
discovered this, and good-humoredly replied :
“Why, Jack, is it not possible for ine, and
other poor fellows, to have friends as well a*
such high bloods as yourself? \ou knoto
we have eyes, hands and feet, like other peo
ple; and if you tickle us, do we not laugh ?
if you prick us. do we not bleed? and poison
us, do we not die? Why, then, should yow
he so amazed, Jack, that should get a letter,
as well as your honorable self ?”
“But I say, Dick, where did you get that
piece of prose —I mean poetry —from, about
tickling, &c.? It is very pootyP’ (meaning
pretty.)
“Why, most worthy chum, it is neither
prose nor poetry,” replied his room-mate.
“Now, you think yourself and and smart,
Dick, don’t you? You think I must be a
jack-ass, sure enough; but I’ll have you to
know I am only the Jack, and not the ass!”
And he laughed such a horse-laugh as to
leave no doubt on his companion s mind otf
his consanguinity to that animal. When he
could bring in his sides, (for Jack prided him
self on his wit, and thought he had made an
excellent hit,) Binton again commenced :
“ But Dick —I say, Dick—if it ain’t prose
nor poetry, what the dickens is it ? I demand
an answer!” For Jack now thought he had
cornered his chum, and could show his supe
riority of intellect, which was his most in
tense desire.
“Why, my learned chum, I suppose it is
blank verse.”
This answer of Dick's sjemed to strike
Binton all aback. He began to be afraid he
was whipped again in the disputation, as he
was always; when, affecting a little gravity,
and then resuming his vivacity, he replied;
“Well, I’ll think of it, and refer to the sen
tence in the Spectator, to-morrow; for that
the hook you got it out of, isn't it, Dick ?”
“Look*, and you will see,” was all the a
swer he got; for, by this time his chum had
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