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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 115