Newspaper Page Text
116
enough of this half-drunken stupidity, and
was anxious to devote another hour to study,
although now eleven o’clock. But his insipid
companion was sufficiently intoxicated to ex
pose his own weakness, and lose what little
discretion he had in his more sober moments,
and began to gratify his revenge by teazing
his companion.
“Now Dick! it is no use for you to open
your books, I won't let you study. V’ou
don’t talk to me enough, any how, and your
head won’t hold much more; you will get
boo smart —you’re getting a name for a schol
ar already, and it is no use to have a chum,
if he is always studying ! Why man ! lam
begining to get jealous of you !”
They say “when the wine’s in, the wit’s
out” —and our weak friend Jack, was con
fessing a great deal more, than he intended,
or even was aware of.
But his remarks attracted the attention of
Rowan, who was looking serious, and seemed
to be feeling more than he ever did, for his
companion. Indeed, he was resolving, upon
a noble action—that of reforming his class
mate, and he commenced by saying warmly
and frankly —
“ Binton I plainly see, you desire to be
thought a scholar, and an intelligent man; but
allow me to tell you, in truth and candor,
your course for the last two years has been
one, that will greatly retard your taking a
high stand in your class now. You know
full well, that you have just passed your ex
amination, and that only through the partial
ity of some of the faculty, with a promise on
your part, to apply the now remaining year,
to close application. Let me, my friend, per
aiuade you, to tear yourself away from the
<mpany of those dissipated, ami frolicksome
young men, who care nothing for the future,
and betake yourself to application and study.
It will be hard at iirst, but you have youth,
mind, family and fortune—these are rare ad
vantages, and you may soon regain, all that
is lost, and become what 1 know you desire
to be, an ornament to society.”
Jack bore this badly enough, as was per
ceived by his companion, who curtailed his
?uivice ; but at the mention of family and for
iuney that gentleman’s pride could not brook
the thought of receiving advice from one he
always considered his inferior, and he there
fore replied,
“Wait until your advice is asked for! I
reckon I can take care of myself, and get a
iong without such a sermon, from such a
mucker, who wears a wool hat, and home
spun pantaloons !”
Richard Rowan’s cheek, grew crimson with
•indignation, and his hand was clenched, on
■she eve of striking his rude and thankless
companion. An instant's reflection, drove a
way his anger, which was, however, succeed
ed by disgust. Darting a look at Binton, that
shot through him —he merely said, with much
sarcasm, “"tis not all gold that glitters,” and
turned on his heels, with lamp in hand, to his
dormitory.
Binton, prompted by an evil spirit, and not
satisfied with the uncourteous answer he had
alieady given, rose, and knocking at the door
of his companion, declared, he would not let
his chum sleep, but that he must come out,
aiid have some more fun. Rowan begged him
to desist, advising him that he had better re
tire, and “ sleep off his liquor.”
u Do you pretend to say lam drunk? you
are a fool, if you say so. No ! you can’t
take a joke, you want to think yourself some
thing, when you are nothing!” and here he
stopped, almost ashamed at his owm childish
ness, and apparently ruminating over the oc
currences of the evening; when suddenly, he
assumed altogether anew character, and in a
different tone, commenced his unwelcome har-
Vangue, all the time occupying the same po
sition.
“ I say Dick! about the letter ! you did’nt
tell me who it came from, at last! w r as it
foom your sweetheart ? [no answer.] Does
•u DJ"JiJ &si ill Oa J"Y iS ili ii Lli Y ID lt\ “Jy 05 IT Eli o
she wear homespun frocks, and a cracker
bonnet, and home-made shoes ? [still no an
swer.] She must be a lovely angel, ha! ha !
ha! (here a pause.) “Oh, I expect it was
from the old man! flow is the old codjer,
Dick ?” At this moment, the door flew open
and Rowan sprang upon Binton. The atta'k
came like a thunderbolt upon Jack, so sud
denly, that he fell upon the floor, with a tre
mendous crash. He struggled in vain, for
our hero was dealing upon him blow after
blow, when two or three of the college boys
who had heard the heavy fall, rushed into
the room, and separated the combatants.
In the course of the next day, Rowan re
ceived the following note.
College, June 17 —18.
“Dear Rowan. — Last nignt I was a little
“how come you so,” and I guess I was rath
er severe upon you, for I ran you so hard,
you could’nt stand it. But l don’t wish we
should be enemies, and I say, let all be for
gotten and excuse me. I feel sorry for my
conduct towards you, and I say let us be
gin friends anew, and hoping we may al
ways continue so, I remain respectfully
Your Churn
John Binton.
( Rowan's Answer.)
Mr. John Binton :
Dear Sir. —Your intoxication
may plead an excuse for your conduct last
night, and I confess, were it not that the lat
ter part of your note, indicates, a sense of re
gret at your conduct, (which the first part
does not,) my feelings would be such towards
you, that I now forbear expressing them. If
you feel inclined to pursue a ditlerent course,
my resentment shall be forgotten, and in its
place, I trust may spring, kind and friendly
feelings, uninterrupted for the future.
Yours respectfully
Richard Rowan.
There was an independence in the expres
sion of Rowan’s reply, truly offensive to John
Binton. But he had, like most other men, an
object in view. Rowan was his rival; and
to make him feel one moment his (Binton’s)
superiority to himself, was “a consummation
devoutly to be wished.” He looked forward,
with no little interest, to the time when they
should make their “debut” into life. Many
there were in College, much more agreeable
companions than his chum, but he wished not
to lose one particle of importance, that would
tend to exalt him in the public estimation:
and, certainly, having such a companion as
Richard Rowan, would speak loudly. He,
therefore, determined to do every thing to re
tain his chum, or the note alluded to would
not have been penned. As for himself, he
could do, as he had always done—use his
apartments for sleeping, and spend the greater
portion of his time in company more suited to
his taste.
[2o be continued. ]
PATCH WORK.
J&aT 1 A lady who was suffering a slight in
disposition, told her husband that it was
with the utmost difficulty she could breathe,
and the effort distressed her exceedingly. “ I
would’t try, my dear,” soothingly responded
the kind husband.
“ Bill Jones,” said a bullying urchin to
another lad, “the next time I catch you alone
I’ll flog you like anything.”
“ Well,” replied Bill, “ I ain’t often much
alone. I commonly have my legs and fists
with me.”
Parents should never punish a girl
for being a romp, but thank Heaven, who has
given her health or spirits to he one. ’Tis
better to be a romp than to have a distorted
spine or hectic cheek.
Kelly’s ghost visited hie wife.
“ Molly,,’ says he, “ I’m in purgatory at this
present, ” says lie. “ And what sort of a place
is it?’ says she. “ Faix,” says he, “it’s a
sort of half-way house between you and heav
en, ” says Joe,“and I stand it mighty aisy
after laving you,” says he.
origiual JJoctn).
Far the Southern Literary Gazette.
OH 1 PUT THEM AWAY.
BY J. A. TURNER.
Oh ! put them away from the banquet hall,
Those gifts of his, for thou may’st not gaze
Unmoved on the same, at the festival,
Where silvery lamps on thy nuptials blaze.
Oh ! put them away, for thy haughty groom •
Cannot bear to gaze on his rival’s gift,
And his angered eye would upon thy bloom
Like sun-beams fall, on a snowy drift.
Oh ! put them away in a lonely spot,
Those gifts of his, or the chandeliers,
Will shine but to dazzle their humble lot,
And bathe their beams in thy gentle tears.
Oh! put them away, or thy guests will look
Where his pencil traced his name with thine,
And will sneer with pride at the humble book,
When their costly gifts around it shine.
Oh ! put them away—his daguerreotype
Should uot be seen by the heartless crowd ;
And ’twere well for thee if their hands could wipe
His name from thy heart in sorrow’s shroud.
Oh ! put them away in the lowly cot,
Where his aged mother weeps her son ;
They will serve to adorn that humble spot,
Where he lived when he thy bosom won.
For tho Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES:
ON THE DEATH oF N ONLY CHILD.
BY STKI'HEBIA.
Farewell, my lovely Rosa,
My bright, my only one ;
To realms of heav’nly glory,
1 liy ransom’d spirit s gone
This world was all too earthly,
f or one so pure and lair;
limy angels Lore thee
lo a purer sphere.
Thine eyes of starry brightness,
Loam and, wild tiie love of Guu ;
Ana yet, with doveiiße softness,
In sweet submission bow'd.
Amidst thy deepest anguish,
lhy pain, thy stilled breath;
How uni thy spirit languish,
To contort tnose bereit.
My own dear mother held thee
In that deep hour of pain;
And I in wnd entreaty,
Implor’d thy lile in vain.
Thy little heart was broken,
To hear such accents rise,
i by last fond words were spoken,
“ Uk ! Mother cease thy cries.”
God ! pardon and iorgive me,
For grief, so deep and wild;
But i can ne’er forget thee,
My sweet, my darling child.
Thy augel guardian hover’d
Impatient, by thy side,
And bore my lovely cherub,
To heaven’s portals, wide.
For the Southern Literary Gazette,
OH! LET ME NOT NEGLECTED DIE.
BY THOMAS W. LANE.
Oh ! let me not neglected die—
Let me not pass away from earth,
As dew-drops from the llowrets fly,
Aud leave no vestige of their birth.
Let me be missed when lam gone ;
Affection shed one bitter tear,
• Upon my grave, and sometimes mourn
The fate of him who once was dear.
Let me not, like the morning rose,
That withered ere the early noon.
Be left to die at evening’s close,
With none to feel I died too soon ;
But when the shades of life’s twilight.
Are closing thickly o’er my way.
Oh! may that darksome hour grow bright,
With Friendship’s kind, benignant rav.
As when we crush somo humble flower.
Sweet odors from the fragments rise ;
When I have lived my fleeting hour.
Like incense upward to the skies—
Let the romembranco of some doed
In kindness or for virtue done,
From sinful earth, to heaven prooeed,
And thero proclaim tho entrance wmj.
Augusta, July 26th, l&lg.
(Srriectu: of ill it.
EVENING.
A TAILOR'S SOLILOQUY.
B Y OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,
Day hath put on his jacket, aud around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars,
Here will 1 lay me on the velvet giass,
That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,
And hold communion with the things about me.
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid.
That binds the skirt ol night's descending robe!
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken thread*
Do make a music like to rustling satin,
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.
Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage 1
Is is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout us with : —but yet 1 lovo thee
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Ldeu thou didst blush as bright
As these thy puny brethren ; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his guady hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water ?
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
1 well remember, in my early years,
When these young hands first closed upon a goon# ;
1 have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire’s grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,—it was an heir-loom.
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened 1 did see it on a time
When none was near, and 1 did deal with it,
And it did burn me, —oh, most fearfully !
It is a joy to straighten out one’s limbs,
And leap elastic from the level counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit, *
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind A atm e, shuttiiug in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom ; —1 can feel
W ith all around me ; —1 can hail the flowers
That sprig earth’s mantle, —and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets
Where nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and 1 must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.
LITERARY REMINISCENCES.
BY THE LATE THOMAS HOOD.
My first acquaintance with the press—a
memorable event in an author’s experience—
took place in Scotland. Amongst the tem
porary sojourners at our boarding-house, there,
came a legal antiquarian who had been sent
for from Edingburgh, expressly to make some
unprofitable researches amongst the mustiest
of the civic records. It was my humor to
think, that in Political as well as Domestic
Economy, it must he better to sweep the pres
ent than to dust the past; and certain new
brooms were recommended to the town Coun
cil in a quizzing letter, which the then editor
ol the Dundee Advertiser and Chronicle,
thought fit to favor with a prominent place in
his columns. “’Tis pleasant sure,” sings
Lord Byron, “to see one’s self in print,” and
according to the popular notion 1 ought to
have been quite up in my stirrups, if nor
standing on the saddle, at thus seeing myseltj.
for the firskptrange time, set up in type. Mem
ory re-cans, however, but a very moderate
share of exaltation, which was totally eclips
ed, moreover, by the exuberant transports ol
an accessary before the fact, whom, methink*.
I still see in my mind’s eye, rushing out o.t
the printing-office with the wet sheet streaming
in his hand, and fluttering all along the High
Street, to announce breathlessly that “we
were in. 1 But G. was an indifferent scholar,
even in English, and therefore thought the
more highly of this literary feat. It was thi*
defective education, and the want of a propet
vent for his abundant love nonsense in prose
oi verse, that probably led to the wound he
subsequently inflicted on his own throat, but
which was luckily remedied by “a stitch in
time. Ihe lailure of a tragedy is very apt
to produce something like a comedy, and
afterpieces have amused me more than th*
behaviour of this Amicus Redivivus, when,
thus dramatizing the saying “cut and come
again,” he made what ought to have been
posthumous appearance amongst his friends.
In fact, and he was ludicrously alive to it, he
had placed himself for all his supplcmentan
days in a ialse position. Like the old mak
in the table, after formally calling upon Deatk
to execute a general release, he”had quietH
resumed his fardel, which he bore about, with
exactly the uneasy ridiculous air of a would
be fine gentleman, who is sensitively consci*
oub that he is carrying a bundle. ‘ For the