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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