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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
WM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
(Original Poctrn.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE TELEGRAPH,
by WILLIAM C. RICHARDS.
.Mark yc those graceful curves that seem
Like lines of beauty on the sky 1
Upon that mystic path canst deem —
That busy thoughts each moment fly 1
“Tis even so ; for man doth tame
“The forked lightnings by his skill;
And proudly bids their tongues of flame,
Be vocal with his thoughts at will.
A thousand miles that line may reach
Yet Thought, in scarce a moment’s space,
Mocking the tardiness of speech,
Has run the far, mysterious race;
And deeds to distant lands are told,
Ere yet the echo of their fame
Athwart their place of birth has rolled,
Or they have e’en received a name !
Behold, upon that rushing train,
A murderer flies the place of guilt;
And vainly hopes to hide the stain
Os human blood his hands have spilt.
For through the air the tidings speed,
And Justice warned, as if from God,
Stands ready to avenge the deed,
And smites her victim with her rod.
From the cold regions of the north,
To lands that smile ’neath Southern skies ;
The winged messages go forth;
And men beheld, with deep surprise,
The swift pulsations of the wires,
That to the tutored vision show —
As moved by the electric fires —
Tidings, perchance, of weal or wo.
O ! wondrous age, when man may greet
His brother, whom he cannot see ;
And distant lands together meet,
In converse unrestrained and free;
When crime can find no refuge-spot,
Where its dark tale hath not been told ;
When time and space are both forgot,
Or numbered with the things of old !
And e’er a century shall roll
Its burden on the mighty past,
Around the globe, from pole to pole,
Science her magic chains shall cast;
Then “ thought’s highway,” from sea to sea,
And o’er their trackless wastes shall reach,
Till all the human race shall be,
One in a universal speech !
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
APOSTROPHE TO HOPE.
Child of the skies! in sorrow’s hour,
When anguish pillows misery’s head,
Do thou be nigh with healing power,
Scatter thy promise round his bed ;
And when the sullen, wan despair,
Would fling his venom’d upas there —
Arrest the poison of his breath,
And sooth, with promise sweet, the parting pang
of death.
First horn of love! amid the gloom,
That ever clogs the soul of crime,
Oh ! let thy smile of hope illume,
The hapless heart that speeds from time !
Let the sweet solace of thy glow,
Light up the weary days of wo,
Till starting from his soulless dream,
He lives again for love beneath thy blessed
gleam.
Quick, at thy touch, the fiend despair,
With hurrying feet and scowling brow,
Flies from his evil-breathing lair,
And yields the field to rapture now ;
Freed with his flight, lo ! mercy flies,
The child of love, from blessed skies,
And o’er the hurt and hapless soul,
Fheds the sweet, balmy drop, once more, that
makes it whole.
And sorrow comes with visage gray,
His matted weeds about him spread ;
1 le starts astonied from the day,
That sudden kindles o’er his head ;
So long the time, since friendly hand,
Hath soothed his wan and furrowed brow,
l ie fears the fiend with visage bland,
Spreads some deceit to snare his trusting spir
it now.
2tn illustrator llUekljj Journal of BelUs-Ccttrco, Science attir tl)c 2lrts.
And lo! the troubled sleep of care,
Upon her couch of nettles lain ;
While dreams, the woven of despair,
Still make him writhe with nameless pain ;
To him, as sun o’er frozen lakes,
Thy smile with life and warming breaks;
The fiends before thy coming, cease,
And leave the contrite heart once more to thee
and peace! JUVENIS.
Charleston, S. C.
©rtginal Sales.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE CONTRAST,
OR
The Man of Gold and the Golden Mind.
(Continued from our last.)
PART 11.
Another year had passed away, and, strange
to say, we have just arrived at the place
where we began our narrative. We left the
little town of in a state of unusual
bustle. The College-bell was assembling ma
ny, some of whom were hearing its accus
tomed peals for the last time. Groups of
young ladies, with attendants of the mascu
line sex, might be seen winding their way
from various parts of the town in obedience
to its clear summons. A keen observer could
detect in the moving throng anxiety depicted
in the countenances of the young and old; of
the old, for there was the plain farmer, with
his broad-brimmed hat and sun-burnt visage,
dressed in his neat and simple suit, going to
hear an oration from his favorite boy—to him
a matter of intense interest; of the young, for
there, too, was a kind and loving sister, cher
ishing fond hopes of her brother, who was
that day to appear in his academic honors;
and may we add, (with her permission,) love
ly woman! with a palpitating heart, as she
approached the stage upon which would soon
appear he who was more to her than tongue
can tell, whose timid, but manly voice, would
find an echo in her beating bosom!
Neither among the first or the last of that
moving throng was a plain-looking old man,
with rough hands and a sun-burnt face. He
was accompanied by a manly-looking youth,
dressed in a neat new suit of black. Richard
Rowan was conducting his good old father to
the Chapel, where he had a conspicuous part
to act. Old Mr. Rowan desired, somewhat to
the regret of his son Richard, to be present at
his first effort before the public; and what
could poor Rowan do, when such was the de
sire of his excellent parent I Submit, cer
tainly ; and only with a more determined ef
fort to make a name on that day. The first
honor of his class had been awarded him, and
this was already a victory ; but scarcely had
one been won, before another presented itself
to be achieved —so that all was far from be
ing safe yet. Rowan well knew that a fail
ure before that large audience would seriously
injure him. The old man’s heart, on the con
trary, was already full; and he heard such
good accounts of his son, that his heart was
swelling with gratitude, and he was heard
several times, that day, to bless God, in an
under-tone, for mercy and loving kindness. —
The father had looked forward with solici
tude to this day, and it had now arrived to
crown the fond hope of his heart, that his son
might be a light and a prop to the family!
His son, too, was likewise happy in being
able thus to conduce to the joy of the old
man; and, with elastic step and form erect,
he entered the spacious hut crowded hall.
What a sight! Only behold such an ar
ray of beauty ! How many lovely girls, with
characters as spotless as their white robes,
and hearts as soft as their eyes, and complex
ions vieing with the lily, have here assem-
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1848.
bled to encourage, with their elating presence,
the efforts of the young! They, too, would
not only adorn the occasion with their pre
sence, but someone (who knows!) might
bless an aspiring youth with something, that
man is proud to call his own —a woman’s
heart. But hush! the music has just ceased,
and upon the carpeted platform nervously
steps the first speaker. His voice is weak,
but gradually strengthens. The plaudits of
the house sufficiently attest that he has made
an impression. The music strikes up again,
and again is heard the universal hum. Some
half dozen speakers have made very credita
ble orations—when, now comes the last, tho’
not least. In the meantime, where is our
friend, Jack Binton! Ilis speech has not
been made, and we are sorry to say, would
not be on that day. His tongue was r.ot idle,
it is true. Honied compliments and “ soft
talk” was he dealing out lavishly to some
very sweet and very pretty looking girls, who
(if the truth must be told) were much more
charmed by Jack’s manly looking appearance,
decorated in rich satin and broad-cloth, and
gorgeously illustrated with heavy gold chains,
and sparkling finger-rings, than his compli
ments ; and which one of them could not help
whispering into the ear of the other, were ex
ceedingly stupid.
But once again, hush ! hush ! Here comes
the hero of the day, the man who took first
honor, our friend, Richard Rowan ! In an in
stant, all eyes were fixed upon the pale-faced
youth. His heart beat quick, and his knees
shook violently. Just as Rowan had grace
fully bowed, and was in the act of uttering
bis first word, an agitated and somewhat sup
pressed voice, but still loud enough to attract
considerable attention, was heard to say,
That is my chum, Miss Emily!” The wise
immediately looked around, and could not
suppress a smile near akin to pity. But
some, and many, too, felt too much sympathy
for the orator, even to turn a look from him,
who seemed as if he would have fainted, so
weak and tremulous was his voice, and so
violently did he shake with emotion.
In this critical state, all were ready to give
a cheer but one —and that one was John Bin
ton. He wished, from the very depth of his
heart, that Rowan would sink, to rise no
more. But the speaker’s embarrassment was
only momentary. With one effort, he rallied
all his strength —his eye became brighter —his
strength returned, and his marble cheeks be
gun to assume the tinge of excitement. For
twenty minutes, he breathed forth fervid elo
quence. Professors, students and visitors, all
became transfixed to their seats. No sound
was heard, except a hacking cough from
Jack Binton, whose feelings were powerfully
wrought upon, not for good, but evil. No
motion w r as made save one, very common —
that of raising the white handkerchief to wipe
away the falling tear.
When Rowan had finished his eloquent
farewell, thick was the pressure of friends,
(for now, who were not his friends !) to take
him by the hand, and warmly and heartily
congratulate him upon that noble —that man
ly effort. He, however, evaded as much as
possible these demonstrations of public appro
bation, and sought egress through a back
door, where another exciting scene awaited
him. His father ran up and embraced him,
throwing his sturdy old arms around him, and
at the same time exclaiming, “I thank God,
my son, that he has spared my life to see this
day.” The old man could say no more, hut
sobbed heartily. The son’s heart was much
too full, and he wished himself away from
that public place, although the audience were
still assembled in the Hall.
VOLUME L—NUMBER 16
Poor John Binton! He never dreamt that
his rival would have this day shone so illus
triously; indeed, he did not think there was
that man living, who could bring tears in such
profusion from the eyes of his audience. He
drove away his chagrin as much as possible,
and thus addressed the lady by his side :
“Well, Miss Emily, what do you think of
my chum’s speech'?”
“Why, Mr. Binton,” replied Miss Emily,
“you are really fortunate in having such a
chum, and his effort of to-day is the best I
have heard here, or any where else.”
“Why, yes; but—but I think his powers
very much overrated. We have heard just
as good speeches to-day; but every body
seems to take up for Dick Rowan, because, I
suppose, he is poor, and deserves credit cer
tainly, but not to have it all to himself.”
“Well, Mr. Binton,” retorted his compan
ion, “I really believe you are jealous of your
chum, or you would not talk so.”
“Jealous of him!” exclaimed Jack. “Why,
I could buy and sell him fifty limes! and, as
to his speech-making, he is quite welcome to
that.”
This stupidity, and boasting of one's gold,
only aroused Miss Emily Bynum’s indigna
tion, who, although a worldly, fashionable
woman, was, nevertheless, quick and ready to
distinguish and reward rising merit, and who,
in this instance, let policy slip to the winds,
to give vent to her indignation.
“ Mr. Binton! I really thought you a gen
tleman of more sense,, than to utter the senti
ments you have. They are unbecoming the
utterance of any pure-hearted man.”
This was a terrible finale to Jack, who, dis
appointed in every point, hurried from a scene
so sore to his feelings; and, joining a com
panion or two, he sought relief in the bowl,
which served for the moment to soothe his ir
ritated bosom.
The Commencement, the parties, the adieus
all soon passed away; and again the town
was buried in silence. Rowan returned to
the fire-side of his birth-place, where no pol
ished marble ornamented the family circle,
but where a bright and cheering fire reflected
the peace of mind, the cheerful temper, and
social qualities, ihat belonged to those who,
after the toils of the day, assembled around
that “big fire-place.” We could dwell a
long time there, and listen to the tales Rowan
would relate to his delighted little sisters. We
could linger, admiring the soft and blushing
beauty of Kate Rowan, just now ripened into
womanhood. We could still live longer with
thee, good old father Rowan; for the furrows
in thy cheek are no deeper, or those above
thy brow not quite so much contracted. But
peace be to thee and thine. We must “tell
our tale.”
Richard Rowan and John Binton were now
no longer upon the little stage of the College
Chapel. The scenes had all become shifted,
and they were actors, indeed, upon the real
stage of life. They could, perhaps, have es
pied from the College-window the winding
road of life, leading o’er hill and dale —now
brilliant, from golden rays of the sun—now
gloomy, from dark and lowering clouds. —
They could trace out its serpentine course for
a short space, hut soon it was lost in the dis
tance : nor were its views to be disclosed to
them, until they had become travelers upon
this hard-beaten track. Several years had
passed since our young men had become trav
elers on this road, and were no longer com
panions ; for separation had taken place as
soon as they commenced this journey. Jack
Binton made but sorry progress. There were,
alas! too many temptations along the way