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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