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"Well then," I answered, "as this is your first offence, I will only inflict a moderate lecture upon you. Remember that he who amuses himself at the expense of others, will find few friends, for though his sarcasms may be applauded, yet himself will be shunned ;—each will dread his sting. Nor should he indulge this propensity even among his intimates, lest he sometimes inflict an unintentional yet remediless wound.

"Just so;" (exclaimed he with intolerable gravity,) "but I wished to show you what you must expect when your piece is published, especially as it will be anonymous. My remarks here (producing his paper) bear somewhat upon that subject. They were written after I left you last night, for your confounded proposal, and my silly compliance, ran in my head so, that to sleep was impossible. Accordingly up I got, lighted my candle, and here is the result. Will you hear it ?"

"Yes, presently; but faith, I'll tell the reader who I am, if I can thus avoid his lynx-eyed scrutiny."

"Well then, reader, I hear you ask, who is this Iphigenus?" "Who am I? faith who should I be?"

"Yes; but soberly, who are you?"

"Who am I?-Why I'm-but who the plague are you?" "Now Jumble, 'go ahead.""

II.

"And tire the hearer with a book of words."

A CHAPTER ON WRITERS, ET CETERA.

I have somewhere heard of an old gentleman, who published a book without a single stop in it, from beginning to end, and, at the conclusion, inserted three or four pages filled with colons, semi-colons, &c. telling his readers to "select for themselves."-I have often thought what a good thing it would be if we could make ideas negotiable in the same way, and so write a chapter and place at the end a list of ideas which would be applicable to it. What an incalculable benefit it would be to magazine writers! I have no doubt there are many students who respond to the same thought. Could they only make the reader imagine what they would say, we should often have a Percival in poetry, and an Irving in prose.

As it is, at present, what a wonderful, laughable spectacle does the literary world present. College itself with its four hundred students may be considered as a little world, and as such, comprising writers of all kinds and sorts; with this difference between them and the world at large, that they are always ardent and undespairing in their pursuits.

Out of these classes, we may select first, the dealer in sentiment, who composes a stanza to Miss Somebody, which he sends to her, written on the finest embossed paper, folded in true love style, with

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a "Cupid and dart" seal, and all that sort of things. The girls pretend to ridicule these sort of productions; but I never saw a young lady yet, who did not like to receive them, mightily. How her heart flutters, as she carefully cuts round the seal and catches a glimpse of the words, "Dear girl of my heart," "Star of my destiny,' or some such expressive appellation. The more nonsense the better, especially if she be a very fashionable Miss; for, it is a common remark at the present day, that if you talk other than nonsense to a truly fashionable lady, you insult her. It is not however, confined merely to the present day. Queen Elizabeth, with all her apparent indifference to the other sex, was fond of attentions fully as ridiculous. Well might her favorite poet exclaim,

"Oh most delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman."

So much for love sonnets.-But there are other ways of expressing sentiment. I have observed that most poets make their first assays in an address to "the evening star," or some one of the celestial bodies. This is very natural, since there is something peculiarly lofty in these aspirations. Besides, there is something so sublime, so calm, (my chum is now snoring,) so poetical in the midnight hours. This, at least, is my opinion; for I am much given to these lucubrations, at times.

Then we have a class of story tellers. These will sit down and mark off a certain number of characters, among which shall be a godlike hero, and a describable heroine. They will then work up a plan comprising a plot, and love scenes in abundance, and after carrying the hero through a variety of hair-breadth escapes, conclude with marriage, peace, plenty, happiness and so on. In all this kind of business, what a valuable article love is! How without it should we be favored with so many of those valuable two-volumed affairs yclept nov- (beg pardon!) improvers of the imagination.-If our College writers would "spur up," how would all these publications sink in public estimation. Then we should have no more of the sketches in which the preface is longer than the piece, which are headed with "backwardness to write," "first attempt," "solicitation of friends," and concluded with "better luck next time." Indeed, I have sometimes been prompted to come forward with a story ;– but-zounds! I'm greatly fond of digression. I was only going to say, Mr. Reader, that "the pressure of other duties" prevents.But to return to my subject. Last, not least, we have philosophers and metaphysicians, a grave, reflecting race of mortals. These persons are very little, if at all influenced by any of the delicate passions we have alluded to. If you expatiate upon the wonders of nature, or the beauty of the stars, before one of these, he will stop you short with the enquiry as to what causes the one, and what kind

of beings inhabit the other. From this class come most of our critics and satirical writers. Philosophy is the mother of invention, it is said; and it would not be much amiss, methinks, if we were to say that invention is sometimes the mother of philosophy, judging from the kind of philosophy made use of in some of our modern productions. Such for example, as a soliloquy upon man and his frailty, in the beginning of a fashionable novel; or such a piece of philosophy as is to be found in many of the critical reviews. The more abstruse and difficult of comprehension the better. We have not, however, very many such philosophers in College, "though I say it myself, being a member," at least not more than elsewhere. No more about philosophy, for, like a child, I have already meddled with edged tools. Talking upon critics, a word about them, and the readers of magazines in general.-There is one class of readers, who take up a magazine, glance at its contents with a sleepy indifference, and think no more of it, until asked their opinion with respect to its contents, when they give some good natured careless reply. These are the kind of readers whom all writers suit, and these are the kind which I hope will peruse my "impressions," “ideas,” “pencil sketches," "speculations," or whatever you please to call them. Another class, who sometimes make efforts themselves in the writing line, are particularly careful to find fault with all who indulge in the same kind of scribbling. This class of critics is bad enough in all conscience; but, ye powers preserve us from those who imagine that they are, and are in fact,

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There are too many such beings to be found every where.-I mean not those who devote themselves to the writing of reviews, but those who think that there is no wit or depth in a review, unless the author in their power is completely "used up." Such however are useful especially as a curb to young writers. Woe to that unfortunate man, who having been carried away by excess of sentiment or by enthusiasm, comes into their clutches!

And now, dear reader, if you ask in which class of the geniuses alluded to, I rank myself, I can only tell you to "find out," for opinions differ. Do you ask what is the drift in all this farrago of "first remarks," I have only to tell you that you do not understand writers. Here is a piece of doggerel on the subject.

Writers the same beings are all the world o'er;

No matter how bad they've succeeded,

They always conclude to try and write more,
"For such writing is very much needed."

Perhaps a new work they will send to the press,
Hurried on to an abrupt conclusion,
And then, in a preface, their fears they'll express,
"Lest on your patience it be an intrusion."

Perhaps they, at first, thought it not of the kind
To be suited exactly to you;

But to the conclusion at length brought their mind,
"For the present perchance it will do."

They promise hereafter to give something better-
Their diligence ne'er to remit,

And to make it perfection e'en to the letter,
"Should other 'vocations permit."

So newspaper editors in their first number state,
That its merits they mean to enhance-
That the matter within it shall all be first rate,
"If subscribers will pay in advance."

So magazine writers will try to improve,
When next they shall publish a piece,
And every objection will quickly remove,
"If from critiques you only will cease."

THE ROSE.

THE Snows of winter had disappeared from the earth—the verdant grass had every where overspread the fields-the flowers of the garden daily offered up their grateful incense to the skies, and the trees had again assumed their leafy covering, whilst Nature smiled with joy, beholding the enthusiasm of her admirers, and the homage offered at her altars. Spring, redolent with odors, had now o'er heaven and earth established her mild reign-whilst the birds greeted her with songs, and her path was strewed with sweet-smelling flowers.

One morn, as the sun arose, and with his beams converted every dew-drop into a sparkling gem, a vine of Morning-glory beheld a Rose-bud just bursting into life; lovelier than any flower of the garden it was; and, as the dew in its bosom sparkled with beauty, the graceful vine the more admired and more deeply loved, and raising its youthful head, thus addressed the glowing beauty-" How, O glorious being, shall I dare aspire to thee; how can I, whose sole recommendation is honor, dare e'en to gaze upon thee: but, do thou pardon me, and know that love pure as Heaven itself consumes my heart; daily have I watched thy growth and expanding loveliness-ever have I loved thee; but, now that the bud is so fast becoming a flower, I entreat that thou wilt permit me to wind around

thy stem, and clasp thee in my tender embrace. Ever will I be constant-ever shall I adore thee, as something too pure for earth. I will cling around thee, and nought but death shall sever us ;when the summer rains descend, and threaten to overwhelm, I will cover thee-and when the mid-day sun shall scorch, I will overshadow thee; when the parched earth shall withhold its sustenance, I will bleed, and thou shalt live." Deeply blushed the modest Rose, and smiled approval-and visions of happiness floated before the vine; but alas, that

-Nothing fond or bright is seen,

But it hath pain and peril near"

for lo! wafted on a gentle zephyr's breath, a butterfly attired in gaudy dress, beholds the beauty of the Rose, and becomes enamored of her loveliness; instantly his pinions are checked in their flight, and descending, he whispers into the unsuspecting ear of the flower, the sweet poison of flattery. Alas! for the too credulous Rose; vanity takes possession of her heart, and captivated by external appearances, she rejects the noble qualities of the soul, listens to the tale of the butterfly, and in an evil hour yields to his arts-the thunder of heaven muttered, and earth sighed for her fate. Now, ye who read, mark and learn-the destroyer had no sooner robbed the poor flower of her sweets, and despoiled her of her beauty, than borne aloft, he deserts the Rose and departs never to return, whilst another and another soon become his victims. The Rose, faded and withered, becomes the ridicule of those around, who once envied, but now triumph over her. And now behold the fidelity of true love— the deserted Morning glory, whose sensitive heart had been seared and broken by the cruelty of the being he still loved-now, whilst others scorn, twines around the stem of "the deceived," envelops her with his tendrils, and whispers consolation to the unhappy one, and declares his love still unchanged and unchanging, though life is fast ebbing in his veins. Gently the dying Rose raised her drooping head, and conscious of being still beloved by the only one she had ever truly loved, bows her head, and dies in happiness. A few moments had passed away, when the Angel who watches over the flowers, found them both withered, but clasped in a fond and close embrace. Let each heart learn the moral.

Yale College, 21st November, 1836.

H. H. B.

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