Editor's Table.

WE can probably remember when we were little children, not long ago, how glad we used to be when we came to the last page of well worn second or third Readers and Elementary Arithmetics, and a year or two later how happy we were to recite the last Proposition of the third book of the Supplement of Euclid, in the old Atheneum, one end of which is situated directly under the College Observatory, formerly known as the Chapel spire,-and probably some of us have the same kindly remembrance of the last page of Anna-Lytics, so-named, because frequetly missed and rather inclined to Elliptics. But however our readers may feel, we cannot say, on this occasion, that we are particularly pleased to find that we have arrived at the last page of this number; for there are times when it is difficult to individualize the point of a pen, and we are willing to leave it to the judgment of any person, whether one of the "afore-mentioned times," in the language of Webster, does not occur, when the thermometer is 92° in the shade.

If the present state of the weather continues, "as such," we think some of calling a meeting in the President's Lecture-Room or "Hall of Phi Beta Kappa," for the purpose of laying a tax of 40 cents on each individual of the classical department, to be expended in obtaining a "small boy" to fan the New Haven House Thermometer, in order to moderate the weather until most of us get through the impending annual, a plan that has been tried with marked success at Heidelberg and the Royal Acadamy in Paris.

While speaking of the rapid progress and strange results in science, we regret to say that the old Pipe leading from Parnassus to Yale, and terminating in an ink-stand near the center of the far-famed Table, ceased, a few days since, to supply the usual flow. The Board thinks it remarkably unfortunate, but hope to discover the cause, and remedy it before the appearance of the next LIT. It always has been a matter of wonder with many of our readers,-I know it was so with ourselves a short time since,-that the LIT. table should bear an air of inspiration, or what is nearly akin, of Poetical distraction; but as we look at the old ink-stand, we can readily see where all the eloquence of the past had its origin; for, as we dip the point of the pen into this miniature fountain, supplied by the crystal springs of shady Parnassus, and bring the upper end of the Pen to our mouth, a strange electrical “circuit” is formed, and we can say, with wild enthusiasm slightly approaching insanity,—

"Upon our lips the mystic bee has dropped

The honey of Persuasion."

Alas! that the fountain is dry; alas! that the board is also dry, financially considered, for if 'twere otherwise,

We might like Virgil draw

Our inspiration through an Oaten straw.

The last remark reminds us of a small village in the outskirts of New Haven, called Westville, and perhaps it would be interesting to some of our readers to listen to the recital of a thrilling scene which recently took place near that section in Horse Car No. 32. Directly opposite from "a piece of the Board" who had

visited West Rock, were seated two beautiful and fascinating creatures, gazing intently in a diagonal direction at a middle-aged lady, attended by a Baby and a small dog. Said dog quietly reposing in the lap of a Merrimac dress, while the other portion of the family was gracefully endeavoring to maintain an upright position upon the floor. It certainly was a scene of paternal affection, and we expected, of course, a remark of pity from the opposite corner, for they still continued to gaze upon the Domestic scene. At last, the one in blue challi Delaine remarked: "Jul, what ears that dog's got, I wonder if it hurt him to have 'em cut; Sarah is going to be married next week." We turned to look at the unfortunate dog whose ears had evidently been elided, but the remark of that attractive person in "Challi" touched a chord in our nature that still continues to vibrate.

But time fails us to dwell on scenes like these, for the inexorable printer says that we must conclude our remarks immediately; besides, we are all in the midst of Examination, and have little time either to talk or to listen. We cannot, however, pass over, in complete silence, one or two poems lying upon our table. They are not very lengthy, and we regret that we are unable to publish them; the first one, as we learn from an accompanying note, was written during the recital of the Class Poem, Presentation Day, and begins as follows:

And are those curls? that graceful fall

Of auburn hair o'er shoulders white,

They may have been but long ago

They must have been the other night.

Proceeding in this way for a few lines, it finds rather a sudden conclusion in the following striking simile:

And terminating all together

Like clothes hung out in rainy weather.

We think that if the writer would only take subjects suited to his ability, he would certainly more than realize the fondest hopes of his parents.

We also wish to express our thanks to "all whom it may concern," for an introduction to the mysteries of Chemistry. We think it has been introduced quite "apropos" for the Board, as some of us have learned more than we ever knew before about "Type-cal formation." We will ever entertain the highest regard for the little Pamphlet, (Price $1.,) and long remember the kindness of our Professor, who most deeply sympathized with us Presentation Week, recited for us occasionally, and marked us four. As a proof that the study of Chemistry is one of the most important of the College course, we recently heard one of the lights of the Class ask another whether alcahol was a “gin-eric species.”

Wishing you all, therefore, success in the present time of doubt and uncertainty, we bid you "Good Bye" for a little while, and in our next will, probably, as usual, wish you all a happy vacation.

HARDLY had the roar of cannon ceased to reverberate through the valleys of the West, at the close of our late struggle, before the hosts of Europe commenced arming for conflict. The little cloud upon the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, suddenly overspread the firmament. During four years of fiery trial and patient suffering, our Trans-Atlantic neighbors read to us long homilies on the folly of war in general and our own in particular. England seconded France in profuse offers of mediation. One would have thought that in the Arcadia across the seas, the doors of Janus had closed forever. But the serenity of Europe was delusive. While the first crop of flowers still blooms upon the graves of our slain, the flames of war are kindling from the Mediterranean to the Baltic, across the breadth of a continent that embraces within its borders all the grand historical races-races which have conquered the rigors of nature, converting barrenness into fertility; building countless cities, and filling them with trophies of art, invention and learning; and which, as pioneers, have borne the banners of commerce and civilization to the remotest corners of earth. When the inquirer asks the cause of this fierce commotion, amid which thrones tremble and the lives of millions hang by a thread, he can get no satisfactory answer. Two or three ambitious rulers wish to re-construct the map of Europe. For the sake of enlarging territorial lines, and transferring the allegiance of a