known to the human mind, are alone sufficient to inspire every honest lover of Nature. Toil on, gentlemen, and it will be yours to see, with your own eyes, what we cannot undertake to show you. We assure you that your labor will not be in vain. Then again, the Seniors give extemporaneous discussions on moral philosophy, which are truly novel and interesting. Correct morals are just what all of us ought to have. Now, as a general rule, the Seniors are moral. What a blessing it would be if moral philosophy came in Sophomore year!

The Jubilee is close at hand, when we anticipate a rare treat of fun and wit. Let no pecunia be spared to make it a complete success The Committee are a jolly set. If the Freshmen will only treat them well, they will witness a rare exhibition.

The back seats will be reserved for delegations from abroad. The Sergeant-atarms will, without respect to age or color, eject all those who bear carnal weapons for the purpose of self-defense. All attempts at laughter will be carefully noticed by the monitors. The actors will be fined for exciting the emotions of the audience. These regulations certainly speak well of the Committee.

It will not do to close without giving the Muffins at least a passing notice. Since our Dictionary fails to give the meaning of this word as we use it, it may be well to add that its most recent use is simply ball players. This name, becoming more and more famous, is destined to take its place not only in our language, but in our history, with its present signification. Although some of the Muffins are not "tempestivus," as Horace has it, yet their feats beggar all description. Many have already covered themselves with earthly distinction, and then risen to higher posts of honor. Those gigantic strides especially on the home run, and the skillful spiral evolutions of the fielder, must eclipse the Greek at his Olympics. All these ought to be seen by one who would appreciate them. "Clamabit enim Pulchre! bene! recte!" Certainly it can be said of them that familiarity does not breed contempt. The heroes of Virgil, whose contests and triumphs are so exciting, are thrown into the back-ground, while in front stands a row of lusty Muffins, among whom Rotundus, Procerus, and Pupus, least, but not last, are especially notable. With the hope that the genial presence of those who first made the number nine immortal, will attend you, we wish you success.

Kind reader, we have already wearied your patience. We again bid you farewell reminding you to support the LIT., and to spare us in your criticism. Then, as far as we are concerned, will you have a clean record.

"Joy, joy forever, my task is done."

TO CONTRIBUTORS.

Several articles lie in the "drawer," awaiting our next publication. The size of the present "No." has prevented their earlier appearance in its columns.

THE weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last, gray hairs;

Where youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

And Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them, beyond to-morrow.

You remember wondering at Horace's "Philosopher and good Cobbler?" I found him the other day. My work was hardly done, when I went in to his little shop, and I waited awhile, watching him. The old man

sat with his wax and leather,

And lapstone over his knee,

his bare pate gleaming in the scanty light, with a trimming of soft, white hair all around. His few words were strangely thoughtful, and his face had a sort of far-off expression, that set me dreaming on my stool.

I looked at the stout sole he had put to my boots, and thought how many a mile I must walk before those wear through; how weary my feet will grow so many a time. I looked at the pile that awaited his restoring care; how many, many weary feet they told of. Each one

had its own story. What little romp has scampered about all day in these wee shoes, and could scarce pull them off at night, "'cause I's so tired!" Mother's care and housewife's labor gape from the holes of that slim gaiter. Rough paths and sharp rocks tore these; endless toil of pickaxe and spade; in gravel, and mud, and snow; how many a heartless task they stood under before the tough leather gave out! As if to fix my random thought, a laboring man came in with weary feet to rest awhile. With his crony on the bench he fell a-talking, till it seemed I rarely heard a sadder strain. It is endless toil, from dawn till dark; and all the comfort left a poor man is a good night's sleep, to rest him a bit before another day of work; to weary, to rest and to worry. But in these winter nights frost makes a cold bedfellow. Oh, it's better to be resting clear down in the earth, where cold can't reach, for the flower-roots keep warm and living, and there's no more getting up to work, work, work.'

I could not wonder he saw little in such a life to make it worth the toilsome having. I see long lines of men and women in the cold twilight shrinking along to work, and sometimes follow them after early lamp-light to homes whose best happiness is enough to eat, whose sympathy is hopeless despair. Every where this life-no; being, seems, like all foundations, crowded down into the earth; do they rise higher? others fall into their place.

For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep.

Yet I know not if theirs are the weariest feet. We envy men who rule by gold or power, more yet those whose learning or eloquence reaches down to control the life of nations. We place such on mountain-tops, and strain our eyes up to them, thinking how near they are to God. We cannot know how cold it is up there, nor see that the gorgeous clouds that settle so gently around them, are but chill, driving mists, that hide all beauty, as they sweep by. Do their feet never weary? Can they ever rest! They never climb so high as not to see an utmost yet beyond.

But yet it is not work that tires most. Though one look forward, along a path ever rough and steep, till it disappears at a sudden brink, with nothing beyond but a dead, gray mist, unanswering, unfathomable, can he fairly envy him who lolls on the edge, twirling his thumbs and dangling his legs over eternity, till he slips in, but leaves no trace? Better wear out, than rot out.

And, oh, the weariest feet are those that wander at random, finding no road to walk therein; seeing no light, but blindly groping in doubt;