Cattle are flying fast, meadows are quickly past; farmyards and bridges; brooks, with their shining sands; hills, with their verdant lands; mountains and ridges. Here we fly, onward fly; while rushing quickly by, all caution scorning.-But soon, with our speeding, we've done all that's needing; shrill sounds our warning; and then, with the screaming of devils in dreaming, haste we are dropping; slower, and slower now, and we are stopping.

But, while the engine is thus singing at his work, how fares it with the passengers. Many are sleeping. Newspapers being thoroughly exhausted, others are carrying on listless conversations about the weather, the crops, and business prospects; now and then waking up to animation in a political discussion. Kind and patient fathers are bringing water to their little ones in small silver cups, while cross and surly ones are scolding the brats with ill-concealed rancor. Pretty heads of young and loving wives are gradually nestling down on broad and protecting shoulders, and mothers are hushing their fretful children with many a caress and soothing word. Many faces wear a look of sullen discontent, some of patient expectation, others of quiet resignation, and the rest, of sleepy misery.

It is then that the Philosophic Observer, if he be young and a student, and if he chance to cast his wandering gaze at the looking-glass suspended at the end of the car, will see the reflection of the natty damsel in front of him, glancing at his image in the glass, with roguish enquiring eyes, as if to say, "What is the use of two young people moping alone in separate seats, when they might be more comfortable together? He will promptly respond, "That's my sentiments. No use at all. Whoever says the contrary is a humbug." Perhaps, if he is of a sentimental disposition, with a turn for rhyme, a note of this kind will find its way over the back of her seat,—

"Dear Maid, when I was distant far,

And miles were many between us,

I little thought a railroad car

Could prove such a "Car of Venus."

So pardon me for seeming bold
In speaking my admiration,
For surely this can well be told,

When we're in the proper station.

And as I breathe my love for you,
Keep not my feelings on the rack;

For we but do as others do,

That is, pursue the usual track.

So throw aside all foolish pride;

Obey the spirit in your eyes;
For, as we now together ride,

We override all common ties."

The appeal is not in vain. A blind to be raised, or a bundle to be restored to its place, gives the opportunity for the first remark, and soon the Philosophic Observer is so deeply engrossed in making himself agreeable, as to be unable to make any more observations. The glimpses of sweet landscapes, the pleasing expanse of valley and plain, are neglected for the glances of bright eyes. The varied scenes of each wayside station are passed unheeded by, and soon the journey's end too quickly teaches our traveler, that all joys dependent on steam are transient and evanescent.

V.

The Last Night of the Year.

I.

LISTEN to an olden romance: On a New Year's Eve once shone
With bright splendor every window of old Castle Wilderstone.
All the great and high were there; stately lords and ladies fair.-
Mirth and joy were everywhere; for it was the wedding night
Of the lovely Lady Alice.-So, like some great fairy palace,
Shone the old castle with splendor and light;

But without, all was wintry and drear:

The night-wind its requiems moaning,
And the giant old trees 'neath it groaning,
Upon the last night of the year.

Forth then to the gray old chapel proud Earl Ivor led the way;

Followed all the lords and ladies, ranged in stateliest array,

Through the ancient vaulted halls; and sat 'round the chapel's walls
In the high old oaken stalls, waiting for the lovely bride

Up the aisle in splendor sweeping; and around them, calmly sleeping,
Lay the old knights in their tombs side by side:

They who had once knelt worshipping here-
Now gone from the scenes of their glory,
But oft called up in legend and story

Upon the last night of the year.

Suddenly into the chapel rushed half frantic, pale as death,

Godfrey, Earl of Leice, the bride-groom, drawing hard and quick his breath. "She is gone!" he wildly cried, "Lady Alice! Yes, my bride

Stolen from my very side! Up, ye knights, to horse! to horse!

From her I had just now parted, when swift through the casement darted That untamed demon, Sir Guy de la Corse;

And before I could even get near,

She sprang to his arms and they vanished!"

So all mirth from the castle was banished

Upon the last night of the year.

Then was haste and wild confusion: up to arms the knights quick sprang,
And the grand old castle with their iron footsteps rang.

Mounted now, down through the park, through the shadows deep and dark,
Rode they to the lake, when hark! hark! they heard a piercing scream.
In a boat far o'er the water, with the knight, Earl Ivor's daughter
They could descry by the moonlight's pale beam.

Then another shriek fell on their ear,

And ere they could make an endeavor
Sank the bark in the billows forever
Upon the last night of the year.

Boats were sent swift o'er the water. Far and wide they sailed—in vain: Scarce the slightest floating vestige of the wreck did there remain.

Long the knights stood on the shore, gazing still the waters o'er;

Then the sad, sad tidings bore to the lone old castle hall.

There was weeping, woe and sorrow that would cease not with the morrow. Over all hearts there now rested a pall,

And fell there full many a tear;

And wailing there was, and soft treading,
Instead of gay dance and grand wedding,
Upon the last night of the year.

II.

In the ancient, crumbling chapel of old Castle Wilderstone,

On a New Year's Eve, once sitting, midnight lamps around me shone.
Few the number gathered there in that mouldering place of prayer,
And around me all the air seemed to breathe of olden times,
Filling me, with solemn feeling, and the organ's notes, low pealing,
Thrilled me with thoughts of the glad wedding chimes
That had once rung out merrily here,

When all was rejoicing and gladness;

And then how it was changed to drear sadness

Upon the last night of the year.

Then, at length, lull'd by the music, musing still I fell asleep,
And I seemed to hear in visions voices chanting soft and deep:
"Lady of the sunny hair, singing here, laughing there-
Spreading sunshine everywhere; tuneless is thy lonely lyre,
No more now is heard thy singing, or thy laughter merry ringing
Through the old desolate halls of thy sire,

And thy footstep no longer we hear.

Away the wild stranger knight bore thee,

And the pitiless waters closed o'er thee

Upon the last night of the year.”

Then they ceased, and lo! my feelings with strange awe and dread were stirred,

And it seemed as if a rustling, as of sweeping silk, I heard.

Up the Church, now filled with light, came a maiden purely bright,

Clad in robes of shining white; on her lips a radiant smile,

In her hand a golden chalice.-Could it be the Lady Alice!
Quickly she vanished away from the aisle;

And the clatter of hoofs struck my ear

I saw the steel armor bright flashing

Of weird horsemen down through the park dashing,
Upon the last night of the year.

On they clattered through the forest, white and grim, a ghostly band, Through the shadow and the moonlight, onward to the lake's bright strand. Then I saw them reach the shore, and stand gazing as of yore

At the bark with shining oar sinking, sinking in the wave,

With its precious burden laden. So the gallant knight and maiden
Sank in the depths to a watery grave;

And the moonbeams shone lovely and clear
Where gaily the wild waves were leaping,
Far beneath which fair Alice was sleeping
Upon the last night of the year.

Long I saw the knights stand gazing sadly o'er the deep afar,
When from out the waves emerging, lo! appeared a golden car.
Now serene it floats on high, upward toward the blue-domed sky;
Angel forms around it fly, light celestial round it gleams.
In the glittering car reclining sit a youth and maiden shining
With brighter radiance than midday's sun's beams;

And rich music now falls on the ear,

As upward their glorious flight winging,
Angel voices around them are singing
Upon the last night of the year.
15

VOL. XXXII.

Ravishing with wondrous sweetness, floats that pure angelic strain;
When, behold! with thunderous clangor, all the sky is rent in twain.
Loud the shock reverberates: Heav'n, reveal'd, their coming waits.
Open burst the pearly gates, flooding forth supernal light.
Through the everlasting portals rise the now redeemed mortals:
Glory ineffable hides them from sight,

But still anthems seraphic I hear,

From angels and saints without number:-
But, ah me, I awake from my slumber,
And find it is now the New Year.

P. B. P.

Memorabilia Valensia.

College has been drowsy and muggy for thirty days. Cramming crowds out cheerfulness, and the approaching piled up examinations induce moroseness. In vain does the cheerful incendiary light the midnight torch, for Yale is too torpid to run with the machine. That icy winter has come, is proved by the almanac, thermometer, empty fence, and changing

Fashions. Our colleagues of the other sex attending the finishing establishments in the vicinity, have appeared in diminished crinoline, nice, tidy short frocks, "Ristori" hats, "sheperdesses" and "turbans," with everything close and comfortable. We hope that, in spite of the windy weather, their eyes will always remain a little bluer than their noses.

The Controversy between the Courant and the Herald still rages. We warn the Courant that J. G. B. can't be hit except below the belt.

Wednesday Evening, Nov. 28th, came punctually, but brought No JUBILEE. It seems that Faculty and Committee couldn't compromise, and many are asking whether this glorious frolic ever did, or ever must depend upon the two or three individuals who take the female parts? Were not the Committee a little lacking in energy? Especially, after the Faculty had offered them Alumni Hall for the

occasion.

Thanksgiving, too, was almost washed away by the incessant, dreary rain, but indoors it was impossible to forget that it was preeminently the auspicious holiday, and night faded out at evening upon a people exceedingly damp, but very thankful. Our next Thanksgiving exercises (not the Jubilee) may be held in THE NEW CHAPEL, for a plan has been adopted, and all that is needed is, $15,000.

The Art Building is finished, and Mr. William Thompson, of Irvington, N. Y., who has done great things for art already, in the crino-line, has promised a statue of Ruth, worth $5.000, and $20,000 worth of pictures.

Allston's Jeremiah has taken up his quarters in one gallery, where he may