best; but the other boat was upon them in a moment. Again the skill of the cockswain was brought into play, and again the pursuing boat overlapped without touching. But it was now clear that they were only delaying their fate, not averting it; for the Trinity men were going four feet to their three, and running them into the further bank, in a way that left no room for a change of course. "Hurrah for Trinity!" shouted I, in the fullness of my exultation, and at that moment a horse walked against me, and nearly threw me off the bank. I was within an ace of being pitched into the river. When I regained my feet it was all over. Both boats had hauled off on one side, and the Caius men had raised their flag, (a singular mode, by the way, of acknowledging a defeat.) Trinity was "head of the river" once more, and great was the joy of her inmates. Alas! how vain are human expectations! When the season ended, Caius was first, and the First Trinity-No. 4! Cambridge University. C. B. ODE OF ANACREON. Εἰς τὸ δεῖν πίνειν. BEHOLD the dark Earth, she drinketh the rain, From the Ocean drinks with a thirsting ray. The Moon, from the Fount where the sun beams burn, N. THE TOILS OF AUTHORSHIP. "How various his employments whom the world COWPER. MAN is condemned to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. He must do labor in some sort-whether it be by exerting the thews and sinews of his mental, or of his physical frame. None should be idle in this world; but with the mass, at this day, it may be considered doubtful what labor is. Democracy has waxed so radical, the lower classes have become so tinctured with chartism-that restless, destructive spirit, for which in this country there is no cause, save that any is a good reason to men who wish to make a sacrifice to their wounded vanity by pulling down and destroying those who are placed upon an eminence to which they cannot themselves attain that nothing with the mass is now considered labor but the severest physical exertion. He who digs in the earth, or who works at the forge, is with them a laborer indeed; while he who gives his energies to study, in the peopled cloister of the solitary student-that cloister peopled with the spirits of past ages-gloomy and unpromising to all but the earnest devotee of knowledge, yet sending forth such rays from its dark portals as are destined to illumine the world, is looked upon by the herd as a drone-a useless member of society-and is left to starve, a miser among the golden thoughts which he has hoarded and heaped around him. Such is ever the case with the poor student, the dreamer who follows in the train of Truth and of her handmaid, Knowledge, who seeks heart-happiness by the pure and invigorating fountains of thought, in the sweet and healthful atmosphere of reflection and mind-study. But while the mass of men may look upon him as one demented, yet are they delighted in listening to the notes of the mad singer-while they yield him nothing but pity as they behold him careless of the means of life-wasting the energies which might be coined into the To Kadov of this generation, gold, in the vain pursuit of phantoms of the imagination; he, conscious of the strength of his own spirit, can repay pity with scorn, casting down before the multitude the gauntlet of knowledge-and who among them shall venture to raise it from the earth? Yet is there a mental strife-a labor which men see not-a spirit-agony, which, by its intensity, wrings from the brow of the student, drops more precious than were ever poured upon the altar of a heathen god-drops which turn into giant thoughts, as did the dragons' teeth into armed men. And this is his reward, that while his body wastes away with the energy of a restless and earnest spirit, his mind decays not, but waxes stronger and stronger-bursting daily into some newer lifespringing to some loftier eminence, and taking some more enlarged view of the world of knowledge. His joy then comes from within, and from converse with the few choice spirits, who, like the morning stars at Creation, rejoice together in the contemplation of a new, but spiritual universe. The pale student then is no sinecurist, fattening upon wealth for which he has not labored; he is no drone, hanging a dead weight upon society, retarding its growth and impeding its action, adding nothing to the common stock of wealth-a nonproducer. He is the most active and laborious of producers. And although he applies not his own muscles and sinews to the task, he gives to art its activity, to agriculture its energy, to intellectual growth its impulse, to the spirit of man its far-reaching and eagle vision. His is not pay without labor, but, in most cases, literally labor without pay. He may not in his lifetime win even the fame which he so much thirsts for, and this thought is to him the bitterest of all. He asks not wealth, he asks not comfort even-but he points to the still solitude of his study, to his days of labor and nights of toil, and the results, and demands of the world that this shall not be counted labor ineptiarum. He points to the "worn frame his soul seems bursting through," and asks a bare subsistence, and that proud eminence to which he believes his labors have justly entitled him. But how very often is he doomed to disappointment. Nay, how seldom does he meet with any thing else. The world fades away from before him-dust returns to dust-the unchained spirit cleaves the sky, and attains the fulness of knowledge. Then, and not till then, is his name immortal, then, and not till then, the plaudits and shouts of a gathered world go up to his memory, and he is pronounced a God. And is this for what he has labored? Is this for what he has sacrificed his life to science? Fool! to be a Platonist, when he might have been an Epicurean! Nay, this was not all. Though men knew it not, he had been walking all his life with the loftiest spirits which the world has known. He held a holy communion with the dead. He looked out upon the world it is true, all his life from the tomb; but that tomb was peopled with the spirits of heroes who had become gods-philosophers and poets of all time. This was his pride, not that he had lived, but that he had lived not as other men. He was a very Pharisee, and rejoiced that he had chosen the true path of glory. Though all the world might sneer, there was a self-gratulation which bore him up, and enabled him to look down with scorn or pity upon its envy and injustice. He knew, too, that few could climb up to the lofty pinnacle where he stood; and there was a keen excitement in the thought, which thrilled the very marrow of his bones, and which want, and even hope deferred, could not allay. Thus he lived on, expecting daily to accomplish something which should startle the world, and receive from the multitude the renown which he coveted ;-waiting and working patiently until the time when his name should be with men, "familiar as an household word." He waited and worked in the full assurance that his labor and his patience would not be in vain. He believed that the time would come when the proud garland for the attainment of which he taxed all his energies, would encircle his brow. Then would he cast his eye back along the track of years, and behold himself a boy-flushed with hope and health, comparing in nothing with his now pale and study-worn frame, save in the same determined and unyielding spirit-now more determined and unyielding than before. Deem it not strange, if a tear stole forth from his soul-fraught eye, as he thought of the home of his young years-the mother who had loved him, and the maiden he had loved. Alas! he had sacrificed them all upon the altar of fame-he heard the voice of ambition calling from afar, and listened to the syren song. He had given up his soul to a thirst for knowledge-he had been deluded by the mockery of the phantom fame. It is but the weakness of a moment; he dashes away the traitor-tear, and again he is on the high road to literary renown. The old warrior is aroused within him, and he is ready to do battle in his favorite cause. He girds on his mental armor, leaves this world of interestaccount behind, and forgetting mother and mistress, (what are they to him? knowledge and truth are his mother and his mistress now,) engages more earnestly in the conflict which shall win him a grave with the mighty dead. Such is the thrice-told tale of a student's life; and if amid his labors, his hopes, his disappointments and his fears, he has left a record of any thing which shall make after generations wiser or better, he has done much :-He has left those "footsteps on the sands of Time," as our own poet-philosopher has so sweetly sung, which shall remain proof of his own greatness, and a landmark to those who shall come after him, forever : Footsteps, which perhaps, another LITERARY NOTICES. THE NEW YORK REVIEW, for October, comes to us richly laden with articles of the most diversified character;-history, biography, religion, politics, and literature. Within a few years, an important revolution has taken place in the constitution of all the leading periodicals. Harsh tirades against the author, and verbal criticisms upon his book, rarely find a prominent place in any of our quarterlies; and the public taste is now gratified with elaborate essays, whose subjects merely are suggested by the book professedly reviewed. Accordingly, we have in the number before us, an accurate delineation of the character of John Jay, as the Christian Statesman. The rigid federal principles, so apparent in the former pages of this work, are here clearly shadowed forth; and although the quiet life of Jay allowed little scope for the exhibition of the party feeling of the Review, yet we can readily perceive that Washington, Hamilton, and Jay, are the gods of its political idolatry. Of the two latter, he says: "They were undoubtedly 'par nobile fratrum,' and yet not twin brothers'pares sed imparis'-Hamilton had Genius, Jay had Wisdom. The name of Hamilton was a name to compare with that of Jay; to swear by." The remaining articles are—' -The Relation of Platonism to Christianity, The Chronicles of the Pilgrim Fathers, Life of Torquate Tasso, Brewster's Martyrs of Science, A System of National Defense, and a Review of Stone's Life and Times of Red Jacket. Mr. L. H. Young is the agent for this city; and we trust an increase of patronage will compensate the publisher for the liberality he has manifested in thus providing for the public taste. B. THE DIAL; A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, PHILOSOPHY, AND RELIGION, (QUARTERLY.) Vol. IV. Oct., 1841. Carvill & Co., N. Y.THE DIAL, for October, was a genial, and most welcome visitor; but our penciled copy has already gone through the hands of so many wise critics in a "large family circle," that time and space are left us to do it but passing justice. We must, however, confess, that on reading this review, we were disappointed. Our Fathers in New England Theology have, from time to time, told us of this same workhow it imitated Carlyle in his strange, fantastic style, and advocated the principles of a religion, that transcended' the warm and wellcherished doctrines of the Bible. But it came to us, in a far different guise, bearing on its dial-plate that beautiful motto of Hazlitt, horas non numero nisi serenas, with a just, discriminating taste, transplanting in its pages the choicest flowers of Old English Literature, and in criticism, narrative, and description, producing rich effects by the use of familiar words. With curiosity and wonder and admiration have we read the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson-read them time and again, backward and forward, by day-light and candle-light-and this, |