IN THE GREAT WEST. THE COLLEGE POLITICIANS. I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, And kissing barefit carlins. BURNS. Na little Western town, which, as a seat of learning, a natural whose quiet inhabitants, being chiefly descended from the Puritans, were often grievously scandalized by the wild pranks of the madcaps collected there from the great roaring cities of the West, this story has its action. In a dingy chamber, on a certain evening, two students were seated on opposite sides of a table, conning Latin. The kerosene lamp between them, having a shade with brick-red pictures of elegant rural gentlemen gracefully bending with sickle in hand to reap impossible golden wheat, was just lighted for the evening. One of the students had his lexicon, carefully covered with sheepskin, leaned up at a convenient angle on a small wooden frame, and his De Officiis spread open upon his lap. He was a youth of huge stature, but very loose-knit in the joints, with a head so capacious that his almost white hair seemed to be spread over it in a single layer. His great blood less face and forehead, and his big eyes, reminded the beholder of nothing more forcibly than a couple of eggs broken into a tolerably large basin of flour. When he stood up to make a lyceum speech, his feet were planted wide apart, and, in his gestures, his powerful arms radiated from him in rigidly straight lines, with all his fingers. spread out fan-shaped. He was a man of a massive intellect, but his uncouthness procured for him, among the pert collegiates, the nickname of Pulp. His companion was as odd a genius as himself, but in the opposite extreme. He was short and stout, with a head like a bullet, and a singularly funny pug-nose. It seemed to have been struck, at some period of his earlier history, with injurious violence, and slightly driven up into his forehead, and at the same time flattened on the end, and bunched out sharp. He had a piping voice, which was often fervently lifted up in the class prayer-meetings; and he had a habit, when addressing his fellows, of turning his head somewhat to one side, and elevating his little eyes to the upper corner of the wall with a kind of soft, Madonna-like simplicity, while his mouth, being pursed together, caused his pug-nose to turn up in a comical manner. He was profoundly earnest, in his narrow way; but he had the misfortune of being obliged to wear the same very short, pudgy, pale-drab overcoat all through college; -hence he had to abide a nickname also. He shall be known in this history as little Tim Pliny. He had just shoved into the table a drawer from which he had eaten his frugal repast, and was again immersed in his lexicon. Pulp continued to fumble his awhile, then he turned his De Officiis over, straddling widely on the table, rose up, joined his hands behind him under his coat-skirts, and commenced pacing to and fro across the floor, in his soft shambling gait, putting down his heels first and as carefully as if he were treading on Geneva crystals. Presently he stopped, rolled his great gray eyes up toward the ceiling, and slowly repeated to himself the famous passage: “Nunquam se minus otiosum esse, quam quum otiosus, nec minus solum, quam quum solus esset." Then he raised his voice out of the depths of its abstraction: "I think, Mr. Pliny, that is one of the profoundest sentiments ever uttered. Quam quum solus esset. Wonderful power of introspection and treasury of intellectual resources must that philosopher possess, to whom the microcosm, the little world of himself, is greater than the great world, the macrocosm of the universe! Remarkable power of introspection, Mr. Pliny." "If he had only been a Christian instead of a heathen! But a heathen's thoughts, not being directed toward his Maker, must be wicked and deceitful," replied little Tim Pliny, without looking up from his book. "An inconsequential suggestion, Mr. Pliny; quite. Christianity, if absorbingly pursued, consumes the individuality. No Christian philosopher has ever possessed a more profoundly subjective idealism than the heathen speculists of Greece," rejoined Pulp, with a disdainful flourish of his arm above his head, as he seated himself. "Do you think Cicero as great as St. Paul?" asked Tim Pliny, looking up, distressed at his chum's skepticism. Rap, rap, rap! "Come in," said Pulp, out of his infinite and serene benevolence. The knocker availed himself of this invitation. "Good-evening, Mr. Square," said Pulp, rising, and reaching him his huge hand across the corner of the table. "Take a chair, Mr. Square," piped little Tim Pliny, and then he cackled and shook himself, and felt quite funny indeed over his jingling rhyme. Square, with an easy familiarity, shook hands with both. at once, then seated himself at the end of the table. This newcomer, although his very prominent cheek-bones and sunken cheeks gave him a triangular-shaped face, had a mathematically square and marble-white forehead. His hair was coarse and black, and in their deep, flaring sockets glowed a pair of relentless, coal-black eyes. His voice was hard and sometimes almost terrible. He was accustomed to stand up in class, and translate De Corona with wonderful accuracy and fluency, in a strong voice, and with more audacious assurance and pomposity of utterance than if he had been Demosthenes speaking on the bema. His splendid scholarship made him a favorite of the professors, but he was detested by his class. "We were just entering upon a very interesting discussion relative to that famous passage in the lesson beginning Nunquam Cut that!" said Square, over the lamp-chimney. "Forever totus in illis, Pulp. impatiently, lighting his cigar "I came here to talk politics. You never smoke, I believe. You know, Pulp, you have influence among the Neutrals in all the classes, and you ought to bear a hand for yours truly, because it will all redound to the glory of the Neutrals. You know these dapper little sweet-williams of the secret societies have had the President of the Lyceum three years hand-running, and they now labor under the delusion that they have a moral mortgage upon the same. Are you afraid of these wealthy curled darlings? Curse the whole crew of the sick-faced, musky dandies, and lily-livered pulks! I will fight them to the last tunk, before they shall ride over our necks every year on their high cock-horse. They have whistled and snapped their fingers at us, as if we were spaniels in training, long enough; and if I have any influence, the Neutrals shall not crawl and whine after them, like whipped puppies and fags, any longer, by—” "Oh, don't swear, Mr. Square!" squeaked little Tim Pliny; and then he cackled very much again, and rubbed his hands, at his unintentional rhyme, for he had meant to be very solemn. Square looked at him, with an ill-concealed expression of contempt, then lighted his cigar again, which had gone out during the above outburst. Pulp had listened intently, his thin-haired, lumpy head rolling heavily back; and when the orator finished, he puckered out his mouth sagely. After considerable deliberation, he said: "Caret tibi pectus inani ambitione, Mr. Square? For I fear it is indeed a vain ambition. The secret societies are always reinforced by deserters from our ranks; besides which, they outvote us from the beginning. In comittiis prevalebunt." "Prevalebunt be!" said Square, fiercely, smiting the table with his clinched fist. "I know there are always white-faced muck-worms enough among the Neutrals, who are groveling in the dust the whole four years of college after these insolent damned jewelers' sons and French cooks, in hope of getting an invitation to join them. They are ready to do anything they bid them,—the pitiful fags!—even to blacking their boots. But if we come out once in a body, like men, and dare to own our own souls, and fling defiance in the teeth of these cowardly |