to the testimony of my family Bible, that I am at least of their age. Their age! And the only proof they bring against me is the circumstance of a beard. They will next accuse me of stealing a goose, and prove it by the fact of a bunch of quills found in my study. The physician says that my fever will return if I am allowed farther use of pen and ink. Good day, my lord. C. S. THE ECHO. (From the German of Matthison.) FOR ever thine! when storms and whirlwinds blow When west winds murmur, when the deserts glow, When torches glitter in the marble halls, And when the shine Of evening moonbeams on the meadow falls, Whene'er my genius sinks the torch of death- Still, still shall echo, with my parting breath, THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. I WROTE Some lines once on a time And thought, as usual, men would say They were so queer, so very queer, Albeit in the general way A sober man am I. I called my servant, and he came- To mind a little man like me, 'These to the printer,' I exclaimed ; I added for I love a joke- He laughed-your footmen always laugh And well he might-I've tried enough, He took the paper, and I watched He read the next, the grin grew broad He read the third, a chuckling noise The fourth-he broke into a roar, The fifth-his waistband split; The sixth-he burst five buttons off And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since I never dare to write NOTES AND NOTICES. No. VI. NEVER was there a more melancholy meeting of our editorial Club than that on the third of July. The worthy brethren took their seats mechanically and said nothing. All my endeavours to draw them into conversation were for a time ineffectual. A feeling between sorrow and listlessness appeared to have taken possession of them. The causes of it were two-regret at the near prospect of a separation from their literary bantling, and exhaustion from the oppressive heat and fatigue of the day. At length, however, the necessity of transacting the business of No. V1. was deemed sufficiently imperious to call for their attention. Accordingly it was arranged, in as short a time as possible, how many and what pieces might be expected from each, and the meeting was dissolved. So much for the meeting that decided the fate of our present number. It will probably be expected that we should here give a concluding address to those who have gone thus far with us in our undertaking. To such would we offer our sincerest gratitude. In the course of our work they must have observed many things that were faulty both in design and in execution, together with many violations of the laws of good taste and literary propriety. For these we must request a mitigation of the harsh sentence which uninterested critics would put upon them, and none, we are sure, will be more ready to grant it than most of those whom we have the honor to number among our readers. There is but one objection which we will attempt to controvert among the many that have been rightly urged against us, viz.that we have indulged too much in a spirit of frivolity, which it ought to have been an object with us rather to suppress than to encourage, or, at least, to have brought under management more than it has been. That our work has been characterized by frivolity we were unconscious,-that there should be as much of the light-hearted gayety and sprightliness peculiar to our years as possible, we have always intended; and apart from the consideration of our years, the object for which the thing was started would answer, in some measure, as an apology, for any objection of this kind that might be brought against it. No one who has gone through College can be a stranger to the tedium of a Senior year. Three years of his life have been devoted to the monotonous round of prayers and meals and recitations, and recitations and meals and prayers. At his entrance on the fourth he begins to look around him, and finds in what a state he has been vegetating, and then the search is for variety of almost any kind. That a literary magazine should be resorted to in such a case by those whose taste would lead them to it, is, we think, very natural. Flattering themselves that they had something of "an inclination to letters," and being decidedly ennuiés, SHERRY and LA-TOUCHE started the Collegian and invited brothers AIRY, TEMPLETON, and LOCKFAST to COoperate with them in their undertaking. To choose me head over all engaged in such an undertaking, was but in the natural course of things. The subscription list filled up, contributions poured in from all quarters, and the Collegian, as MR. LATOUCHE justly and facetiously observed, went shiningly on its course in the Literary System, though not exactly like a star, but rather as a comet, assimilating itself to the latter in three particulars, viz. first in its course, being short and brilliant ;-secondly, in its orbit, being very eccentric,-and thirdly, in its having a tail, which, instead of going taperingly off, grows larger and larger towards its end; thus paying in his last clause a compliment to our friend of the Runaway Ballads' in identifying him in his metaphor with the tail of the afore-mentioned Comet. Thus having given the history of our magazine in the vindication of what has been by some deemed one of its defects, suffer us, our dear public, to detain you a little longer with an exposition of our own personal feelings and experiences on the subject before us. As signified above, we have made our undertaking a source of amusement to ourselves rather than of information or improvement to others. We have made no attempt to influence the sentiments even of our little College community, much less of society at large. We have, it is to be hoped, avoided giving dead ponderosity to our work by long-spun dissertations, or blundering acumen by knotty disquisitions. Sickly sentiment we have eschewed most religiously, whether it found its vent in flabby prose or lackadaisical poetry. Almost any strange conceit that struck our fancies was instantly considered as public property, and as such transmitted, though it often turned the laugh upon us. If we have assumed none of the mock dignity of Editors, we have had but few of their troubles. We have had the consolation, too, to know that we have given some pleasure to our readers, for they have been principally our personal friends or acquaintances;-that the old and wise have smiled on our pages, and that fair eyes have lingered and laughed over them. Nor have we had any reason to complain of the harshness of critics. They have condescended to notice us constantly, and, with a few exceptions, in a very flattering manner. The daily and weekly presses in different sections of our country have often given us their congratulations, and even our neighbouring MONTHLY has deigned occasionally to throw in a word of encouragement and to vouchsafe to us its brotherly affection. But we are getting gradually quite too self-complacent. We are exposing too publicly the phantoms that we, in secret, hug so closely. Let us not be misconstrued. Though we are pleased with our unanticipated success, we cannot flatter ourselves that the memory of our labors will long survive our absence from the place that has witnessed them. In a few weeks they will be as little dwelt upon by ourselves as by others. We feel not the slightest inclination to lay by for a moment on the little that our exertions have earned us. Every day brings to light some literary sin that we have committed, or opens a new field to our attention; and, suffice it to say, in conclusion, that even at this very time there are none who can judge our work more harshly than ourselves, and none be more acutely sensible of even its minutest imperfections. We subjoin the following poetical finale, written by our most valued correspondent at the request of the CLUB. THE TAIL-PIECE. KIND world, sweet world, on every earthly shore, No more we float upon the tide of time, The vagrant printer may resume his quill, To scribble school-boy on the nameless tomb; The hard-eyed pedant call us, if he will, Precocious children, nursed to fruitless bloom; And knit his brows in unavailing gloom- But thou, sweet maiden, as thy fingers turn The last poor leaf that claims thine idle glance, If there was aught to feel or aught to learn In ode or treatise, vision, dream, or trance If the cold dust of the neglected urn Has ever warmed thee, by some happy chance, Ethereal being, thou, whose melting eye Looks down like heaven where'er its glances fall, On noiseless slipper gliding softly by, So sweetly drest, so proper, and so tall, |