voice of the society, the majority, was resolutely turned, as to its face, against beer. "It would be a violation of the pledge, treason to the cause, to swallow even a drop of 'Lager,' 'XX,' or any other kindred abomination." But those whose taste was interested in the matter decided that beer was not intoxicating, not at all; it was simply a harmless and healthful beverage. "Did n't men in training drink beer?" Here was a division, -a conflict between the beer and the no-beer men. The gap grew wider. Beer is a somewhat generic term. It may be made to cover a great deal, and full advantage was taken of its elastic nature. It required no violence to extend it to cider, sweet cider, of course! Then mild punch, say mild whiskey-punch. What is it but agreeably flavored lemonade ? And now things had gone so far that efforts were made to break up the society; for, as the disaffected reasoned, "if the society is destroyed, we shall no longer be debarred from our innocent indulgences." These iconoclastic efforts were for a long time vain. The secessionists were either in the minority or there was no quorum, and the temperance society still dragged on its feeble and distracted existence. At length it has perished. "Troja erat." We know not how, and care not. Whether by vote or by tacit consent. The fact is enough for us. We are glad of it. An affectionate and reverent member placed its bulletin, shrouded in crape, on the window of "University," and thus its death is officially announced. It has perished ingloriously, without accomplishing anything, as might have been prophesied at its inauguration. It was one of the mistaken notions of "'61." The time has outgrown it, and it has passed away, never, we hope and believe, to revive again. If such an organization is useful anywhere, and we almost doubt it, it is entirely out of place here. Total abstinence cuts the knot of certain abuses in society, but does not untie it. It should only be the refuge of men who have so little mastery over their passions that nothing but absolutely forswearing indulgence can save them. Students are not such. A thousand motives are at hand to save them from excess. Education and refinement open constantly new sources of pleasure, and remove the desire of gross indulgence. Our theory is, that the great preventive of excess in the use of intoxicating liquors is a good national drink. The more and better the beer, the less will alcoholic poisons be used. But we do not intend to bore you with a disquisition. Suffice it that the Temperance Society is broken up. Rejoice with us!

SENIOR CLASS MATTERS.. "Charlie, have you got your biography done yet?" said the Class-Secretary the other day to one of the Seniors. "I've got it all done,” was the reply, “but the genealogy, and I've sent home for that." The idea struck us as being somewhat ridiculous. The autobiography of Hume, written when he was sixty-five years old, not as long as the Class-Secretary has allowed for each of us Seniors to make his. Is it possible that each one of us has as many events to record as he had? Hume devotes just seven brief lines to his genealogy; but the Seniors are requested to give the "Pedigree on your father's side, tracing back the origin of your family as far as possible, mentioning ancestors in any way distinguished (for example, if engaged in the Revolution), and particularly the history of those who first came to this country. State at least the

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name, occupation, and residence of each ancestor in the line of your family name. cestral line of your mother's family in briefer form." What kind of a Class-book would be compiled if the above directions were followed out? It would be a comic volume; and we are not certain the Secretary don't want these biographies for his own amusement. We have heard one person say that he could trace his genealogy back for nearly three centuries. Even supposing that this individual should become a second Samuel Johnson (which is a very extravagant supposition), what use would a second Boswell have for so much of his genealogy?

In our opinion, these biographies partake very much of the farcical; and we predict that those who write the least in the Class-book will, in after life, be best satisfied with the record they have left here.

Mr. George K. Warren, the photographist to the Senior Class, seems to be discharging his duties quite faithfully; but he is in too much of a hurry to get away. Our Class will patronize him to the extent of at least 15,000 photographs; and with such a contract as that he should be willing to spend considerable time in taking the proofs, and not become impatient till each individual is satisfied. Of the specimens of his work which we have seen, the most of them are excellent, while many of them may be called perfect. The "Photograph List" is an amusing sheet. We see no reason why it could n't have been somewhat extended by adding to the number of Views! For instance, more societies might have been put down. Many would, in future days, have looked with fond recollections upon the Institute as it was when we were Sophomores, while the remains of the Temperance Society would have interested others! As it is, however, the O. K. and H. N. H. are all we can have!! The College Pocos, too, ought to have been put down to keep the Goodies company. These two groups would have been as interesting as the two “clumps of trees" we see mentioned; and, by the way, there might have been some more "clumps of trees" put down!

There is, undoubtedly, a joke intended in putting the name of the Professor of Gymnastics in the list of Views, and side by side with the Class dog the name of one of the Janitors. We admit that all this may be very funny, - undoubtedly is very funny to the funny brain which originated it, and to the funny fellows who can appreciate it; but we confess to being too dull for it. As it strikes our old and obtuse organs, it seems more ridiculous than funny, and more indecent than ridiculous. But a College joke has at least one merit, that of being perpetual. Once inaugurated, it bids defiance to wear.

NIHIL HIC NISI CARMINA DESUNT. - Poetry and prose are often to be found curiously intermingled and associated. You will find solid avoirdupois prose putting on the wings of poetry, and too often, like Icilius in the old fable, falling headlong at the first trial. Then, again, you may take up an oration of Burke's, in which you will have the two combined in the most perfect proportions of which the chemistry of language can conceive. It is poetry upon a firm, solid foundation of irresistible fact and argument, and it is prose with the highest finish a rich fancy can give it. In the expressive scriptural phrase, it is "honey out of the rock." The other side of the case you will find in the works of such a poet as

Dr. John Donne. It is poetry disenchanted by the power of the metaphysics with which it is loaded. There is enough of metaphysics to stifle the poetry, and just enough of poetical rhyme and metre to hamper the metaphysics and mystify the student who would decipher them. But do not think we are rambling, so as editorially to fill a page or two. On the contrary, we are making these remarks in a most serious spirit, with a definite object in view, which we hope will reveal itself, at least before the last sentence closes. We want to bring into notice the fact, that poetry, in some shape or other, can be found without much trouble in almost every age, in almost every connection, in almost every man; whether it hide itself behind the manlier proportions of a prose article, or boldly appear unsupported and self-reliant. And we not only want to enforce that general statement, but to make it a preface for a more particular one, which is to be applied as personally as our powers, time, and room will permit.

There never were lighter-hearted poets than the Troubadours. They were the living illustrations of Tennyson's line,

"In the spring a young man's fancies lightly turn to thoughts of love." For the growth of Provençal literature, with its chansons and war-songs, was wonderfully like the sudden return of the first spring mornings in April or May. It was a revival throughout the whole land. There were no laureates or monopolists of poetry, no great authors or bright geniuses. Poetry was common property, and everybody could write and chant the lays, which were so common and so popular, just as spring opens each year with a general renewal and revival of nature, without displaying any isolated, splendid bloomings.

"There was once a gentle time,
When the world was in its prime,
When every day was holiday,

And every month was lovely May."

But let us notice well, that this spring-time was marked by an increased love of poetry. It did not set itself to transcribe old classics, or to fill out solid pages of argumentative prose, but this new nation, this new régime, and this new literature opened with a full chorus, which came naturally and spontaneously from the Provençal singers.

Can we not easily draw the necessary parallel? Are there not at the present time, here in our very midst, many of the same favoring circumstances which combined to produce this nation of natural poets, an opening spring, our own youth, a willing audience? And yet may an editor, with the interests of the Magazine at heart, venture to suggest, in a mild, classical way, Nihil hic nisi carmina desunt, and to hint that it is about time for the music to begin? Much as he admires the prose efforts of his valued contributors, may he not remind them, and the reading public at large, that the serried rank and file and heavy artillery of forty prose pages is not thoroughly effective without its proportionate contingent of cavalry, in the shape of a few pages of rhyme and metre? We think his right to put these questions cannot be denied, nor, further, that his right to claim the "first rude numbers" of subscribers, readers, and contributors can be questioned

for a moment. We therefore make this application for some poetical varieties for our pages with an earnestness and sincerity which we hope will not be doubted, together with an assurance that we entirely disapproved of the severity of the Committee to select our National Anthem, and shall not be at all likely to imitate their wholesale denunciations of native poetical talent.

OUR friends must pardon us for our long delay in this issue of the Magazine, the month having more than elapsed since our last. The almost invariable excuse must be serviceable once more, -the difficulty of obtaining suitable matter to fill our pages with. Owing to preparations for Bowdoin Prizes and Exhibition, articles came in very slowly. We hope, however, that the present number will not be less acceptable than was the last. We have added four pages to our usual number.

THOSE who have perused with interest the pages of "Walden," yet laughed at the eccentricities therein, or admired the simple narrative, together with the profound philosophy contained in “A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers," will lament the recent death of their gifted author. It is with feelings akin to reverence that we now recall the life of one whose simplicity of heart and beauty of character seemed but the reflection of all the sweetness in the pursuits to which he was so enthusiastically devoted; yet it is not without mingled feelings of joy that we were permitted to become acquainted with him, and in some measure learn to appreciate his worth.

It was during the year 1857, while revelling in our school-life at Concord, that we first became attracted by a singular person who might be seen each day pacing through the long village street, with sturdy step and honest mien, now pausing to listen to some rich warble from the elms high overhead, or stooping to examine some creeping thing, of interest only to him who knew its ways. A casual observer might have passed him in the street without noticing in him VOL. VIII. No. 74.

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