But, let it not be enough for us that the culture of Yale has had a moulding influence upon the institutions and life of the past, but let us remember, brethren, as we stand here in little groups beneath these arching elms, which stand as sentinels around our Alma Mater, or gather in social intercourse in these time-stained rooms, which have so often resounded with words flowing out from the depths of manly hearts, let us remember, I say, that we are upon ground hallowed by the most sacred recollections. "Tis here that intellects have been expanded by culture, and hearts have been humanized by associations of brotherhood, until life has stood before them in all its dignity and importance, and they have given themselves up, heartily, to a life that should answer the questions of existence.

Voices come to us from the past, urging us to bear the mantles bequeathed us by the fathers upon worthy shoulders; voices come to us from every walk and room, telling us of the struggles they have witnessed, and the victories that have been gained, as the questions of life were fully brought to the notice of earnest men. Let not these voices fall now upon leaden ears, but let us, the students of the present, give ourselves with enthusiasm to the culture of vigorous thought, recognizing that, as the one great, God-given instrument with which we are to wage all the battles of our human existence.

J. L. S.

Extracts from the Diary of a Stupid Young Man.

[We are especially disposed to publish the following "extracts," because we have no reason to believe that the above caption expresses an untruth. We have enough of student-literature, and those who have had the mental brawn to push themselves up to the surface in our Collegiate cauldron, take extra care that their fellowstudents shall not linger in ignorance of their deliberate opinions on the most important subjects; but from those at the bottom, seldom a voice reaches us; and it may be, perhaps, interesting for the fourth-story lodgers, to know how the cellar looks at life and its concomitants.-EDS. LIT.]

June 17. You and I, old Diary, are nearly done with Freshman year. I have nothing to complain against you, for you have listened, without remonstrance, to all the nightly totals of the day's hopes and mortifications, to its yieldings to pride and its sinful repinings. Many

of these we've passed, and see slowly fading into forgetfulness. I am afraid to ask myself how much I have been bettered by this year of education. I know I've wasted many hours of it, but I really have made some honest efforts. The studies come very hard to me, for I am slow and dull; and when I rise to recite, I get confused, and blunder, and then it's all up for that time. I am very far from laying any claims to scholarship, but I do know more than I show in the Division. But I have not abandoned study for pleasure. This has been a sad year for me-growing sadder, as the weeks slip from my grasp, and leave me none of their treasures. Do you remember, (whispers conscience,) how promising your teacher thought you? And how your Mother laid her hand upon your head, the night before you left, and said she knew her boy would grow to be a good wise man, to be a comfort to her old age! Are you fulfilling those prophecies? Have you taken that Woolsey scholarship? Not I. A prize in debate, or one in mathematics? Not I. Perhaps, then, you have paid attention to the literary exercises of your Freshman society, and are one of its best writers and speakers? Alas, I do not even belong to any. Who wanted the crooked, awkward country boy? Nearly three terms past, besides, and not one whom I can call a friend! Ah, John-Johnwhy were you ever born! During more than one Saturday afternoon, I have sat in this damp room of mine, hour after hour, listening, by turns, to the rain outside and to the laughter on the story above. Very dreary work, I've found it-to mope here, looking into my fire, till the shadows-stealing from behind the trees or creeping around the corners-closed in, darkening my windows! You need not to jog me, conscience, I know I ought to have been getting Monday's lesson, but I felt it to be a hard, tedious thing, to sit alone, with the thought continually upon my mind, that no one in all Yale College cared for me.

I have, at any rate, one cheering half-hour every week, when I attend the prayer-meeting on Sunday morning. They talk so well there; remind each other of our mutual and individual obligations-say how weak we all are, and how we ought to bear one another's burdens, and try to supply for each other, in some degree, the influence of home. At such times, I feel like getting up and telling them how much I need such sympathy, and saying, "oh, my Classmates, I think I could be almost happy here, if you would but speak always in this way, and talk kindly to me once in a while!" But, somehow, they don't. After we sing a hymn, and the meeting closes, the formal manner meets them, like the cold air at the door, and through the week they bow, just as Jones bows, who never comes to prayer-meeting at all. I do

not have harsh feelings toward them on this account. I hope they are sincere, and it may be asking too much, that they should consume their leisure time with me. I'm not good company, and probably I ought not to expect it of them.

June 19. To-day we held a meeting of the Class in the President's lecture-room, to receive the report of a committee previously appointed. Smith was unanimously elected to preside, and, taking the chair, requested that the object of the meeting might be stated. Jones arose, holding a small roll of paper in his hand, and said that the meeting had been called by him, the chairman of the last meeting, for the purpose of expressing our feelings over our recent bereavment, in a manner suitable to ourselves and the College. He would proceed to read the resolutions drawn up by the committee. Thereupon, unrolling the paper he had been holding, he began to read as follows:

Whereas it hath pleased an all-wise Providence, by an inscrutable dispensation, to remove from our midst and subtract from our number, our beloved Classmate , and to send him "to that undis

covered country from whose bourne no traveler returns," therefore : Resolved, That, while we have long watched with love and admiration the spotless character and matchless talents of our departed brother, and while we have striven to emulate his bright example, we will still submit to this calamity.

Resolved, That by his loss we are again reminded, that "in the midst of life we are in death," and are farther led to inquire, “oh death, where is thy sting, oh grave, where is thy victory?"

Resolved, That we will, with hearts bowed down in anguish, tearfully murmur, in the touching language of the poet,

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be sent to each afflicted relative of our late friend, and to the "Yale Literary Magazine," with a request to the latter that they be published.

Having read these, Jones sat down. The Chairman then stated that we had all heard these resolutions-now, were there any remarks to be made upon them? Just then, as I was stooping to tie the string of my shoe, I heard a quiet voice from the other side of the room,

* We purposely withhold the name.-EDS. LIT. VOL. XXVI.-NO. I.

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address the President, and upon looking up, I saw it proceeded from a smallish young man, with a very bright eye and a very sharp nose. "Who is he?" I asked of the person sitting next me. "Why, don't you know? That's Thompson. Pretty smart fellow but terribly conceited!"

Thompson would brush away all vails of doubt from our minds, by frankly stating that he hoped the resolutions would not be accepted. Was he asked why? For the following good reasons. First, they were untrue; second, they were irreverent; third, they were uncalled for; and fourth, they were impertinent. (Thompson was listened to, thus far, with close attention, when the silence was impaired by a scornful grunt from Jones.) Before saying another word, he hoped no one would accuse him of brutally treating the memory of the one who had so lately left us; he was ready in joining Mr. Jones in a proper observance of the proverb, "nil de mortuis, etc.," but he could not ignore the existence of other proverbs, equally binding, which experience had brought men to recognize. Each one of us," continued Thompson, turning to those around him, and becoming more decided in his handling of this tender subject, "know that poor's character was consistently immoral; but we say it was "spotless." Lie number one! Again, we know perfectly well-so there's no use in trying to persuade ourselves to the contrary-that he was, unfortunately, by no means remarkable for powers of mind, yet we express admiration for his matchless talents." Lie number two. Now, gentlemen, in the name of common-sense, why should we knowingly endorse such untruths? To do so is neither right nor expedient. If they would cause a mourning Mother to shed a single tear less, or take away the sharpness from her sorrow for a single instant, then I would feel some hesitation about making these remarks. But does the most enthusiastic admirer of tomb-stone epitaphs and obituary notices, believe that they will? By no means; the paltry hypocrisy would be ridiculous, if it were not connected with so awful a subject. The custom is one of those abominable fungus-growths, that sprout from an insincere, corrupt society. We walk through our cemeteries, and sneer at the carved falsehoods planted over the grave of some defunct rascal; we remember and repeat all the witticisms we can get upon this subject; yet, after all, when our fellow-citizen or fellow-student dies, gentility demands that we should squeeze out a few tears, even if we have to hide an onion in the handkerchief we raise to our eyes. Now, it seems to me that this is totally wrong. If we must speak, even common-place morality should compel us to tell the truth. But there

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is no necessity for speaking; silence would be no disrespect to our dead classmate. When a father dies, are the sons obliged to appear in the morning papers with elaborate preambles, in order to satisfy a scrupulous public that they were dutiful children?

I am sorry to exhibit so much hostility toward these resolutions, for they were doubtless composed in a spirit of kindness. But, gentlemen, ever since I have been old enough to think understandingly, I have been astonished and indignant at the abundance of this fashionable nonsense, and have, for a long time, wanted to say what I thought about it. I most ardently hope that the class to which I belong may be saved the disgrace of passing these resolutions, and will move that they be laid upon the table."

Thompson sat down, and immediately some half dozen sprang to their feet, calling out, "Mr. President," in tones of most anxious entreaty. The President recognized the rights of one to the floor; another disputed it. He appealed from the decision to any arbiter the Chairman might appoint. This was merely pouring most inflammable oil upon fire. Several called out that it was most unparliamentarythat he must appeal to the house. Some fell to arguing the reliability of Cushing's Manual, as a side issue. One classmate-evidently shallow-minded-who sat in the corner of the room nearest me, simply whistled and shouted, "hear!" alternately. The party on the floor rapidly gained in numbers. Smith-as was clear to all-assumed the aspect of a perplexed fellow-creature. He evidently regretted that he had never studied Cushing's work. As near I could judge, half of those present were declaiming to the presiding officer, each on a topic of his own selection. One caused a momentary consternation by crying that they all were wrong; that Thompson's motion had not been seconded, and therefore admitted of no discussion. Finally, some one moved, "that this meeting adjourn till two o'clock this afternoon;" which was adopted, by all making a simultaneous rush for the door.

During this unmanly disorder, I confess I cared but little whose motion prevailed, for I had not yet recovered from the amazement into which I had been thrown by the speech I had listened to. The temerity with which it had, without precedent, attacked a long-established custom-the bold fluency with which it passed judgment on societyin short, the spirit of rebellion which pervaded it from first to lastexceeded anything I had ever heard before from one so young. My neighbor was nearly right in saying that he was self-conceited. Is this the kind of intellect, (I asked myself,) with which I shall be brought in contact? Old diary, they think me stupid, I know; still,