I consider this Thompson to be more uniortunate than I-who knows but more stupid in his brilliancy? I fancy that I can read his character. He seems to me to be of a temperament which phrenology denominates emotional, nervous-showy, rather than sound. Besides, it struck me, all the while he was speaking, that he confounded novelty with originality-was striving to produce an effect, and was continually looking about him for a startling, rather than a true thought. Yesterday, or the day before, I was grumbling to you, diary, about my having no friends in the Class. I see now that this may have been for the best. Happy it is for me that I have not been of sufficient consequence to attract the attention of this Thompson. I pity him. most profoundly. I wouldn't exchange places with him for all his gracefulness of manner and popularity in the Class. No. Let me keep my blundering brain and clumsy figure-my solitary afternoons in this gloomy mildewy room, and all the while have a quiet faith in the lessons of my childhood. Far better thus, than to be witty in speech and winning in address, but without any firm belief to cling to in an hour of trial.

I am sitting up late to write this. And as I pause for a moment to think over the events of the day, I hear the moaning of the wind outside. Well, I presume that the wind has about the same moan tonight, as it had over the Midian hills a few thousand years ago, to a certain Israelitish shepherd. And I dare say the clouds are flying over the sky now as then. Ah yes! Nature finds the old way good enough. I too will be content to follow the old paths. Many have walked in them with safety, and there are none pleasanter for me.

Life-Statues.

Fables say, a king of Cyprus, in the good old days of yore
In his proud ancestral palace, on the golden-sanded shore,
Carved a statue, wondrous lovely, from the snowy Parian stone;
Carved and fashioned it with care, until its very features shone
With a strange and god-like beauty; and the sculptor felt the power,
Of his fondly labored image growing stronger every hour;

Felt the chilling arms of marble winding round his freezing heart,
And the maker knelt submissive to the creature of his art.

Then he prayed his guardian goddess for the priceless boon of life,
To transform the silent statue to a fond and loving wife.
Scarce the trembling prayer was uttered-when he saw the mantling blood
Rushing down the throbbing temples, through the cheeks, a crimson flood.
As when, o'er the cloudy ranges piled upon the western heaven,
Comes a rush of rosy splendor, as the sun goes down, at even.

Slowly rose the stony eye-lids o'er the timid, shrinking eyes,

And a grateful look of love, came struggling through their scared surprise.
Now the pale lips warm to crimson-now each ear's transparent shell,
Trembles at each unaccustomed sound it soon will know so well.
Then he saw the velvet peach-bloom softening the marble face,
And the marble limbs, long moveless, sway with an etherial grace;
Saw the snowy bosom heaving with the startled waves of life,
And he held his statue-idol to his grateful heart, his wife.

Years of pleasure followed after, flitting on their rainbow wings,
And the sculptor king of Cyprus was the happiest of kings;
For his statue-wife, god-given, yet self-moulded, was a charm,
To preserve his joy from trouble, and to shield his life from harm.
All his subjects loved the stately form, that, ever at his side,
Lent a mercy to his justice, and a kindness to his pride.-

Years passed on, till once at midnight, came the fatal call, at last,

And together, through the gates of Death to fields elysian-passed,

King and queen-the mourning subjects found them dead at break of day; He amid his royal splendor lay, a lump of lifeless clay.

But a statue lay beside him, sculptured from the Parian stone,

And the dead king's cold embrace around his statue-bride was thrown.

Him they buried with his fathers-but above the royal tomb,

Placed the image, mournful, shadowed in the dim funeral gloom

Of the cypresses that bowed their heads and swept the grave moss dun.
But they say, that when the rosy rays of the declining sun,
Through the long dark vistas shining, fell upon the statue wife,
O'er each snow-white limb and feature flushed a passing thrill of life;
And the cold right hand awaking from the slumber of the rest,
Pointed, slowly, gently upward to the mansions of the blest.
We are carving our statue in these cloister days of youth,
Statues, some of earthly falsehood, some of grand, celestial truth—
Statues, soon to be inspired with the spirit of our life,
Statues that shall stand beside us on the battle-field of life-
Which shall grieve at our misfortune, shall be haughty in our pride,
Which shall rise and sink with us before the rushing of life's tide,
And when we shall brighten into light, or darken into gloom,
Shall stand silent, stern memorials on each monumental tomb.

At our life-work, then, all eager, let us work while we may,

That when we have left these statues, shining through the darkness, they
May point upward, ever upward, through the starless, hopeless night,
To the land of the Hereafter, to the happy homes of light.
2*

VOL. XXVI.-NO. I.

K.

A Curious Letter.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

My travels have brought me to New Haven, the City of Elms, the seat of the ancient and venerable Yale College, which enjoys a fame as mellow and reverend as its years. I have never before seen a city so intellectual and scholarly in its appearance-a very home of scholarship. It would have delighted Cicero; and had Mrs. Blimber seen the philosopher here, rather than at Tusculum, the contingent death of that eccentric lady would have been made beautiful by the clothing of a still greater content. You can judge of my astonishment, then, when in passing along the streets of this town of grave learning, I heard the confused noises and vociferations of a street meleé. I of course paused, for who of our strangely constituted human brotherhood ever passes unheedingly by a street fight, even among dogs, not to mention men. But it caused me strange sensations. It was as if you had been standing in the grave presence of a Roman Senate, and there should break in upon the scene, the rabble meleé of Roman boys. I turned into a side street to get a view of the affray, which, I doubted not, was the result a fire in the neighborhood. There were from two to three hundred, at least, engaged in the most energetic fighting, but so crowded as to give but little opportunity for a free display of the manly art. I stood for some time at a distance, and beheld this scene so common in our large cities, but seemingly so inappropriate to this old College town. I need not describe it to you who have lived among the mixed populations of great cities. The mingled cries of encouragement and derision; the subdued noise of a mass of excited people swaying to and fro in eager, earnest contention; in short, the concomitant excitement, noise and confusion of a street fight. After some time the entire crowd had passed into an adjacent hall-some exhausted--some victorious. At first I feared to go into the hall, but afterwards followed other spectators who went in. The hall was filled with great confusion and noise. A part of the fighters, having taken a gallery, were hooting with all their power, and hooted in turn by those in the body of the hall. The scene here surpasses all description. Many of the persons in the gallery were sitting with their legs hanging over the front, with clothes disarranged and hair disheveled; some with pantaloons torn, some with only un

dershirts on, and the whole hall in a wild state of excitement and disorder. I was surprised to notice, for the first time, that there appeared to be an air of respectableness about some of the faces in the room. In time the tumult somewhat subsided, and my attention was attracted to the stage, where a young man came forward, said something which I did not hear, retired, and made way for another young gentleman who began to speak, but I was unable to hear him. My confusion was now very great. It was impossible to understand the existence together of such incompatible things as a street fight and an intellectual attempt. Nor could I understand wherefore this young man of apparent respectableness should be found addressing such an audience, especially as they signified their unwillingness to hear him, by throwing quantities of beans, and such like, over the house to detract attention. I anxiously inquired of a spectator at my side what this strange scene meant. He culminated my astonishment by telling me that the young men were the students of Yale College; that the occasion is an annual one, called Statement of Facts, sustained by two Literary Societies. I then asked him if the press did not cry out against these proceedings? "Oh dear, yes sir," he replied, "you may see to-morrow's papers denouncing it all as rowdyism and blackguardism. The most peculiar fact of all is, that the students have no particle of regard to public estimation." "Well," I asked,, " does not the Faculty object?" "Oh yes sir," the gentleman answered, " each of the upper classes were personally appealed to, and it was understood that the affair would be abandoned. You see the expectation has been disappointed." Soon after I left the hall, and I have been unable to raise my enthusiasm for Yale to its former pitch. I try to think that but one side has appeared, but the manner in which my feelings revolted at the scene silences all my charity. *

* I close this letter, my friend, with the hope to you, that the Alma Mater of your venerable father may come to that period, when the strife of her students shall be turned into another channel, and her fame and glory and usefulness shall be what they all, not in antagonism, but in union, shall contend for. Very truly, &c.

The above letter embraces the impressions of a stranger who, it seems, visited our Statement of Facts last week. And what shall we say in treatment of it? Shall we follow our ordinary custom and condem it because it condemns us, or, shall we be fair and candid for once ? There is a characteristic spirit among us of very doubtful propriety, which sanctions the extenuating our own faults. It first

appears in the form of a class-spirit, and denies that a classmate can do wrong; which invests a hundred men with the doubtful exemption right of kings. Again it has general application as a College spirit, and then five hundred men become royally exempt from the possibility of error. The Yale Lit. Magazine prefers not to see in this either expediency or propriety. We prefer rather to investigate the subject suggested by the above letter; and ask, in all earnestness, what is our position upon the question of physical training-wherein is it correctwherein erroneous?

It is not sought to show that the idea of physical training is erroneous, for the age has too far advanced for such a proposition. American money markets have too long drawn upon our gymnasiums; and financial calculations have too long detracted from the morning ride or walk. At length we looked over the ocean and saw the ruddy faces and stout forms of our European cousins, coursing, driving, leaping over the country; and turned with sadness back to the pale faces of our brothers and sisters, nor were long in finding out the cause of this palor, and dyspepsia and consumption. Since then, no man has said a word against physical training, except as it was abused. It has become a science honorably recognized-a necessity importunately insisted upon. All schools, of whatever kind, unite in the support of a regeneration of American habits. It is only when we think we see the judicious and high-toned idea underlying and supporting all this new foundation of reform, misconceived, or perverted, or denied, that we assume the right to object. This idea is denied, when it is attempted to make physical training anything more than a means. Whenever it is not clearly and emphatically subordinated to a higher end, it is not then only degenerate, but becomes brutish, and can have but one apology and no extenuation. Mr. John Heenan says to the world that his fortune and fame depends upon it, and the world rejects this as his apology.

There are two natures in us which sometimes seem busy with ambition, though intended always to be harmonious. Rivalry between the spiritual and physical natures, is a perversion of the wonderful union, mutually dependent, established between them. The physical is not without its dignity, but clearly holds to the foreshadowing spirit within it, just the relation which the splendid temple at Delphi bore to the immortal god of prophecies which dwelt in it-and if the Grecian had dropped his worship of the divinity and knelt in degeneracy before the speechless, unprescient shrine, he would have changed from