stitution of learning like this, to make fear an incentive to the discipline of the mind, the noblest part of man? If it is an institution for compelling dunces to apply themselves to literary pursuits, it is perfectly proper. If, rather, its object is to afford the best opportunities for improvement to young men desirous of fitting themselves for active life, I consider this appeal to fear as wholly inconsistent with this object. But does the system effect its apparent object? I think observation testifies to the contrary. A man, who is conditioned once, instead of doing better, generally keeps on getting conditioned, until, after a little medical advice from the Faculty, concluding that a little relaxation from such intense application to study is essential for his physical well being, he leaves College "on account of his health." But I believe that this is not really "the motive, reason, end in view" of this system. Having once been led, out of curiosity, to investigate the philosophy of the system, I obtained the following explanation in regard to it from a member of the Faculty. "You know," said he," that when a student graduates, we give him a diploma, certifying that he is versed in the various branches pursued in the College course. Now if his daily recitations do not show that he is thus versed, we cannot conscientiously say that he is, by giving him a diploma." Consequently, to follow it out, if a student's daily recitations do not, in the aggregate, reach such a standard, he is conditioned; and perhaps, (as we know it has been done,) without looking at the study upon which he has been conditioned, he goes in and passes another examination before the close of the term; or, more likely, at the commencement of the next term, he collects a few of his scattered ideas on the subject, and goes in, and passes a poorer examination than he did at first. The conseqence is, so much is deducted from his term stand, and he is allowed to go on as before; and when he graduates, he is "conscientiously" given a diploma, stating that he is versed in that study. Whether, or no, then, the real object of this system is obtained, I need not pause to state.

But this I consider the least important part of my subject. I intended more especially to speak of the influence of this system upon .its victims. Who get conditioned? Why, poor scholars of course. Why are they poor scholars? Is it because their general abilities are so meagre that they are unable to grapple with the studies of the -course? No. There are none who come to College, who are not able, with a reasonable amount of study, to acquire a respectable knowledge of the studies here pursued. Is it because they are, not only constitutionally, but also persistently, indisposed to mental application?

This may be the case with some; but I am inclined to think that in many, not to say the majority of cases, it is owing to some peculiar circumstances, known only to the individual himself, or at most, to but few of his intimate friends. His pecuniary affairs may unavoidably occupy much of his time and attention. His general health may not be good, a thing which it may be his nature to conceal. He may have erroneous views in regard to the object of a College course. He may, on account of his pecuniary difficulties before he came to College, have contracted bad habits of studying. And when he comes to College, he finds his efforts to overcome these bad habits continually failing; and what does he meet with? Encouragement? Does his instructor call on him, and inquire as to the reason of his doing so poorly, and endeavor to encourage him, or aid him in any way to overcome whatever difficulties there may be in his way? No. Not a bit of it. If he does not reach such a standard, his only encouragement is a condition, which, haunting him, like the ghost of Banquo, through his vacation, mars all his anticipated pleasures, and he comes back to College, not only not re-invigorated in mind, but depressed in spirits, and after losing four or five lessons, for the purpose of making up his examination, he commences the term behind his class, with but little heart to renew the struggle with the peculiar obstacles in his path. This is the most common, and the most natural effect of this system. But I am here reminded, that as I am attacking an old, established Institution, I am not only called upon to show its evil effects, but to propose a substitute. I accept the obligation imposed, and reply to it as follows: If a student shows by his daily recitations, that he is not acquiring that mental discipline which it is the object of the College to afford, let him be called up by his instructor, and interrogated as to the reasons of his delinquences, and if he manifests, and persists in, a determination not to apply himself to the studies of the course, it would be better to advise him to leave, for he does no good to the Institution, nor is the Institution any benefit to him. But if this is not the reason of his poor scholarship, if there is some obstacle in himself, or his circumstances, which he has been laboring to overcome, then let the instructor encourage him, by manifesting a sympathy for him, and endeavoring in every way to help him in his efforts to overcome these obstacles, as his superior experience enables him to do. This is my substitute for "conditions." As things now are, a poor scholar, a man, to say the least, of medium talents, a poor scholar on account of something within or without himself, over which he has not had the control, may go through College, and looking back, soliloquize thus: "I have been through College. I came here for the purpose of disci

plining my mind. I was surrounded by obstacles from within and without. I have met with no encouragements, but with discourage. ments on every side. I have not only not gained that discipline of mind which I desired; I have not only not overcome those bad habits of study, under the burden of which I came to College, but I have been the rather strengthening them; so that the only good that I have obtained, is the experience which four years of College life necessarily imparts to a man." O fie, Alma Mater Yale! It ought not so to be.

J. W. B.

Failure.

"I have endeavored-I have utterly failed!" How the whole miserableness of human life has been compressed into such words at the last. Boyhood of wistful dreams, Youth of eager hope, Manhood that so resolutely labored, and then,-"I have failed utterly!" That is all. Bitter acceptation of the truth, a little patience, and it is over; God be thanked that life isn't long! But, gloomiest of the shadowy thoughts that form out of the confused past, cannot but be the reflection of all which might have been. A little deviation at this point or that,―such a mere touch, here or there, from a stronger handmight have saved it all, might have gathered up into completeness all that dim-crowned future,-sunken and scattered, now, into crownless wreck.

Yet, oftentimes, might not this bitterness have been spared? Was it not necessary that it should be so? Bound up in the system of Nature appears the law, that of an hundred lives given to the Earth, ninety-nine must be failures to the one which is allowed to perfect itself. Go through a garden; here are boughs, blush-beautiful with blossoms, blessing the air with odors-the tree's fragrant dreams of the fruitage to come. How many blossoms must shrivel and fall, to the few which will develop into fruit? Of the scores of buds on yonder rose-stalk, how many must be blighted, that here and there a single flower, favored by sunlight and dewfall, fostered by every possible circumstance, may be perfected? Simply in order that these few may

stand, perfect specimens of their particular types. Now, as the world gets on, and the vast plan of progress evolves itself,-slowly unwinding from the great reel wound out of chaos for the woof of eternitythere emerge from the Unknown and appear all over the earth, type after type of human nature; multitudinously flashing into being, then disappearing, to make way for the next. Of each of these successive types, Nature must have the few perfect individuals, to send into the future world as specimens of her handiwork. All the rest are taken back into her boson as unsuccesses, possibly to be again sent forth, under a new form, until all life shall thus have been made complete. History shows us the one man, Sir Philip Sidney, and shows us hundreds of the same generation, Sidneys also, only flawed and blighted. Such a poet arises as Alfred Tennyson, and how many of us are simultaneously writing wretched mockeries of Tennyson's poetry. No such type existed a century ago, none will a century hence; just now, its name is legion. Do you account for it as imitation? Nonsense!It is simply co-existence. How often have we thought, "ah, if I had been born before such and such a man; then my thought or impulse would have had a use and an object; now, it has been already done and thought." We are the inevitable useless buds of that stalk, of which he, our master, has been representative. It was precisely our fate to live now, and help to fulfil a law; then we would have been mere anomalies.

Thus much Nature has ordained. But of all these failures of ours, for most, we have only ourselves to blame. Putting out of sight the inevitable, how is it that we ourselves cancel all significance from our lives? To bring the question within limits, why do we fail in our College life?

It seems in some sort lowering the ground of discussion, after speaking of fate and the two worlds, to come back to mere "College life,”merest accident, which we extol in our feminine correspondence, and write of in sophomore-year compositions. It seems a descent to trifles.-Ah! does it? Then just here we hit upon the chief source of our ill success. We fail to harmonize our ideas of great and small. You and I come to College, just at the time when our minds are beginning to float off into theories and speculations. Vague, gigantic forms aro shaping themselves out of our intuitions of truth and sublimity. Grammars and recitations seem so paltry, after our flights among the stars, the table-conversation on "rushes" and "flunks," so mean and insignificant, after following some revered master of poetry, rapt with youth's unfading enthusiasm-that we let slip the time for plant

ing the acorn, sure that from so mean a trifle never can arise the grand old tree. Growing too great to accomplish little things, we become too little to accomplish anything. I would not sneer at the dreams of this our youth. I thank Heaven for them. I glory, with you, in youth's clear vision, that does show a seeming incongruity between the greatness of man's soul and the petty tasks to which it must be subject. Only be willing to believe the incongruity only "seeming." It is so easy to shape for yourself a course of study, of contemplation, of labor, which shall embrace the whole of the future as with a golden chain; so hard to stoop, and among rust, and heat, and cinders, to weld together the separate link. Yet, believe me, there is no other way. Stoop, and labor at it, morning, noon and evening; remember it is the highest poetry to hold the universe in a single word, the highest action to make the hour's insignificance breed the import of a lifetime. Truisms," are these? When one has thrown away his three best years,-has entered the lists of intellect and shivered youth's first spear upon trifles-shattered youth's golden spurs upon miserable hobbies,-he has gained a woeful right to talk even truisms, earnestly, mayhap even dogmatically.

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I speak of such as fail through false theories of the College life, because it is useless talking to those who fail through mere absence of any thought or care about it; of what use are chart and compass when a vessel has not headway enough in any direction to mind the rudder; they must drift with the tide. It is the men who are here with wrong purposes,-who come to "attend gymnasium"-who come to enjoy student life-who come to form "those beau-ti-ful, College friendships"-who come to dilute their manliness with the female milkand-water of "New Haven society;" either they should get themselves set right, or should troop out of College, straightway. If, once for all, such an exodus could be got on foot, I, for one, wrapped in the sackcloth I have been three years in weaving, sprinkled with the ashes of three years' burnt-out energies, would, almost untearfully, take my place in the great procession.

Even if a man comes here with sound views and intentions, the chances are that he will succumb to some of the ill influences which trouble the College atmosphere. There is the spirit of luxuriousness, arisen, I think, only of late years. Nothing but Epicurianism now. Alcibiades is among us, apple in hand,—and there is no Socrates. We ground our notions of happiness upon physical comfort. By an absurd inconsistency, while we allow nervous exertion to so much preponderate over muscular as almost to womanize us, under pretence of