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business enough even in Quodville: for the anxious matron at the slightest ail of her daughter, was sure to call in Dr. Adoniram, hoping somehow this son of Esculapius would in the course of human events become her own. Parson Rose and Deacon Olden may be naturally classed together, since they were united in caring for the spiritual welfare of the people of Quodville.

I would that truth might permit me to speak of the success of their kind ministrations. But the villagers were too worldly-the young too vain, and the old too fond of filthy lucre, to give their attention to more weighty considerations. The first of these two was a meek looking man, whose pale face and feeble frame proved the anxiety he felt for his flock, and the constant sorrow of heart that he labored with so little effect. The Deacon too, was a good man, upright and of stern morality, as all good deacons are.

But Bill Gunn, the Genius Loci of Quodville, remains to be described. Him you would recognize by his slow, lazy pace, and he was considered an indefatigable pedestrian, from the fact, that while one foot was seeking a new position in its onward progress, the other had completely recovered from the weariness brought on by a similar operation of its own. His mouth appeared to a careless observer in front, to pass quite round his head, its extremities seeming to dwindle away in the space beyond his ears. His were the lungs of Stentor, and often did the adjoining cliffs re-echo back his hoarse laugh with such distinctness as to induce one to imagine every forest and hill-side peopled by a race of noisy baboons. A vest rarely enveloped his person, and he might ever be seen with his cotton shirt loosened from beneath his unmentionables, and rolling down over their top in such a manner as to suggest to the mind the folds in the skin of a rhinoceros. Finally it was his boast to have originated in Old Scotia's realm, and when the Scotch brogue chimed in with his various other accomplishments, we could see Bill Gunn as he was.

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Such were they who looked after the interests of Quodville. These in common with the villagers, had their foes and their follies. Some were possessed of aristocratic feelings. Some of a churlish spirit, and too many of a narrow prejudice and an inordinate vanity, deeming their own village the most happy, most pious, and most enlightened of all the country round.

But we rest our pen, promising to give in a future number an account of the manner in which the long quiet of Quodville became disturbed, and the vanity of its good people humbled before the world.

KAPPA.

A PAGE FROM MY JOURNAL. Hammond.

4 A. M. Huzza! Its done! That confounded Oration, the reward of two years toil, and groanings innumerable over Euclid and Eschenburg. Oh Zeus and ye other gods! How often when aching head almost drove me to bed, or some bright moonlight evening tempted me to a solitary ramble, have I resolutely "burned the midnight oil" till the last line of Greek was conned, the last angle mastered, looking forward to my reward in a junior appointment! Well, it came, "Snooks, oration, 7 min." and ever since that coveted oration has hung around my neck with more choking weight than Sinbad's old man of the mountain. What should my subject be? Long and bothering were my meditations thereon. "If it were a Disquisition now, I would not care; but the fellows will expect something of an Orationist, and the "ancient" will come up no doubt, and my cousins, and Mary T--!" But thank Heaven, it's done, and in one night's work. Talk of the evils of late study-disadvantages of irregular habits, and all that fol-de-rol. Give me midnight,-deep, still, holy midnight to work in. Then can the intellect forget its bonds of earth and revel unrestrained in the world of thought. Well hath spoken he of the quaint Pen, whose "Philosophy" loves to deck itself in strange oracular garb.

"Reason shall dig deepest in the night, and fancy fly most free." Well too a bard of our own land,-one whose name is a synonyme wherever it is known for the rarest Christian virtues. Hear him tell of "Night Study:"

"I am alone; and yet

In the still solitude there is a rush

Around me, as were met

A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush
of uttered harmonies,-heaven meeting earth,
Making it to rejoice with holy mirth.

Ye winged mysteries,

Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye,
Beckoning me to arise,

And go forth from my very self, and fly

With you into the far, unknown, unseen immense

Of worlds beyond our sphere,-What are ye? Whence?"

Is not this glorious? Can you not see the Christian poet,-student,-divine, as he sits alone in the deep midnight, musing of things almost beyond human ken, till the very air about him seems charmed, and filled with supernal messengers, that bring him great mysteries of wisdom, even as they did to the wise king of old? Verily one hour of holy midnight is worth days of gross sunlight, surrounded by scores of petty vexations. It is at midnight only that Byron's classification ceases to be true,-the bores and the bored.

If I go to bed now, I shall sleep over, that's certain; so when I've lit one more of those prime Havannas, and put away my coffee-pot,— the only muse whose inspiration I acknowledge,-I'll stroll forth and ramble about till prayer-time. Who knows but I'll get up a reputation so, for a hard student and an early riser? Stranger things have happened. Yonder's a light in Jones's room.-I'll warrant if one of those thick curtains were lifted we should find him already up, all dressed for the day, and hammering away upon the last lines of the morning lesson. Very different with his neighbor opposite. A light in his room before morning prayers would be proof positive of a night spent convivially. One is a candidate for the Valedictory, the other will take a disquisition, and yet in point of reputation the name of a college education will go as far for one as the other. If the disquisitionist should ever reform his habits and turn his really brilliant talents to some good account, then future gonuses will swear by his name, and quote him in their daily maledictions of the appointment system. "There's Snobbs now,--he took a Disquisition, and see what a man he's made!" the apodosis of which, if expressed, would run something as follows-"I too, haven't learned the first thing since I've been in college, never made a good recitation in my life. But wait till I graduate, and then see my genius display itself. These fine scholars never are good for anything else!" Baugh! It's sickening to hear these fellows prate, whose only claim to genius lies in neglecting not college honors, but college duties: Granted, gentlemen, that some great men have been poor students in college,--do you think they would have been less great had they wasted less time there? Or is your Pegasus of such uncertain bottom that you fear to break his spirit by a little wholesome discipline?

ποποι,

1 P. M. 2 how infernally hot it is! Let me spread myself in the shade here, and watch the fellows as they come up from dinHere comes a party of Freshmen from the club,-every man of them, I'll bet, with a piece of beef, to be masticated during the P. M.

ner.

They're in earnest discussion; debating the election of Prize Speakers, no doubt, or the relative merits of our societies, or some of the metaphysical questions, as tough as the beef, that they brought from table with them. Next come the contents of the boarding houses, in little knots of two or three,-some meditating complacently on the dinner they have achieved, some muttering "curses not loud, but deep" against the dispensers of theirs,-" Veal, veal, veal,-I swear, Tom, it's getting too bad; if they don't give us something beside that fried boot heel, we shall all be calves before long." Here and there goes a solitary," spatiatur in arena," as Virgil hath it,-"making tracks over the sand" hereafter perhaps to be dug up with care by savans of the year 5000, and labelled "Fresh-mannus verdans," or "Senior cenocephalus."

Last comes a troop from the hotel,-slowly and with great deliberation, as becometh those, who have eaten a "dinner which is a dinner." From them you shall hear no loud dispute,-vacant are their brains of all thought,-a quiet happiness sitteth enthroned upon their brow in the calm remembrance of those melons. See with what scrupulous exactness one stops, the moment he has entered college grounds, to light his cigar. Another smoking already: a third will wait till he has reached the sacred privacy of his room. A fourth to the contrary, manfully as he is puffing now, will put his out then, with a slight,-very slight tremor, he is a learner. A fifth conscientiously abjures the filthy weed,-for well he remembers, luckless youth the desperate bowel-yearnings his first attempt in that line cost him. Verily, college is a great place to study character! They are all past. Some have gone to lounge away an hour in the libraries, some to ditto in the grove.—some to dig upon the afternoon lesson. A few will go bathing, and a great many will go to sleep. The thought overpowers me,-it's so hot.

"Strew oh strew a bed of rushes,
Here will I sleep, till"

the Bell rings for Lecture.

It is night which gems the vault of heaven with jewels from God's mine; so in the moral firmament we need to have the shades of affliction gather around us, to show us our Father's shining countenance to make our souls susceptible to the true light which comes from above.

M.

WILD FLOWERS.

born to blush unseen."

There are flowers that grow in the untrodden glade,
'Neath the long tangled grass, or the vine-woven shade,
Whose charms to man's vision are never unveiled,
Whose fragrance no mortal has ever inhaled-
Not created for naught is their beautiful bloom,
Nor lavished in vain their delicious perfume.

For the messenger spirits from regions of light,
As earthward they speed on their love-guided flight,
Pause on their swift pinions to gaze on the flowers,
That" blush" all "unseen" in the wilderness bowers-
Delighted they bend o'er the blossoms so fair,
For the finger of Him whom they worship is there.

Then happy the flowers of the unexplored wood,
Undreamed of, unsought in their wild solitude;
Too pure for humanity's eye to behold,

'Neath the bright glance of angels their petals unfold.--
Oh! blest is the boon to Humanity given;

The unnoticed of Earth are the favored of heaven.

Poland.

SUNSET IN AMHERST OF JULY 22ND, 1847.

Many a beautiful shower, that day, the clouds had generously distilled, and the fields had donned their richest attire of green, and on every blade of grass, and in every opening flower there glittered a crystal tear of joy. Earth sent up to its Maker, in language as best it might, its grateful praise; in the dew-drop, flashing up to Heaven its little picture of the sky, and in the modest flower which timidly looked up, and blushing, smiled.

The clouds had a strange wild beauty. In sullen majesty some

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