men.

common mind, has once learned the art of putting thoughts on paper, he will hardly be content to keep them to himself. True, we now and then see a man who shuts up a great mind to its own reflections, and spends his years, "wrapped in secret studies," apart from other He has taken the post of the philosopher, and from his cloistered retreat looked calmly out, all his life, upon the busied world, be coming wiser, like Ulysses, by "seeing the cities and learning the characters of many men," till, grown gray in knowledge, he passes silently from a world he had not bettered by his experience, and which, as it was not aware of his wisdom, so is it careless of his memory. And yet it may be that his drawers contain papers of worthy lore, the results of long, deep thought, and correct observation, in poesy, philosophy, or art, which might have profited mankind, but which he had not so much as whispered to a friend.

Others, vexed at temporal troubles, losses of goods, the reverses of fortune, or the cold civilities and positive unkindnesses of the world, betake themselves, in a worse spirit, to the closest solitude, to brood over their misfortunes, and vent their spleen on paper, which the next instant as certainly destroys. But, then, they are rare; being either philosophers or misanthropes. There is a positive fitness and beauty, in a sense, we confess, in such behavior. For, doubtless, it is both more honorable and useful to give one's self up to private musings, than to open pratings. Yet we think that he acts more worthily who takes another course. A high-minded man cannot keep his thoughts wholly to himself, but is always feeling that his breast is too narrow for them. He feels that there is a kind of bond between the writer and the reader, which he may not weaken or sever. He longs to have his mind merged, in some measure, in that Public Mind which thrills and heaves with the great enterprises of the day, and carries, in its purposes and decisions, the fates of nations; and he yearns, with even a solemn eagerness, to pour his little notions into the mighty tide of Thought. There is a lofty and responsible pleasure in the act, which a great soul would not willingly forego.

And then, again, even to more common people; persons who are not strongly swayed by such high considerations-though few who think at all are strangers to the feeling-yet, even in their case, there is much advantage. When one's opinions have stolen out into the public ear, he knows that they are no longer within himself. By that act he has signed away his right to them, and sent them out, with all their faults upon them, to meet the eye and undergo the judgments of discerning men, beyond his correction and control. He knows that he cannot again recall them, to receive a stricter review, and go forth again in a fitter dress; remembering that the decision of the ancients has long become the custom of the moderns, that "nescit vox missa reverti." The very idea, therefore, that he is committed, tends to make him careful to be correct in thought and language, that so an unsparing yet impartial public may do justice to his sentiments, and rightly estimate his powers. Correctness, then, and lofty pleasure,

are two benefits which come from writing for the press. arguments, one would think, to lead a man to attempt it.

Sufficient

"But to write in College!" And why not in College? One advantage, at least, may be safely claimed for writing for the press once in awhile during a course of preparatory education; self-acquaintance in style and mental power: for, be assured, that though you know yourself in your room, you may not in print. And now, having presented our notions, we advise all sons of Alma Mater to appear in this Magazine. Whether your genius prompt to sweet Poesy or calm Philosophy; whether your taste lead you into the broad domain of far-reaching Science, or the depths and breadths of Civil Polity, a study still more splendid in itself and momentous to our country; whether witty or grave-spoken; rest assured, good readers, that the pages of this generous and clever print are ever open to your trials and your fame.

EARNWALL.

EDITORS' TABLE.

THE printer has left us just room enough for the Table, gentle Reader, to inform you that there is no room for any. We have quite a number of morceaux, which had been intended for your gratification; but they have gone grumbling back to the shelf, and must patiently wait till the next Show.

"Full many a flower," etc.

Such weather as this is enough to freeze one's ideas in the air before he can condense them. Indeed, a friend informs us, that his notions all turn to snow-flakes as soon as formed, and trouble him so much by getting into his eyes as he moves round College, that he has resolved to give up thinking and crawl back to the three months' torpor from which he lately recovered, and wait for the return of Spring.

We trust those numerous gentlemen who have forgotten the observation on the cover of the Third No., will find their memories quickened by the appearance of this, We venture to promise two more Numbers, this term, and so bring our task to a close within the allotted period. The absence of two members of the Quintumvirate ought in all reason to excuse any remissness hitherto.

Two or three articles which have been crowded out of the present, will appear in the next or succeeding No.

In the article on "The Stage and the Drama," (p. 120 of this Vol.,) the printer inadvertently omitted the usual marks over two or three quotations.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

I Do not think it a fantastic notion, beyond an ordinary imagination, that I liken each human being to a volume. Though he be not illustrious, neither an Alexander, driving his invincible wedge of valor and enthusiasm deep into hostile armies, nor a Milton, reaping with gigantic energy the fields of thought; though no more could be said concerning him than, " He lived, he died"-it is enough, it is his history. Upon his first introduction to the scenes of life, he opens his eyelids to the beams of heaven; with very great solicitude his parents determine his name, or his title-page, as I would call it, and his volume of life commences. Day after day, as time rolls on, page upon page, barren, it may be, of lofty and stirring incidents or deeds, nay, almost a total blank, is added to the growing book. And now he advances to his close; his last record is set down, and his " Finis" is his tombstone.

It is from this consideration that I look upon the world as a vast library, and the various countries and districts as sections or alcoves in it; for it assumes a superior aspect and interest by this method of contemplation. But the most wonderful circumstance connected with this establishment, and that which determines its distinctive character from others of a similar nature, where musty tomes of departed worth, of bewildering science, of embodied genius, are hoarded, is, that every volume within it is animate and incomplete, and, so soon as the breath of existence is fled, and the mortal scroll sealed, it is