storms," and yet "no zone be a stormy one," may be plain enough to this writer, but we submit whether it is equally so to any man of sense. After perpetrating several such grotesque blunders he complacently remarks, "If such stuff comes of going to Yale, young men had better go to work; or, as a last resource, peddle the Scalpel—especially this number." We cheerfully admit that "peddling the Scalpel" ought to be the “last resource for any young man come of honest parents. The writer has shown too quite conclusively that he has “just enough of learning to misquote." He chatters and grins quite amusingly over the expression, “winging death,” which he has changed from "winged death," in the original. He concludes the whole with a song "of his own making," which from its flatness and ribaldry could hardly come from a more dignified source than a graduate of Sing Sing. He has a happy faculty of saying in effect what Dogberry said in reality—“"But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.”

But leaving the reviewer to the ignominy of his own society, let us muse on the beauties—not of nature-every body does that--but of the street-to specify, say Chapel street. How beautiful it stretches itself before us like a loafer after dinner, with its rival pavements of brick and flag-stone-while ever and anon at short intervals of time and space is heard the sweet laughter of (soda) fountains, though these have by this time nearly all dried up. How the ear is enlivened by the artless profanity proceeding from mixed companies of Hibernian and Anglo-Saxon juvenility! With what insufferable punctuality, just at Post time, does the steam horse locate himself under the bridge for his daily smoke! How the street is blocked here and there with what appears to be animate silk and satin! This latter appearance reminds us of certain "Refleckshins on passin throo the thousand Isles," part of which, with a trifling alteration, will apply here:

"O what fary sene-it 'pears to me

As ef the street, as fur as eye can see,

Had with a shower of damsels reddy made

Been lib'rally peppered."

Speaking of damsels, we hear that a friend of ours has recently passed through a great sorrow, and in the transition, we fear he made use of some very intemperate interjections. "It was all along," he said, "of that

We give the account as related by an eye and ear witness.

crinoline."

I saw a youth careering down busy Chapel rue,
Following the wake of a silken skirt that flashed before his view.
He heard the "countless laughter" of the "many-twinkling" feet,
The music of the bronze-tipped heel- the patter all complete ;
He neared and peered most carefully to spy those "things" divine
But couldn't so he heaved a sigh and cursed the crinoline.

But as the skirt in question entered with rustling noise
The shop where "Uncle Sam" dispenses letters to his boys,
The youth immersed his dexter hand within his crimson vest,
Felt his blood-disseminator in a state of glad unrest.
Looked anxiously to see the polished patent-leather shine,
Alas! 'twas not a rainy day-he cursed the crinoline.

"Ach Gott!'

So says the enthusiastic Teufelsdrockh, and so say we. him wisdom.

Let experience bring In looking over our many exchanges, we have just met a few stanzas which we do not hesitate to declare inimitable. We doubt if any of our readers have ever seen anything like them. The pathos for its kind is unequaled. Lest we should mar in selecting, we give them entire. The language is that of a young and beautiful child to its mother. The artless disregard of rhyme, where the emotion is profound, is perfect. Here it is:

"Oh, do not sing that song again,

It makes me very sad,

I know you do not wish to pain
Me, though I'm often bad.

Why does it make me weep, I wonder,
Whene'er your song is sad?

Is it because I've vexed your mother
That your songs are never glad.

I do not like that wild sweet tone,
Its strains are sad and low,

'Tis like the gentle dove's low moan,

Oh! do not sing it any more."

We have not room for the closing lines, so that we cannot fulfill our promise to give it entire. We doubt not however that the above is sufficient to satisfy our readers. Reader dear, we are getting dry and we fear you are beginning to think so. We had hoped to write something worthy of your perusal but-let Horace explain our failure

Amphora coepit

Institui! currente rota cur urceus exit?

THE AWARD.

THE Editors having elected Professors Noah Porter, D. D., and James D. Dana, as graduate members of the committee to award the medal, have received the following report:

"TO THE EDITORS:

The undersigned having been appointed a Committee to adjudge the Yale Literary Prize, would report that they have decided the essay entitled “The American Statesman," to be most worthy of the Prize.

NOAH PORTER, JAMES D. DANA,

D. G. BRINTON.

The envelope accompanying "The American Statesman "being opened was found to contain the name of

LUTHER MAYNARD JONES,

and to him accordingly the prize is awarded.

THERE is a perversion of curiosity, with which, in the present article, we have nothing to do, except to set upon it the seal of contempt. It is that inquisitive, meddlesome disposition, that is perpetually prying into matters beyond its own sphere and mixing with affairs secret and sacred to a neighbor. This is curiosity off the track; a greedy spirit of inquiry without a sense of decency to guide it. A healthy curiosity is the desire to know that exists in every sound mind, the spirit of inquiry which longs to open all the doors of the vast Unknown and look in. Wonder is the soul-swelling and exalting emotion that flows in upon us as we receive and appreciate knowledge. Curiosity is the question-ask. ing propensity; the fruition at its successful indulgence is wonder. It