"We, who believe life's bases rest Sure that, while lasts the immutable decree, Shall not be unbeloved of Thee." Lowell's "Three Memorial Poems" are his most longcontinued ones on this strain and fairly glow with patriotic thought, expressed in the choicest, happiest terms. The language can boast of few, if any richer selections than the following: "O Beautiful! My Country! Ours once more! And letting thy set lips, Freed from wraths pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare. What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the nations brought beyond compare. What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else and we will dare !" GEORGE FRANKLIN WOOD, '92. NEWSPAPER ENGLISH. EWSPAPER English is notoriously unlike College NEW English. The object of the present paper is to point out some of the lines on which newspaper English has developed and the reasons. 6. College writers are polished rhetoricians. Every period is rounded. Each sentence is pointed with the nicety of an arrow. According to time-honored precept, the student gathers his data, arranges his authorities, spreads out his notes, and, with Crabb's Synonymns" at one elbow, and Webster's Dictionary at the other, he begins. He writes a few pages, to be reviewed and rewritten, rearranged and polished on subsequent evenings. Finally his thesis assumes definite shape; the different parts nicely balanced. are logically arranged, an appropriate introduction is written and an effective and dramatic ending. Once more he gathers up his loose sheets of manuscript, this time for a careful and final revision. Very likely at this stage he will rewrite entire portions, expanding here and cutting out or condensing in another place. The task is finished. All that remains is to copy it-a mere mechanical labor of an hour or so at the most. The methods and environments of a newspaper writer are so different, that it is not surprising the results should be widely dissimilar. In the first place, he has no time for reconsideration, for rewriting, revision or polishing and refining. Write he must, and that at once. The time when those fatal "forms" shall close is measured by hours and minutes, more often by minutes. He has something to say. He says it as best he can. During his brisk walk from the stormy ward caucus, from the crowded court room, from the scene of the accident or the murder, from the home of those mourning for their dead, or the parlors where the wedding festivities go merrily on, he has turned over in his mind the scene he is to describe. The salient points and incidents shape themselves unconsciously in his mind. The "story" is yet in embryo. He may not be able to tell a single sentence he will write, and yet there is a consciousness, a feeling, amounting to certainty, that words will be fresh coming as soon as he can put pen to paper. Perhaps the assignment upon which he is working is the most important piece of news for the day's issue. He knows as certainly as though he held the paper in his hand that within the hour the press will be rolling out thousands of papers in which will appear a full account of this particular affair. Knowing all this, he sits down and writes. The "story" is born. Often the note book is never taken out of his pocket, except for reference, in case of names or statements, or remarks transcribed verbatim. So page after page is written, the "boy" comes for "copy," and comes again. Now he is waiting for the last page, while, by that time, the first is already in type. It is finished. He looks at his watch. The forms close in ten minutes! "Will they have time to get up that last take,'" he wonders casually, and turns to other duties. In an incredibly short time the evening paper is brought in, damp from the press. He opens it, and, for the first time, reads what he has written! It is This is the process. What is the result? What effect does this extempore writing have upon the style? It produces and is producing the so-called newspaper English. An evolution, perhaps not of the best type, but of a type and a distinct type of English style. It is no more the English of Charles Dudley Warner or Emerson than thesis is the English of Shakspeare. It is the offspring of the times, a child of our hurrying century. And yet is it not the English of the people? Does it not represent more nearly than any other branch of literature the English language as it is spoken to-day upon our streets and at our breakfast tables? a style strong from its rigid simplicity, often picturesque from its ruggedness, and almost always readable. Short-telling sentences crowd fast upon one another. Involved sentences are rare, relative clauses are few, and the parenthesis almost unknown. It is unadorned with figures of speech, but it has the vigor and nervous energy of a writer who has something to tell. The influence of newspaper English is already perceptible in modern literature. It is to be hoped that it may not be entirely unwholesome. F. G. PERINE, '87. Hartford Daily Times. PLATONIC. I I. HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to be a maid, For we quite agreed in doubting if matrimony paid. Besides, we had our higher loves, fair Science filled my heart, And she said her young affections were all bound up in Art. II. So we laughed at those wise men who say that friendship can not live We would be friends, and friends as true as ere were man and man; III. We scorned all sentimental trash-vows, kisses, tears and sighs. IV. We shared our secrets and our joys, together hoped and feared; With common purpose sought the goal that young Ambition reared. We dreamed together of the days, the dream bright days to come; We were strictly confidential, and called each other "hum." VII. And many a day we wandered together o'er the hills, I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the ruined mills, And rustic bridges and the like, that picture makers prize, To run in with their waterfalls, and groves and summer skies. VIII. And many a quiet evening, in hours of full release, We floated down the river or loafed beneath the trees; And talked in long gradation, from the poets to the weather, IX. Yet through it all no whispered word, no tell-tale glance or sigh We talked of love as coolly as we talked of Nebulæ, And thought no more of being one, than we did of being three. "Well, good bye, chum !" I took her hand, for time had come to go, My going meant our parting, when to meet we did not know. I had lingered long, and said farewell with a very heavy heart; For although we were but friends, 'tis hard for honest friends to part. XI. "Good bye, old fellow ! Don't forget your friends beyond the sea; XII. And then she raised her eyes to mine, great liquid eyes of blue, "SONG OF THE SHIRT" AND "CRY OF THE CHILDREN." SEV SOPHOMORE TERM ESSAY. EVEN years after Thomas Hood's death, a beautiful monument was erected over his grave. For this pur pose the rich contributed generously, but, by far, the greater part of the necessary fund was made up by petty offerings, shillings and pence, of poor artisans and laborers, needleswomen and dressmakers. In this way the London poor testified their gratitude to the poor, struggling poet who sang so sweetly and well the sorrows and trials of their daily life. Beneath the image of the poet, which rests upon the structure, are sculptured the words which he himself devised for his epitaph-" He sang the Song of the Shirt.'' Although a voluminous comic writer, he is and ever will be best known as the author of this simple and pathetic ballad. It was the impulsive work of an evening, and is, therefore, as a work of art, open to technical criticism. Yet the object is so charitable and humane, the subject so sad and pathetic, that one does not pause in the reading to consider exactitude of expression. The style, although inferior to some of Hood's lyrics, is, nevertheless, smooth, flowing, always pleasing, and, even when portraying the darkest scenes, rapid and mirthful. Thus the song opens, and, with the same "dolorous pitch," in the most pleasing of language, and in strong, rapid verse, does the author, with a hope that "its tone may reach the rich," sing his "Song of the Shirt." There is never any lagging or dragging, but quickly, strongly, vividly is painted the picture of "poverty, hunger |