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Beloved READERS :— The following song, which we beg leave to introduce to your notice, as we make our customary congee, is hereby respectfully dedicated, by the author, to the honored and benevolent subscribers to our College Maga. He hopes and is not alone in the hope that it will stir up in them new feelings of sympathy for us, who are compelled by day and night to till our barren brains for thought, in tho vain hope of obtaining therefrom a monthly harvest. Surely if ever the servile drudge in a Russian or an English mine—if ever the goaded, lacerated slave on a southern plantation—if ever the patient, plodding ox in the dusty highway-if ever a sickly operative, bowed down by long hours of ceaseless toil—if ever a pallid student wanted by midnight vigils—if ever, in fine, any mortal man anywhere, crushed by hopeless and endless labor, deserved your sweet compassion, surely we ought not to be without your warmest sympathies. But let our author plead for us :
THE PLEA OF THE WEARIED EDITORS.
With bodies ready to sink,
Were busily using their ink-
Poor, weary, worn-out men;
They sang this Song of the Pen.
Before the morning bell;
After the midnight knell.
Slaves on a Christian soil,
A never-ending toil!
Till our brains begin to swim ;
Till our eyes are bleared and dim!
Ink, and paper, and pen,
And we curse our fellow men.
Whose soul, and eye, and brow,
Havo pity on us now!
Write! write! write!
Till the sun in the east emerge,
An Essay and a DIRGE!
We are not afraid of him;
His form so dark and grim!
So colorless and wan,
Of devil or of man !
No calm for the troubled breast;
Whose surges never rest.
A curse—a life of pain-
That ever crazed a brain !
From early morn till night! Work! work! work!
By the flickering candle light ! Pen, and paper, and ink,
Ink, and paper, and pen; Till our brains are turned by the payless work
We do for thankless men. Write! write! write!
In the cold December storm! And write! write! write !
In the summer mild and warm, When through our lattice creeps
The wooing, welcome air, And our hearts are swelled by its kindly touch
With a feeling resembling prayer.
Of rest from our weary toil,
That blossom on the soil !
A moment of relief,
And calm our frantic grief.
Of sweet relief from all
As with an iron thrall !
Our labor must be done;
For the sleepy bell tolls ONE!"
With bodies ready to sink,
Are busily using their ink-
Poor weary, worn-out men :
They sing their Song of the Pen.
Seriously, dear reader, we must be allowed to put in one more, our final plea. It is well known that our Magazine has not for many years sustained itself by mere subscription. Since its first establishment—now nearly fourteen years—it has never been a benefit, and often a burden, pecuniarily, to those who have served as Editors. During the present year our subscription list has risen somewhat above the usual average, but still not enough—in case every person on our books were to meet his individual responsibility—to equal the current expenses of the year. A large number of these subscribers, however, have not paid as yet their annual subscriptions; and what we now ask is, that every receiver of our Magazine will, by paying us at once for what he has received, enable us to meet the heavy obligations which are now resting upon us. The Magazine has never been worth to us a farthing-nay, it has been rather a cause of no sinall labor, vexation, and difficulty. Yet we have borne all cheerfully, feeling the responsibility of our position, and striving as well as we knew how to do our duty; and no generous man would therefore wish to have us, after a year of arduous labor, as freely given as it has been freely received, involved in pecuniary liabilities which others are in duty bound to meet. We trust that nothing farther need be said on this to us unpleasant topic.
Our foreign subscribers can send by mail to our address; and as we are in a few weeks to transfer the Magazine into the hands of the newly elected corps of Editors, we trust that they will see the necessity of sending as soon as possible.
We are favored this month with an unusual number of exchanges. Want of space prevents us from taking any particular notice of them, and also from gracing our plain table with an occasional selected flower. We must be content with merely naming them, trusting that at some future time we may be able to give one and all a more extensive greeting. We have been favored with the fifth and sixth numbers of the present volume of the “ Nassau Literary Magazine;" and also with the first and second numbers of the first volume of a new monthly, “ The Collegian,” published by our brethren of Dickinson College. We welcome you with all our hearts, brother Editors, bidding you meanwhile God-speed, and a long, long life. We have also before us another number of the “ University Magazine," as rich and promising as any of its predecessors ; and also the last number of the present volume of the Amherst “ Indicator," containing the valedictory of its first corps of Editors—quite patheticquite. It brought tears to our eyes as we thought of the time, so soon to come, when we - And last, but not least, we have another number of the “ New England Offering,” fresh from old Lowell. We almost fancied we heard the whirr of busy machinery as we sat down to peruse it. We think of paying a visit to those Lowell factories—it will come nicely in the line of our studies in - Political Economy'-article on “ Manufacturing.”
We trust that our readers will pardon the lateness of this number. Circumstances beyond our control prevented its publication at the close of last term. We will strive to be more punctual in future. Those puns are unavoidably reserved for the next number. They will then appear, positively—“no postponement on account of the weather.” Our punning editor has suddenly left town, on business, it is said, of immense importance. Any information respecting him, will be thankfully received by his bereaved associates.