cautiously and faintly; for they may unwittingly commend a dreaded rival. Sophomores are engaged in hard study, or harder frolicking, and have no leisure for general literature. Beside, they are usually pert and conceited, as we were last year, and as Freshmen will be next year. They have attained the height of wisdom, and, too well satisfied with themselves to indulge in either praise or censure, they sit, like the gods of Epicurus, wrapped up in their own divinity, or glancing with supreme indifference at the world outspread beneath them. The Freshmen are my chief, my only comfort. They look up, not down. If slightly green, they are honest and unhackneyed, and may well glory in their verdure. I have carelessly thrown some of my writings in the way of two or three of them, and on being asked how they liked them, they gave them at once a warm, full, free-hearted panegyric-a panegyric dashed by no "adversative particles," no restrictive "howevers," no qualifying "buts." Catch a Sophomore, a Junior, or a Senior praising without a "limitation"! Catch a weasel asleep! Well do they know the calculating misers!—that every ounce of eulogy expended on one, is just so much substracted from the general stock, and diminishes each share-holder's "small peculiar." But oh, how I love them those three unworn, unselfish, unsophisticated, enthusiastic, eulogistic Freshmen! I have taken them under my especial patronage. They came here "bears," and I have made them" lions." I have treated them to the fattest oysters, the choicest wines, and the most flavorous Havanas. I even introduced them to my sweetheart—my sweetheart now alas! no longer. Their delicate taste and courageous honesty deserve all encouragement, and I will protect them even against my own classmates.

I stated that this new mania had ruined me as a companion. In truth, I have become silent, abstracted and unsocial. Once, among my friends I was esteemed a capital companion, a merry blade, the prince of "good fellows." I had no ambition, no envy, no jealousy, no broils. I was good-tempered and communicative, healthy and happy. I had pocket-money to meet all reasonable wants, and liberality to share it with my friends. I possessed just that grade of small wit and repartee (puns excepted) which, tickling but not wounding, gives life to ordinary conversation, and gently exhilarates an idle hour. Then, too, after books, my strongest predilection was sociable communion. What was to prevent me from being a pleasant fellow? But now, apart from the secret and restless excitement of my mind, I am afraid to converse naturally and freely lest I say some good thing, worthy of print, but which I cannot print, because I should not only endanger my secret but I should be thought repeating myself-a sad reputation, for one who would be thought inexhaustibly fertile. Moreover, the mental, as well as the material soil is limited in productiveness, and, if overforced, will soon exhaust itself. Therefore I must husband my resources, unless I wish to consume and fritter away in ephemeral, retail exhibitions the treasures which I intend shall display their congregated blaze in Fame's eternal temple. For the last twelvemonth I have declined in society to be either wise, or witty, sententious, or pathetic, taking a

prudent care not to weaken my productive faculty, or lessen my exist ing store. Hence I have grown so dull and taciturn, that most of my former friends have abandoned me, and the few who remain, seem apprehensive, and with reason, that I am falling into a kind of moping, melancholy madness. And what vexes me most of all, is to find, as I usually do, that the witticisms, which I had suppressed in company, and which were of just the caliber for social pleasantry, are either forgotten, or have no point on paper.

But this "cacoethes scribendi" and fame-craving thirst, which "grows by what it feeds" on, has also impoverished my purse. Beside the great consumption of pens and paper, and the cost of curious, auxiliary books, and the post-payment of half a dozen long articles per week, I have spent a great deal in purchasing witticisms of all kinds, and particularly puns. Of these latter I am a great admirer, perhaps because I cannot easily make them myself. But my chum, whom I shall call Harry, and who always was an inveterate smoker, has now become an inveterate and most prolific punster. He was always skillful at these funny little word-twists; but since I began to buy them of him, his fertility is so surprising that one would think he studied nothing else. The traffic commenced as follows. One day last autumn, just after I had commenced authorizing, he remarked that the handkerchief, given as a love-pledge by Othello to Desdemona, might with double justice be called 66 a gage d'amour," (gage de Moor), because it was taken from a Moor. I half suspect that this is not only a poor pun, but an old one. But then it so tickled my fancy, that I desired greatly to sport it as my own, and I tendered him a dozen cigars for his copy-right. Now Harry has a great many wants, and but a small allowance. Beside many smaller items, his cigars alone used to cost him a yearly $100. Perceiving here, like a genuine Yankee, a chance of driving a lucrative trade, he resolved to coin his wit into dollars, and grow a tobacco crop in his brain. From that moment, then, he has been incessantly punning and smoking at my expense. Sometimes, as I look at him beneath his cloudy canopy, rolling the fragrant vapor from his mouth, puff! puff! puff! and ejaculating a hail-storm of puns, pop! pop! pop! I take him to be a steam-driven punning-machine. At the moment they always seem worthy to sparkle in some of my projected articles; and so we generally strike a bargain. His price varies, according to quality, from one cigar to twenty, and as the cunning rascal can read in my face the exact grade of my admiratoin, he rises correspondingly in his charges. I have already recorded above 570 of his puns and bon mots, which have cost me about 4000 prime cigars, or $0.20 apiece. It has precluded my buying any books or clothes this term. The worst of it is, that by the time they grow cold, they appear worthless, or else I can never manage to introduce them with apposite felicity. He has very honestly observed his part of the contract in never repeating them elsewhere. In fact, I believe he disposes of his whole crop to me, as he says I am the most liberal buyer in the market. But I strongly suspect him of bringing some of other people's growth to

my warehouse, and sometimes I find he has made me pay for jokes as old as Hierocles.

Yesterday morning he imposed on me grossly as to quality. He remarked that, were a flea to bite a man in a sense opposite to a priori, he might be said to "phlebotomize” (flea-bottomize) him. He saw by my grinning mouth and sparkling eyes that I was greatly pleased with his conduplicated pun, and he would not bate one jot from a half-dollar's worth of cigars and porter. I furnished them, and soon the porter went into, and the cigars out of his mouth. But in the evening, reflecting that there are no veins in that part of the body, and that if there were, fleas do not apparently draw blood, I warmly insisted on his taking back the pun as defective. He as stoutly refused, alleging that at the time of sale he did not know the article to be unsound; and that, at last, its faultiness was chargeable to the first nomenclators of our language, who should have given the name of "flea" to the "musquito." The dispute ran high-I demanding of him, and he stubbornly declining, to refund the money. He finally told me that the money was out of the question, and the porter was irrevocably lost; but that, as the exhalations of the cigars were still floating about us, he would get Professor S- to decompose the air of the room, and whatever tobacco-smoke should be disengaged should be bottled up for my benefit. This was adding insult to injury, and I have never been so angry with him during our three years contubernation I spitefully offered to return him all his rascally puns for an accepted order for a coat at K's. He coolly replied that "he would not give a button for the entire assortment ;" and he furthermore advised me, "if I wished to get rid of my 'old goods,' not to offer them here, where they were at a discount, but to go peddling them off through the country, where they might command a handsome premium.' This, too, when they were all of his own brand! I could have thrown him out of the window! But he is in most points a good fellow, and for " Auld lang syne's" sake I reluctantly forgave him.

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Last night, by way of peace-offering, he invited me to a supper at -'s a frequent resort of his, and where he owes an old and considerable bill. Well, the fowls were broiled comme il faut," the wines were perfect, and all the accessories in admirable keeping. Harry, who is something of a gourmand, was high in spirits, and profuse in eulogy, frequently exclaiming "Excellent! superexcellent! Really, Mr. I must give you infinite credit for your suppers." Our worthy host, who is a bit of a wag, at last drily responded, "Why, friend Harry, I dare say you are sincere; and so am I in saying, I hope I sha'n't have to give you infinite credit for them, too!" I was so delighted with Harry's confusion, and the goodness of the repartee, that I ordered fresh wine and cigars by way of bribing them both to silence, till I should have the honor of ushering it into the world. The joke cost me $1.871, and here you have it bran-new, as I believe, though perhaps it may have taken an airing years ago in Joe Miller's venerable omnibus. But this business is getting too expensive, and I begin to think the employment of this "foreign stock" as dishonest as

it is difficult. I am resolved, therefore, to dispose of this "sinking fund," which has nearly sunk my funds, and to rely, hereafter, on my own "floating capital"-the resources of the minute. I offer the whole lot to any aspiring young punster, Freshman or Sophomore, for $25,000 which is less than one-fourth of the cost.

I come now to the final and crowning sorrow brought on me by my new and devouring passion In a certain sweet quarter of this sweet "City of Elms," there blooms, you must know, a blushing rose-buda fair, young girl just ripening into womanhood, whom I had the happiness to appropriate, amidst her deepening glow, and while "the dew of her youth was yet fresh upon her." The purity of her mind, the grace of her movements, the music of her accents, and the liquid lustre of her eyes, I shall not attempt to describe-for they are indescribable. Her picture will be drawn best and briefest in that golden line of Allan Ramsay:

"Wild, witty, winsome, beautiful, and young."

We had come to an understanding that not long after the close of my college course, we should endeavor, by entering into a joint-stock partnership, to divide our sorrows and multiply our joys." I will call her Fanny-for that is a sweet and pretty name-though there is never a Fanny in the wide world so pretty and so sweet as she. Once a week, or so, I was accustomed to pass with her a few delicious hours, and her soft, endearing ways, and the thrilling hope of one day calling her my own-all my own-were to my spirit like a constant inhalation of exhilarating gas. One evening, last April, I called on her and after conversing on various topics for a while, I took up the April No. of the Magazine. Now I must premise these five facts-that I had subscribed for this Magazine in Fanny's name; that, though I sometimes wrote for it, Fanny did not know it; that she was a little inclined to innocent satire; that I had an article in that very No.; and that, as I since think, that article was particularly empty, silly, and bombastic." Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus," you know. Prompted at once by an Author's craving for praise, and a lover's anxiety to see whether his mistress admires his effusions, I asked her, as if casually, how she liked the "Blank verses to a Dove." "You don't know who wrote them, do you, Charles ?" said she. (I'll call myself Charles, through that's not my name by a long shot.) "No, indeed," said I, carelessly; "I happened to look at them, and haven't read them through yet." Well, then," replied she, "I think they were written by a great goose, and would better be entitled 'Lines to a Gosling.' shocked, petrified, speechless, pulseless. Had she glanced at my face, she would have seen a horror that would have made her pause. But she continued innocently, "They are well called 'blank' verses, for they seem blank alike of melody, of poetry, and of reason." author's nature could endure no more. Quivering with suppressed passion, I remarked, "If you think so very meanly of these verses, Miss Fanny, it is clear I never can suit you; for I think them excellent in every sense." "Charles," said she, laying her hand kindly in mine,

," I sat

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"you must be the author, and I did not know it. I have unconsciously wounded you. Forgive me." I threw her hand from me, replying in a heightened voice, and with a face of scarlet, "I suppose, Miss, you judge me to be its author because, as you say, it is devoid alike of harmony and of sense." "Dear Charles," said she again, with a sweetness that should have soothed a tiger, " you would make but a poor expounder of oracles. You are mistaken. I conjectured only from your sudden anger, otherwise causeless, and I beg you to forgive me. Beside, I read the piece but hastily, and from a closer perusal, might form a different judgment." But I was in no coaxable humor; for the devil was unchained within me. "A thousand thanks, Miss, and more, if you desire them. But I do not covet from your kindness a hypocritical praise of what you had not the taste to appreciate." "Well, Sir," said she, with flashing eyes, "if this be a fair specimen of your temper, you well said that you would not suit me." "I know not how that may be, Miss," I replied, straightening myself up a la ker; "but I am quite certain you will never suit me; for your sarcastic tongue would fire a statue. Good evening Miss." "Good evening Sir," said she, now rightfully indignant, "I wish you joy of your amiable disposition. Would you not better take with you your Lines to a Gosling'? Should the little musician ever grow to healthy goosehood, it may furnish additional feathers for your cap." How I wished her to be a man, that I might kill her! Swallowing my gorge perforce, I stalked up town in about the tallest rage I ever boiled in. That night I read over with savage gusto Juvenal's Sixth Satire-the most merciless invective ever launched by brutal man on the head of gentle woman. I even commenced translating it with the purpose of sending her a copy. But "with the morning cool repentance came." I despatched her an apologetic note, which was returned unopened. In the evening I called on her, sending in the most suppliant excuses. But she merely wrote me a "curt notelet," stating that "what had given me a hasty fever the previous evening, had produced in her a chronic chill, and that consequently she was, and should continue to be indisposed to be seen." Not being of a temper to humiliate myself by excessive submission, I have never called on her, or sent card or message since. But I have seen her several times in the street, pale, serene, and beautiful, and I have turned away with a quick, sharp pang at the heart, followed by hours and days of blue-devilish despondence and amorous regret.

This closes the chapter of my woes. On each particular I could have enlarged almost to infinity; for fresh thoughts were continually popping their heads in, with looks so imploring, that it was almost impossible to tell them "not at home," and slam the door to in their faces. But I did not wish to "bestow all my tediousness on your worships.' By the foregoing recital you perceive that this pen-and-ink pestilence, this type-oid fever, has distracted my philosophy, poisoned my literary pleasure, annihilated my social standing, turned my purse into an 66 exhausted receiver," and breathed a deadly blight upon my love. I have in vain tried every sanatory regimen, physical and moral. I have read