beguiled with their touching strains the labor of the rustic, or threw the magic spell of music around the fierce, proud noble.

Suffice it, then, if we have recalled a pleasing remembrance of what has already sometime charmed you, or directed another's attention, for the first time, to a gold vein in the strata of English literature.

EDITORS' TABLE.

"We're with you once again."

FRIENDS, rejoice with us-for, lo! emerging from a cumbrous mass of manuscripts, types and presses, Maga, clad in her old-fashioned and homely garb, appears before the tribunal of your criticisms; she bespeaks from you a welcome. Plainly, then, kind Reader, your Editors, after the usual trials of patience and temper, have the pleasure of offering you the second number of the Yale Literary Magazine, in the earnest hope that it may serve you in whiling away some lonely hour, or in brightening, with however faint a ray, the path of your every day life. As usual, it comes before you somewhat motley-now sombre, now gay, still, as we hope, giving forth the reflection of manly mind and honest feeling. Do you require an apology for our tardy appearance? If so, it will be necessary only to remind you that we are devoted admirers of the customs of the Past; and, besides, unsophisticated Reader, you could hardly imagine the effect that would certainly be produced on the mind of our Printer, could he once suppose that a number of this magazine was to present itself punctually before the public. Really, you must excuse us. The awful responsibilities of Editors have been so frequently placed before you, accompanied by such touching appeals to your generosity, that we at present despair of successfully pleading our numerous and manifold duties, trials, and experiences. Still we must say, in the words of the melancholy Toots, "could you only see our legs, when we take off our boots, you might form some idea of Editorial attachment."

Well, Reader, having with all due propriety delivered ourselves of our bow editorial, we will straightway imagine Maga as safely deposited in your hands, and by you duly canvassed, praised, and quized.

"Since last we met" our College world, like the greater world around us, has witnessed many stormy and eventful scenes. Standing behind the curtain, as it were, we have gazed upon both actors and spectators with mingled emotions of pleasure and

sorrow.

At one time we have chuckled joyously over some rare morceau of fun and humor, that sprang up among us like the bubbles in our Heidsick; and anon we have sorrowed for the broken and vanished hopes, that, demon-like, seemed to hover amid the naked branches of the noble elms around us.

A brother editor is jogging our elbow, and whispers in our ear, "I say, Charley, touch 'em up on the subscriptions a little." Well, be it so. Reader, pardon me for dimming your joy at the close of this long term; but yet I am compelled to touch, however slightly, upon that, I fear, too dolorous subject, the payment of your subscriptions.

In plain terms, we must have the pleasure of fingering our dear Reader's dollar, and that too upon the delivery of our next number, "for which," in the language of the celebrated Capt. Cuttle, "overhaul the prospectus and when found make a note of." Be assured, kind friends, that the recent discoveries in California have not as yet produced sufficient impression on our money-market to render your pockets any the less worth picking. So pay up, gentlemen, and in addition to the internal satisfaction you will experience, you shall behold Maga in conscious security, strengthened by your support, shining in a brighter and purer light.

A friend of ours, a curious specimen, by the way-who persists in believing that this world and everything in it are only to be laughed at, has just broken in upon our retirement, solemnly affirming that he has heard a new one. "Dr. Chapman's," we

inquire rather tremulously-we confess we are sensitive on the Dr's reputation. "No, no;" but here it is-will you have it, Reader! Le voila :

A son of Erin finds himself one day in the woods sporting. A dead shot, he soon covers his game, a venerable owl, industriously employed in shutting out daylightBang-Paddy secures his bird, and holding it up by the wings distended, speculates on its species. Recollecting as we all do the curious delineations on some of our old fashioned tomb-stones, where the soul is represented as taking its flight in the shape of a head furnished solely with a pair of wings, Pat drops the "bird" in horror at the sacrilege he had committed-exclaiming, "Holy Vargin, and av I shot a cherubim!"

We are forced to believe that a sadly erroneous idea is in circulation as to the effect that cares and duties have upon the minds of the Quintumvirate, and we are occasionally favored with a species of "Dismal Howl" over our lamentable sufferings in the cause of literature. To all these "sympathizers" we can say that we should be certainly grateful for their condolence, was there the slightest occasion for calling it forth. Latterly, we have fairly luxuriated in" assistance," and how can we sufficiently thank that amie inconnu who generously seeks to relieve the monotony of the Magazine? Occasional complaints reach us-for instance, one college wiseacre declares that the Magazine has lost its interest in his eyes, since he cannot add to its articles the names of their authors. An essay to such an one is, alas! but a

"Rat without a tail."

Rest assured, Reader, that such opinions are not yet of sufficient numerical importance to induce your Editors to change the course they have determined to pursue in the matter. Again, some blinded wanderer in the swamps of literature, finding the specimens he had selected unfitted, in our judgment, for immortalizing the discoverer, vents his spite upon the Quintumvirate in angry remonstrance and withering rebuke. Awhile ago, we were highly honored by the poetic effusions of one of these, our quondam contributors. Here you have it :

A SQUIRTIMAGIG.
Dedicated to the Editors.

I want you now to understand,
Ye Editors, I golly!

The matter which I take in hand,
It is your tarnal folly.

A while a go I writ a peice,
The stile was quite imposin,
And that you'd sartin publish it,
I was entirely sposin.

Wall! by and by your book come out,
I tooked to find it sartin,

But when I'd looked it all thruout,
There wasn't even part in.

Now such perfromances as that
Dont suit ye'r uncle Siah,

And if you does'nt print the next,
He'll give you Jesseniah.

By all the Gods and Godesses!

I'm 'stonished like darnation,

To think that men of common sens,
Haint got appreceation.

Now what I think, I say,
It surely is distressin,

To think that you will throw away
Whatever is impressin.

Two cents I've got to pay the post
For you to git this fixin,
"Twould pay the boat hire for a ghost
To get across the Styx in.

Now don't ye vote to coffin this,
As if it was un civil,

I see you now a lauffin is,
So hand it to the DEVIL.

ZEKILL.

Reader, while working your way through the above, did you not candidly think it worthy of insertion, both on account of style and execution, among the famous "Biglow papers;" or in this case did you consider it, to use the expressive language of another, but as the " pewter imitation of a pinch-beck original?" Reader, get the "Biglow papers," by all means-read and ponder. Would you like a sample? Speaking of the crime of war, the author affirms,

Again:

"If you take a sword and dror it
And go and stick a fellow thru,
Gov'ment wont answer for it,
God 'll send the bill to you."

"And you've got to git up airly
If you want to take in God."

"All very fine, as far as force goes," you will say; but did it ever strike you, Reader, that forcible expression was not of necessity coarse, or that vulgarity did not constitute strength and vigor of intellect !

And so, Friends, it appears fated that Maga should appear before you almost in conjunction with that most beautiful festival of the Church-Christinas! Alas! the Year is growing old. Advent is nigh, and then with the steady current of this Lifestream, another Period of existence will break upon us.

"Quod adest, memento

Componere aequus. Caetera fluminis
Ritu feruntur."

We owe much to these warm summer-like days—as if the sunshine of June had broken
in upon December, finding therein au excuse for the tardiness of our appearance; but
excuse me, Reader, here they come. Rap-rap. Come in. Enter Editors, looking
daggers. Your humble servant politely offers chairs, cigars, &c., and then takes his
position, awaiting the fury of the storm.
Here it comes:

Sharp. "When's that number coming out?"
Glum. "Do you call that poetry?"
Flash. "En avez vous assez mon-cher?"
Slim. ""Tis the voice of the sluggard I hear."

Quick and keen the reproaches fell from the lips of the amiable fraternity. Protes tations we saw were useless, when a lucky thought saves us. Quickly the unlucky devil of an Editor seizes one of his "light browns," and after lighting it sends the heavenly aroma circling around the forms of his brethren. Human nature could no longer bear it-and lo softly, steadily in that unearthly cloud, the rugged brow, the frown relax, and heavenly humor reigns instead. Then in that dim, shadowy obscure, hands are grasped in renewed confidence and amity-then follow editorial good things -" what they say of us"-you yourself, kind Reader, are discussed, and after all Joy again gladdens our saddened heart.

"Generalizing," as Moses Marble would say, we would declare to you, kind Reader, that our hearts are fast warming towards the Magazine and its friends. "When we

were first acquaint" we were troubled with dire forebodings as to our probable success in obtaining support. Need we say, that we can now express our heartfelt gratitude to our numerous friends. Friendly words, approving nods, cheering praise, help us wonderfully but all this we expect from college friends. Contributions, subscriptions, these are the magical and unfailing tests of the favor in which you hold us.

6

The Devil must be heard on the score of hand-writing-he affirms solemnly that writers for the Lit' must pay great attention to their penmanship. In this we heartily concur for really it is impossible to answer for the appearance of the Magazine, when manuscripts are sent us but partly legible. Reform-Reform, Gentlemen.

TO CONTRIBUTORS.

Thanks to Eva for her "rhymes." We have pledged the fair unknown with a full bumper of the rosy,' and pray earnestly that she may find some sure resting-place in her memory for Maga.

'The author of the "Prospects of our Country" will excuse us for not publishing it when he recollects that it is impossible for us to admit into the Magazine, even the statement of a political principle that admits of discussion. The article, in our humble judgment, exhibits sufficient ability to encourage us in hoping for a renewal of the author's favors.