leon. For literary heroes, read the "Quarrels of Authors"---or the history of almost any great author as written by himself in his letters. Dugald Stewart devotes not a few pages to a disquisition which should be entitled "Reasons why philosophers are universally Bores." He shows conclusively, not the fact,—for that we may assume to be matter of common observation,-but that it must necessarily be so. The habits of mind which favor deep research and close reasoning are absolutely inconsistent with those which serve for the entertainment, or even instruction, of the passing hour. There are two capital comic illustrations of this truth in a little book lately published. In the first, Socrates, in the precise attitude of a modern street politician, is boring the yawning Alcibiades most unmercifully with some of his almost inspired discourses on virtue: in the other, Cesar is doing the same for Brutus and the "hungry Cassius" over measureless 1olls of the "De Bello Gallico:" a scene which is introduced, by the way, to account for the conspiracy that these two worthies set on foot against him!

These then, in fine, we consider to be the two great evils of this tendency to worship heroes made after our own image. First, that it gives false views of history, by fixing undue attention upon the lives of a few prominent men: and second, that it does not even pourtray these few favorites correctly, but gives to them exaggerated characters, not only untrue but dangerous, when thus held up as models for the future.

But we cannot leave the subject, without recurring to what we said at the beginning of the article,-that the error springs from a good and ennobling source. Were it not for the imagination that enables us to form these ideals, mankind would not as yet have taken the first step beyond the savage state. It is only when they wander into history and become tacked to historical names that they do harm. He must be a dull or low-minded boy who has never spent many an idle hour in glorious dreams of future excellence, unattainable save in such revery he must be unworthy the name of man, to whom his imagination has never painted an ideal happiness or goodness to be sought after he must be a weak Christian, whose thoughts have never risen above sense and reason, to contemplate in visions of faith the wonderful excellence of God, or the unutterable joys of heaven. Leave History then unmolested on the throne of the Past, let Reason scan with cold grey eye the Present: the Future alone, but all the vast, hopeful, dream-peopled To Come, is the gorgeous kingdom of the Imagination.

EDITORS' TABLE. Hammer.

"They unto whom we shall appear tedious, are in no wise injured by us, because it is in their own hands to spare that labor which they are not willing to endure." Hooker.

"Now they that like it may: the rest may choose." G. Wither.

Beloved Readers, we wish you all and singularly a happy New Year. It is rather late, we know, this 25th of January, for such customary wishes; but there are eleven months of the New Year still left for our prayers to take effect in; and if you are happy all that time, it will be longer, we dare affirm, than ever before in your life. Therefore may all who read the Indicator be happy "for the year ensuing." May every student that desires it take the Valedictory: may every one whose highest ambition lies another way, be a rowdy to his own entire satisfaction. May every maiden under twenty-five, have an opportunity to refuse three good ofers may those over that age, have as good a chance to accept one. In fine, may you all be wiser, happier, and better, at the year's end: and if this sineere prayer be accomplished, may all live to see not a "few more of the same sort left." So mote it be !

It is always pleasanter at a season like this, to look upon the future than the past. In the former we see happiness continue, and pain vanish: fair hopes float before our eyes, and good resolutions promise to make those bright visions real. But when we review the year that is gone, we see that it is happiness which vanishes, while pain alone clings steadfastly to us rough life: at our very birth,

"Sævior adstat,

Humanæque comes vito Dolor excipit; ille

Cunctantem frustra, et tremulo multa ore querentem
Corripit invadens, ferrisque amplectitur uluis."

The sylph-like forms of Hope have perished at the cold breath of Disappointment and our good resolutions have long gone to form an additional crossingperhaps for our own future accomodation,-in a place" which shall be nameless in this polite assembly!"

So we go on from year to year, and the delusions of hope form our only true happiness. Fortunate it is for us that we are so long in discovering the cheat: that we are so slow to learn.

"how day by day

All thoughts and things wax older,

How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,

And the voice of Friendship colder."

For themselves, the Editors have little to say. Since our last, vacation has come and gone. Of all that the Five did in those six long weeks, it booteth not

to tell. Suffice it to say, that we who write infested Amherst for the space of three weeks, after the term closed: (the memory of many will recall, we doubt not, a seedy-looking individual that lounged all day up and down Phenix Row, and hung around the Printing Office.) and to this heroic self-sacrifice, dear Reader, art thou indebted for the timely appearance of this our Indicator. Finally he vanished:

but

"Whither he went, or how he fared,
Nobody knew, and nobody cared."

With the term's commencement, back came all save Ichabod, who shooteth young ideas somewhere in the wilds of Worcester county. But owing to the inclemency of the weather, Editors' meetings have been few and far between: and for once the reader must forego all knowledge of the sayings and doings of the Editorial corpse.

OUR EXCHANGES.

We owe many and sincere thanks to them of the "Yale Lit," for the pleasure their numbers have afforded us. It is a "white chalk day" with an editor of the Indicator, when his turn at the "very last" arrives. Away goes Dugald Stewart into the farthest corner: heavy Brown of Edinburgh, is exchanged for the "light brown" of Havana: and forgetful of all his "naughty words" in dispraise of College periodicals, he commenceth with the Editor's Table and advanceth backward till he has finished the beginning.

Especial gratitude we owe you, kind friends, for the cheering words with which our appearance was greeted, and for the cordial grasp of sympathy extended to the luckless five to whose inexperienced hands our Amherst bantling has been entrusted. To these we would reply "as strangers yet not afraid:" for though not personally acquainted with a single member of your glorious Quintumvirate, we know that those who have alike gone through the toils and troubles of a College editorship,-heard a fanishing devil cry for Copy,-listened to the cutting criticism of Sophomore and Freshman,-stood by when one's own favorite effort was called a disgrace to the magazine,-and perhaps seen a monthly increasing ballance on the wrong side of the Publisher's books,-men, we say, who have alike learned thus "to suffer and be sworn at," could not long be strangers together. We would, therefore, brethren, that we might welcome you, one or all, in our humble editorial sanctum, and see the five pair of editorial boots beneath our (imitation) mahogany. But an ye come not suddenly, ere the glorious Plantations with which a whole-souled friend and whilome denizen of New Haven hath blessed us be vanished, we warn you to forget not those tribucos: for if ever there were a place cut off from benefit of tobacco, and condemned to oak-leaves and skunk-cabbage for ever, it is this dear, quiet, extramoral, intemperately temperate little cabbagegarden of an Amherst.

Furthermore be not angry with us if we follow a good example and appropri ate from your pages what has cost the various members of our editorial force buttons innumerable, and three pairs of "gallowses."

"THE COLLEGE BELL."

De gustibus non est disputandum.-HORACE.

THE FRESHMAN.

It ringeth, it ringeth-the matin bell

And biddeth us drink from the crystal well,
From the crystal well and the sparkling fount,
That glimmers on Learning's rock-based mount,
O'er valley and meadow and sun-lit dell
It ringeth, it ringeth, the matin-bell.

THE SOPHOMORE.

It ringeth, it ringeth! Confound the bell,
For the morning is dark as a hermit's cell,

And Tutors alone fro:n their slumbers creep,

Their consciences trouble them: they can't sleep.

I'm tired and weary—I don't feel well,

Yet up I must get. O! blast that bell!

The author of this delectable morsel winds up with the chant of a Senior to whom

"Their tones have lost their magical spell :"

but to us luckless Seniors of Amherst, condemned by a booky-hearted Faculty to morning recitations on Constitutional Jurisprudence (Caramba! how it sets our teeth on edge to think of it!) such strains would be like Yankee Doodle in Dartmoor prison, or Crambambuli to a man out of tin, credit, and-the other. OUR feelings are more truly described in the following extract from an atrocious parody, which bears upon its very face the marks of having been perpetrated in morning prayers.

“Not with coat, nor with jacket he covered his breast,

Nor with kerchief nor waistcoat he bound him,

But came like a Freshman just started from rest,
With his old plaid-cloak around him.

Not half his heavy task was done,

When the bell began to peal it,

And to get into prayers before they begun
He knew that he'd have to heel it !

Few and short were the strokes that remained,

Ere the last alarm was done,

He swore not an oath,-not a word he complained
But he bitterly thought of the run.

He thought how the monitor'd mark him down,

And Professor S. upbraid him,

But little he'd cared, had they let him sleep on

In the bed where last night he laid him.

Cætera desunt et non desiderantur.

We are sincerely obliged also to the Linnæan Association of Pennsylvania College for a copy of their "Literary Record and Journal." We have perused its really valuable articles with care, and though disappointed not to find a few words at least dated from the Editorial Chair-to us the most interesting portion of every College magazine,-yet we derived not a little both of entertainment and instruction from its pages. We should be glad to see it again.

To a friend we are indebted for a copy of the Nassau Literary Magazine: a beautiful periodical which we should be right glad to place upon our list of exchanges.

These are all the College periodicals of whose actual existence we are aware: but wherever there are others conducted by students' hands and speaking students' feelings, we would extend them a most hearty invitation to the acquaintance of our Indicator.

To the editor of the "Literary American," of New York City, also, we would express our obligation for his kindness in exchanging.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Death of Harrison" is a theme too startlingly novel for our sober pages. Oscar had better keep it till another President dies.

The Man of Uz" with his

"Respected family of ancient days,"

is not the man for us. Job was rather a patient man than otherwise: but we think he would have sworn, if he had been set to read the sixty-two lines of the blankest sort of verse, in which L. F. singeth most dolefully his praises.

We will not injure ***'s chance for the hand and heart of "C. L" by inserting the doggrel he has addresse to her, save the first verse, which is unique :

"Oh tell me not Cornelia dear

A sadness gathers round thy heart,
As anxiously 'mid hope and fear

You tremble lest you may impart

Some bitter cup in thoughtless haste.

To him whose joy and life are past (paste would be better rhyme, and not affect the sense materially.)

The anonymous gentleman who sent us a polite note from Prov. R. I., in execrable poetry, complaining that he had not received the three last numbers of the Indicator, shall have them if he will send his name: we cannot "guess" what one of our subscribers would be guilty of such doggrel.

"Reminiscences of Quodville, No. III," came too late for the present number. "Amherst and Amherst people" belies its pretended origin, by the plain marks of a feminine hand. "Gal-le, quid insanis ?"