TO OUR READERS.

THE peculiar position in which we are placed, will doubtless supersede the necessity of our making to you any formal bow, and authorize our coming at once to terms of familiarity. Yet, should there be any who would deem such a course uncourteous, or who would prefer a more fashionable introduction, let them dismiss their complaints and be quiet, as our Treasurer has already been instructed to call upon them at the earliest practicable moment, and obtain some favorable expression of their regard.

Without more ado, then, we at once give you, one and all, a hearty greeting, and say to you, be of good cheer. Be kind, too, and considerate-be generous, and expect not too much from those to whom you have intrusted the charge of your Magazine; and in return, be assured that whatever care and labor can accomplish, that you shall have at our hands. To sustain, however, the position which a prosperous existence of near eleven years has given to our "Maga,” it will be necessary that you yourselves add a warm and energetic support. Your own interests are involved and demand it of you, as the reputation of the Magazine is inseparably connected with that of its patrons, and even should no other motive prompt, yet the fond associations that cluster around this, the only bequest of those who have preceded us, call for thus much of your sympathy. Wend along with us, then, gaily and cheerily, through the rich fields of Fancy, or enter the recesses of sober

and earnest thought-gather with us the gems of Poesy, as they sparkle by the wayside, or cull the flowers that blossom around, and our journey will yet prove a smooth and pleasant way.

Once more, then, let us bespeak that favor which has been so liberally extended to our predecessors, and although we may not equal them in contributing to your pleasure, yet may we hope to make some slight return for the confidence you have reposed in us. At present, we can only tender you our thanks; but hereafter we shall endeavor to present you with something more acceptable.

With feelings of gratitude, we remain,

Readers and Classmates,

Respectfully,

YOUR EDITORS.

HONOR to the brave of the olden time! Such a tribute from all is justly due to the Past, clothed as it is with glorious memories; but from none can it come with better grace than from those who reap the fruits of all those slumbering deeds which prepared the advent of an age of peace and liberty. Few, most probably, are those amongst us, who, in the flush of youth, with high hopes and stirring spirits, have not at times wished for a return of those thrilling eras. In fancy they loom up before us, glorious with splendors, while around them cluster all the sympathies which are ever the share of departed greatness. Upon the Future we look as upon an untried friend; but in the Past, every mark and feature remind us of some well-known event, so that in time, even its eccentricities become dear and cherished tokens of remembrance. For this reason it is that the days of Chivalry have ever been the pleasure-grounds of the imagination, and many a young spirit, could it but hold for a moment the Wand of Prospero,' would roll back centuries of civilization, that it might partake in the gay pastime of tilt and tournament. That such feelings originate in the exuberance of life and passion, and are not the result of calm, cool judgment, is self-evident. Yet it is equally clear, that fancy could never cling to the visions of those days, were they, as has been often charged, fraught with crime and horror.

To the lovers, then, of true chivalric sentiment, no apology need be made for the intrusion of a subject so foreign to the tone of the age in which we live. The fascination which once lured the chevalier to

court the path of danger and glory, is but a more intense expression of the feeling which incites the mind to retrace his actions, and such sympathy as this ensures an approval. To the amateur it opens the vein of minstrelsy, while to the student of history there can be no more pleasing recreation than to revert for a moment to the time when France was one vast tilting-ground, when Spain was the home of the troubadour, and England was in truth "merrie, merrie old England." Indeed we can envy no one whose soul has become so sensual in its cast that he can fail of being pleased with the delicious, dream-like mystery which attaches to the chivalric age.

Its influence, too, is no less beneficial than agreeable. There is an emotion elicited by communion with those brave old times, that tends greatly to exalt and purify human nature. It is the contemplation of nobleness that excites our own generous feelings, and if we find for ourselves a model of excellence in the Past, consecrated by time and the general approbation of mankind, it is far more desirable than when joined with the faults and foibles of those around us. The music of by-gone ages is but the requiem of ambition-the dirge of the greatest and the highest. Bold and towering spirits who sought the light, alone remain to us; and in no page of history can be found a more brilliant array than in the record of Chevisance. We all are forced to admire its heroic deeds, and whilst admiring, imperceptibly do we fashion our own minds after the beautiful image. In it we behold, not as has been represented, the last relic of barbarism, but the chief element of the new glory which was dawning upon the world. Its destiny was to soften the asperities, without detracting from that strength of character which Feudalism had impressed upon nations, and gloriously did it fulfill its duty. The milder emotions of the heart were called into play, to temper the strong flow of passion; Love was elevated from a gross appetite into a beautiful fiction; Religion was wedded to arms, and faith, meekness, bravery, and honor, became the attributes of knighthood.

In fancy we may recall the age of Chivalry, but in reality never. Its mouldering remains lie buried too deep even to be summoned up by the rod of the magician. The mimic sport of war-the wandering minstrel--the knight, with his glancing armor and gaily caparisoned steed-the days when music, mirth, and wine, flowed round the festal board-the innocent pleasure unrepressed by the cynic sneer-when bright eyes adjudged the prize of gallantry and prowess-have all forever vanished. A confused array of dazzling images is the only legacy bequeathed to memory, and even those are but faint shadows of the things that were. Like the half-effaced impressions of a dream, we retain but just enough to excite our curiosity and interest, yet even that little assures us, that,

"Blithely, then, to fancy seeming,

The wily web of Fate was weaving."

It also assures us of a fact much more important, to wit: that we cannot now realize fully the strength and beauty of the new intellect then