One such thorough, laborious, exhaustive effort, gives more discipline, trains and evolves the powers of mind more completely, secures more real skill and confidence in debate, than any and all the other exercises of our Public or Class Societies. For the sake of such training, such discipline, we might well afford, were it necessary, to sacrifice a very large part of the advantages of the weekly debates. Happily, however, experience has confirmed what reason taught,-that the weekly debate and the Prize Debate are the complements of one whole, mutually dependent, mutually helpful; the former inducing readiness, facility, dexterity in argument; the latter promoting accuracy, depth, completeness.

D. H. C.

Discontent.

WE are told that a prophet, when the gourd which shadowed him from the sun had withered, uttered the words, "It is better for me to die than to live." We may smile in our wisdom at the idea of any one desiring to depart from life for so slight a cause; yet, if we examine our past histories, if we look carefully into our hearts, how often will we find, that this wish has arisen in our breasts and trembled on our lips, for reasons as insignificant as the loss of a shade-tree! There is no need of the queries of a Horace, or the chaste lamentations of an Addison, to teach us that too many have

"Eyes to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint."

The eager hopes and longings of youth, the fierce rivalries of manhood, the remorse and despair which so frequently accompany age, show us more plainly than any poet or essayist can picture it, that no period or condition of life is free from that spirit, which has the power to change a paradise into a purgatory-the spirit of discontent.

That this feeling of dissatisfaction is universal, our personal observation, however slight it may be, will abundantly testify. The deep, tragic sorrows that stir the soul, that cloud the heart, and cover up the world in a shroud, though different in form, are of equal force in the extremes of condition. The proud owners of a castle do not bend in more overwhelmed prostration, when the son of their affections and

the heir of their splendor is taken to his narrow house, than do the lowly couple of a cottage, when the green sod is laid upon what remains of him, who was the light of their hearts, the pride of their life, the staff of their age. The Ettrick Shepherd, in that simple ballad, "Cauld is the blast," makes the grief of the poor peasant's widow no less poignant, than that of the Macleod of Geanies; and in so doing, exhibits his acquaintance with human nature.

Now sorrow generally brings with it discontent, and as there are none whom sorrow does not sooner or later overtake, so I think there have been few, if any, who have enjoyed a really contented life. History, indeed, tells of one Diogenes, yet I imagine that even that cynic's seeming contentment arose from an excess of discontent. He requested the great conqueror to allow him the sunlight-the freest of nature's gifts-not because that would satisfy the cravings of his soul, but because, weary of life and disgusted with the world, he saw nothing on earth worth asking for.

Now, it may be asked, what is the origin of this principle, which is so universal-which has displayed itself in every period of the world's history, in every stage of human progress? It seems to me, that much of our discontent may be traced to a doubly false estimate of life. We underrate our own position in it: we overrate the position of others. From this false estimate spring corresponding false contrasts and desires. The man of bodily labor, longs for mental labor; and contrasted with his own condition, he thinks it one of perfect ease. And yet, with this wish much is often connected, which is strange and inconsistent. You will sometimes hear a man, whose toil is physical, speak with emphasis of the comparative idlenees which his fellow enjoys, whose avocation is intellectual. Yet the man who thus envies the scholar's indolence, finds it a painful task to write a simple letter on the plainest incidents of domestic life; not because he wants the ability or intelligence, but because the use of his mind in this way is unfamiliar to him. The farmer contrasts his position falsely with that of the scholar, by looking from his own muscular exertion to the scholar's muscular repose. But he heeds not the paleness of the student's cheek, or the glisten of his eye, which shows that his retreat has been no fair Elysian bower. He reflects not upon the anxieties, the fears, the leaden hours of prolonged exertion, which the library door shuts in.

The man of private life desires the distinction of public office, but he thinks of its power, separate from its toils; of its splendor, separate from its dangers; of the glory of success, separate from the

shame of defeat; of the brilliancy of its outward show, apart from the gnawings of its concealed vexations. He sees not those agitated hours, which are hidden from the world: he beholds, in a word, the Lumley Ferrers of the drawing-room and the parliament house, and forgets how this embryo premier appears when alone. Our country would not, I believe, be so overrun with demagogues, if the young men who think of engaging in politics would only consider, that to widen a man's relations is frequently to multiply his enemies; that to place him a state, which many desire to obtain, is to place him in a position which many will endeavor to embarrass; which many will seek to render miserable; that it is to place him in a position exposed to envy, jealousy, misrepresentation and strife; and that all the torments will haunt it, which it is in the power of ambitious rivalry or disappointed competition to invoke.

These things, I presume, have been said hundreds of times before, and will in all probability be said as often hereafter. They may be truisms, but life is also a truism; for, though it changes in many respects as man grows older in history, yet, in its essentials, life is but the repetition of itself. I am aware, however, that there are many whose discontent does not arise from the cause I have mentioned-a false estimate of life—but whose enthusiasm has been dampened, and interest in life weakened, or perchance utterly destroyed, by failure or ill success. A man may see his fortune moulder, and this is not without sore affliction. In our condition of society, say what we may, poverty is not only a misfortune, it is a great and serious evil. It requires a stout heart to bear it manfully, a believing heart to bear it meekly. And many a one could bear it both manfully and meekly if he had only to bear it alone. But this is rarely the case. Sorrows do not come alone, and a man seldom endures a misfortune which does not likewise affect others. To the utmost verge of the space a man occupies in life, his adversity will surround him with fellow-sufferers, and there will be those who press near his heart, and whose silent looks are worse to him than tortures. When a human being beholds the fabric of his exertions leveled, in which he has treasured many expectations; when he sees the object for which he has labored and lived, snatched from him by the cruel hand of fate, just as he is about to grasp it; when all the future appears dark and gloomy, without even a ray of hope to illumine it-however the happy may wonder, however the wise may rebuke, however religion may condemn or virtue forbid it, human nature will triumph, and the pilgrim will too often long for the quiet of the grave. But this is not the worst. The loss

of this world's goods will doubtless fall heavily on the spirit, but the wound, though deep, is seldom incurable. For a while the mind may be uneasy in its change of position, but it will at last accommodate itself to circumstances. There is a worm more destructive than that which consumes our health or property—the worm of insatiable passion. Desire that once passes the moderation of nature, is disease; it is worse than any ordinary illness, because it is in the mind. It becomes an inward and rooted malady. A man is thus a victim to his own best advantages. His intellect, active only for transient sensations, finds stability in nothing, because his interest is in nothing which has truth or stability. Calm pleasures he cannot even feel, for upon his languid sensibilities they have no effect. Common virtues are to his stimulated imagination only dull proprieties-things that only befit the unideal, but have no grandeur for souls that have a capacity for more lofty soaring. Quiet feelings of esteem, that seek not fine words, but content themselves with kindly deeds-friendship, that assumes not to be either poetic or passionate, but is satisfied to show itself in homely fidelity, cannot allay the cravings of his morbid fancies and desires.

Such is the character of those persons who assert that they have lost all interest in life. If this be true, it is their own fault, for life is ever rich in interest. Everywhere we see sights and hear sounds that give us pleasure. The tree, the flower, the rock which the most barren country is not without, are things to stir a heart which is not dead to natural sensibility. Even in the filthiest city lane, the abode of misery and crime, you may look upward and there behold the sublime and overhanging sky. But in that filthiest lane, there will be objects in reach of hand which far excel in interest the arched sky,

"With the heauty of its starlight and the glory of its sun."

Take the ragged boy, who wishes to black your boots; wash his face, and look into his eyes, and there-soiled and neglected though it beyou will have the image of Him who kindled the sun and built up the dome of the heavens.

There is one kind of dissatisfaction, however, which I would not deprecate. It is that which the great minds of an age experience, when they behold the human race checked, in its onward march, by the preponderance of a false principle or doctrine. As a distinguished modern writer has well remarked, "There are men, to whom the spectacle of society in a state of anarchy or immobility is revolting, and almost unbearable; it occasions them an intellectual shudder, as a thing that ought not to be; they feel an unconquerable desire to

change it, to restore order; to introduce something general, regular, and permanent, into the world, which is placed before them." Yet, even such men, if they would succeed in their object, must be careful not to let their discontent get the better of their prudence--they must have the patience to wait until the corn is ripe before they apply the sickle.

It is often said, (and by men who have lived long enough to know,) that there is no such thing as happiness in this world. I rejoice that I have not yet become a convert to this belief. We cannot enjoy here that perfect bliss, which we hope for in the mysterious hereafter; yet I have frequently thought, that if men and societies-instead of the high-flown and unmeaning mottoes which they now so often choosewould select some such one as "Always make the best of it," and act upon it, there would be much less croaking about the "misery of life." If we students here at College would only earnestly endeavor to be satisfied with the course which has been laid down for us-no matter how defective we may consider it-the number, who have to mourn at presentation day over the loss of four of the best years of life, would be greatly diminished.

J. M.

44

Have we a Tom Hrown" among us?

WHO has closed "Tom Brown," leaving him before the Doctor's grave sorrowfully busy with his eight years' memories, and has not said, 'what an honest book!' What grander testimony could be given to the worth of a book? What praise would be more welcome to an author than the simple words, you have written sincerely?' Reviews might give their praises with liberal hand, but they would be worthless to him, if only some one of those he wrote to, should tell him you have told us some truths-we are better for it.' Simple words enough, and yet, how they would make his heart thrill with exultation, that he had not written fruitlessly.

English and American students have much to thank Mr. Hughes for, in his manly pictures of a school-boy's life. He has not tried to cover over a fault or add a virtue, to make his character more perfect.