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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.-Conducted by the Students of Yale University. This Magazine established February, 1836, is the oldest col. lege periodical in America; entering upon its Sixtieth Volume with the number for October, 1894. It is published by a board of Editors, annually chosen from each successive Senior Class. It thus may be fairly said to represent in its general articles the average literary culture of the university. In the Notabilia college topics are thoroughly discussed, and in the Memorabilia it is intended to make a complete record of the current events of college life ; while in the Book Notices and Editors' Table, contemporary publications and exchanges receive careful attention.
Contributions to its pages are earnestly solicited from students of all departments, and may be sent through the Post Office. They are due the ist of the month. If rejected, they will be returned to their writers, whose names will not be known outside the Editorial Board. A Gold Medal of the value of Twenty-five Dollars, for the best written Essay, is offered for the competition of all undergraduate subscribers, at the beginning of each academic year.
The Magazine is issued on the 15th day of each month from October to June, inclusive; nine numbers form the annual volume, comprising at least 360 pages. The price is $3.00 per volume, 35 cents per single number. All subscriptions must be paid in advance, directly to the Editors, who alone can give receipts therefor. Upon the day of publication the Magazine is promptly mailed to all subscribers. Single numbers are on sale at the Coöperative Store. Back numbers and volumes can be obtained from the Editors.
A limited number of advertisements will be inserted. The character and large circulation of the Magazine render it a desirable medium for all who would like to secure the patronage of Yale students.
All communications, with regard to the editorial management of the periodical, must be addressed to the EDITORS OF THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE, New Haven, Conn.
in terms of Psychology it might be called an “indefinite somewhat.” It is as seasoned as the elms, and perhaps older, dating back to our patron saint himself, and tracing its source to the tobies of ale with which that hearty gentleman tempered his trials in India. Or it may be the gift of the little squad of students who gathered around Rector Abraham Pierson at Killing worth, and received their diplomas at Saybrook. In revolutionary times it was counted as a heritage; Yorktown and Lexington are witnesses, while the battered flags stacked in Alumni Hall are also witnesses from the Rebellion. Mere mention of the names of Linonia and Brothers, with their zealous campaign committees scouring Connecticut for sub-Freshmen, and the hot, fierce debates enlivened by spread-eagle oratory suggest a later history.
Now, it reveals itself when the eleven, instantly disentangling itself from the scrimmage, leaps into the line, and gains more yards than the umpire's watch clicks seconds. And it always presides at the Spring games of topVOL. LX.
spinning and hoop-rolling, was even once suspected of sanctioning an evening spectacular on the steps of Osborn Hall, wherein a Senior class, so the story goes-robed in white, and basking in the electric light, serenaded the guests of a neighboring hostelry. There is little doubt however, that it surreptitiously aids the Freshman Glee Club, and that it lengthens the arms and increases the lung capacity of the batters and fielders of the postprandial campus games.
More seriously, it tempts the scion of Phi Beta Kappa to postpone his bedtime, and consecrate more oil to his philosophical investigations.
The Fence is its habitual lounging place, whither with strange magnetism it allures and attracts, binding classes together, and interweaving friendships.
The grumbler says that the legacy has been spent, squandered before he entered college, or vanishing altogether during his Freshman year. Another feels that it has not been squandered, yet simply asks himself whether as Yale changes, and as new environment succeeds the old, the legacy will remain intact, or become transformed into something unfamiliar and hard to recognize.
Changes are characteristic of Yale and always have been, from the time of the sky-blue structure erected through St. Elihu's generosity, to the era of a new quadrangle imbedded in composition sidewalks. The panorama has been constantly moving for nearly two centuries. The transition is emphasized at the present time, inasmuch as men now in college have witnessed the first onslaught against the Brick Row as well as the supremacy of new dormitories and a new gymnasium. Such changes mark the growth of the institution, and are welcome because they are essential. Nor is the evolution confined to architecture. Yale's thought and method change, and new ideas leap into existence only to be pushed aside the instant they become trite. Custom follows custom, and even tradition shapes itself according to the caprice of the hour. The old debating societies transferring their energy to athletics have abandoned the art of oratory, while the Glee Club, no longer respecting the boundaries
of Connecticut, carry the rhymes and melodies of the Carmina Yalensia across the Mississippi, and down to the Chesapeake. Even the old Fence, crushed under the weight of a big recitation hall, collecting new timber, has grown up again on other ground. New customs are numberless, with the Promenade, and Omega Lambda Chi night in the van; more are still in embryo.
But the legacy is closely entwined about the old Yale, clinging fondly to the Brick Row, and fastening its tendrils upon every crevice where sentiment affords lodgement. Yet the associations connected with some antiquated door or hingless blind of North Middle are no sweeter than those which shall in time cluster about the long-legged window-seats of Welch, or the panelling of Vanderbilt. The union is more intimate. until scarce a year ago, men popular and unpopular, melancholy and athletic, studious and musical— Yale's bigger half have been huddled together, unconsciously fostering and moulding the heritage which they acquired. Suddenly there is a new classification: new dormitories rise up, South College and North Middle vanish, and the legacy so long centered in one spot no longer has a center. Perhaps the classification is natural, and separations may be necessary. Nevertheless they are divisions, and are marked by the height of the wainscoting or the size of the window panes, and the legacy wanders over a wider space, ever becoming harder to preserve and less easy to enjoy. New classes feel the difficulty, receiving
. the inheritance through their own experience rather than from the example offered by a community comprising all sorts and conditions of college men, sheltered together behind one long line of brick and mortar.
Well lighted and well ventilated rooms in comfortable dormitories need not dissipate the legacy and scatter it to the winds. If it feeds alone upon the crumbling walls of antiquated barracks, and nourishes itself on the mould of a past century, it surely has no place here now.
But it is not so narrow as this, nor has it shrunken so far as to be penned up in a corner of the University. In its