POSSIBLE HISTORY.

WILL I take a ticket to the Philosophical Club's Chamber Concerts on Physiology, - "a subject at once useful and interesting"? No! I won't take a ticket, and I won't let any one else, and I'm going to prosecute you and the Philosophical Club and the Rum Club and the Society of Naturals. It's shameful that such organizations should exist! They drive me crazy! I've been to readings, concerts, lectures, and consultations in Sever, Harvard, Boylston, and University for five months now, and the end must be near. What man has done man can (en)du(re). But the pitcher may go to the bat once too often. If the Calendar goes back on me, I feel - nay, I know - that the Somerville Society of Naturals will welcome to its midst one of Harvard's bright particular stars. Good Heavens! what do I know? - or rather, what don't I know? At a Greek reading, I can tell you the style of worm they used for fishing in the Pliocene Age, and how many fish they caught on an average with each worm. I can tell you more. I can tell you why worms crawl, why the Nine muffs, why Juniors jodel. At a lecture on the Vedas, I could have told you from actual observation the length of a Latin foot, and could have proved that the Romans wore pigtails, and had plank walks. During a lecture on the Italian classics, I proved to myself by the theory of curves that Napoleon was only Hannibal in disguise, and that the Graian Alps were so called because the Confederate States of America (whose uniform was gray) made their last stand here against the terrible Swedish conqueror Semiramis.

The last lecture by the Historical Club proved to me conclusively that the Valtelline Pass was a monument to the discovery of Vaseline - first used here to keep the trunks of Pyrrhus's elephants from chapping, and their chests from feeling the ill effects of the failure of the army's supply of St. Jacob's Oil. ["Cures all affections of the lungs!" "The 'only' panacea!" "Millions in it!"] Finally, at a German reading, when I tried calmly to enjoy the beauties of Goethe, I found myself perfectly competent to give an elaborate and exact account of the natural history of the gopher, Apollinaris Water, and Freshmen. But this isn't all. If this chaos of uncertainty, this boiling, seething torrent of confusion, this benumbing consciousness of the unreality of the existent, took possession of my mind only while actually at the lectures and readings, there would be some balm in Gilead to soothe and heal my burning, frenzied, demon-haunted intellect. But there is a fate upon me. A brooding curse from Ate sits within my mind, driving me on and ever exacting the penalty of - Ha! ???, Sospiter, Mein-Gott-in-Himmel, Mon Dieu, Good Lord! Save me! Save me! See, see! That form! Gone! Where am I? Who are you? A member of the Philosoph -? As Cromwell remarked at the battle of Bull Run, "This is a crowning mercy." Revenge is sweet! Verily, the spoiler is spoilt, the fowler snared in his own net. But no - soft you now! On maturer consideration, I won't kill you. I'll only give you a ticket to the lectures of the Philolog -

[N. B. The above sufficiently explains what follows.]

From (and after) the Boston Herald of Feb. 29, 1881.

DREADFUL TRAGEDY - DOUBLE MURDER - RIVALRY BETWEEN COLLEGE SOCIETIES CAUSES A GHASTLY CRIME!

This morning, as the janitor of Holden Chapel was descending the cellar stairs he stumbled over what appeared to be a sleeping poco. On bringing a light a dreadful sight presented itself to his view. Two ghastly corpses, their clothing torn and bloody, their gaping wounds filled with matted blood and dust, lay at fearful length on the floor of the cellar. One look was enough. With the cry of murder on his lips, with blanching cheeks, in wild-eyed terror, the man of many duties fled the loathsome sight. With the utmost difficulty he was quieted sufficiently to give a coherent account of what he had seen. Finally, accompanied by our special reporter and one of the editorial board of the Echo (the college daily) he returned to the scene of the blood-curdling tragedy. A thorough investigation of the two bodies revealed the presence upon each of tickets for lectures to be given under the auspices respectively of the Philosophical and Philological Societies. It seems that the most intense rivalry has existed for some time between these two organizations. This fact affords the clew to the whole mystery. We can picture to ourselves the meeting in the lonely cellar (far from mortal care retreating); the first words of greeting; the conversation on various subjects; the first mention of either society; the lowering of the brow and darkening of the eye when at last they saw each other in their true light; the ill-suppressed wrath; the last fearful outburst of ungovernable anger; and the final death-struggle when - But let us draw the veil.

The whole College is seething with excitement, and every outlet of every building is barricaded and guarded to prevent the fearful loss of life that must inevitably follow any collision between the adherents of the rival societies.

M.A DOWN the umbrageous path,

Fit lover's way, I haste. Ahead it turns

And winds through dark and leafy catacombs

To where she sleeps, my love, upon the moss.

The pattering fountain by her side makes play;

The orioles bending from the ethereal sky

Of whitened blue to her green nook resort.

Fresh are the young spring buds which just have burst

From blackened bark; fresh is my heart within, -

Although full long ere incense-breathing morn

Began the east to blanch, I chased the deer

Across the hill and down the shadowy vale

Where bend the thick-grown alders, and the brook,

By violets and the red-lipped pulpits hemmed,

Gurgles amid the stones. Yet, love, I come

Not tired, though inclined to quiet. Cool,

O fountain, seatter large melodious drops,

And you, O trees, with branches interlaced,

Shut out the obtrusive sun, whose torrid rays

Our wealth of placid joy would fain invade.

I bring no favorite book for company, -

I need none where the violets glancing up

With heaven-blue eyes, and the dark soft-strewn moss,

And breezes fanning soft, caress her form

Who is to me than all the world beside

More lovely, and more restful than the night.