SATURDAY AFTERNOONS.

How many of the students understand the possibilities of enjoyment afforded by a Saturday afternoon in town? Don't be frightened by the conundrum, or astonished at the seeming absurdity of the supposition that Harvard students can be ignorant in such a particular. I am serious, and honestly think that to the majority Saturday afternoons are a bore, or at least are not made the most of. Unless the theatre or opera is attractive, not one man in ten knows what to do with himself. Billiards, and a dinner at Parker's or Maison Doree; is the unsatisfactory result. Now, to a man capable of enjoying anything higher, there are other resources than these, which it is my object to point out.

For once, leave your all-attractive Parker's and take a stroll with me. Yes, it is rainy, and muddy, and the narrow sidewalks of the "cow-paths" so blocked up with umbrellas, that the possibility of navigating your own through them looks dubious; but no matter, - all the better, in fact. The contrast of the beauties I am about to disclose to you will be all the more striking. At any rate, you can emulate Mark Tapley for once, and get some credit for being jolly. Let us step in here a moment. Ah! yes, this a picture store; but there are no pictures in America, you know. What is this? - sunshine, green trees, running brooks, cattle, farmhouses! Why, I thought I was in Boston! So you were, my dear fellow; but now you are in the middle of all the gorgeous warmth and beauty of a New England summer. Put away that dripping umbrella of yours, and let us wander down this lane. See that flock of sheep lying in the meadow yonder, close to that broken-down old wall, and the farm-house just beyond. It must be nearly six o'clock. These long summer days are so deceptive! Yes, there come the cows, followed by a brown-faced urchin. We shall be just in time for a warm glass of milk. Ah! here's richness! This is n't milkman's milk. What a magnificent Jersey! I often think a man could never get nervous or ill-natured, could he always have before him the picture of good nature and repose which is depicted in the sleek countenance of a well-bred cow. But come, we must catch this sunset from the top of the hill. Nothing to equal this in Italy, eh? Atmosphere there is too thin, and the sky too colorless. Just look at the reflection in the pond below you. You get the effect of infinite space below as well as above, - one sea of gold imperceptibly yet rapidly shifting into all the colors of the spectroscope. What wonderful massing of clouds, too! - Swiss mountains and glaciers with light and shadow perfect! Yes, it is getting dark, and it begins to rain. What? Tremont Street? Have I been dreaming? No; only looking at a collection of J. Foxcroft Cole's landscapes.

To drop the colloquial style, I think that the pleasures to be derived from the study of art, in Boston, are not fully appreciated. We have at least two good picture-galleries, where the latest productions of our own Boston artists are exhibited, together with occasional paintings of foreign schools. Then, too, there is the Boston Art Club, where frequent exhibitions are held during the winter months, to which admittance can with little trouble be obtained. To a real enjoyment of good pictures the technical knowledge of an art critic is by no means essential. In fact, the cardinal quality of a work of true genius is, that it commends itself to the appreciation of those ignorant of artistic rules. There is nothing that will so draw a man out of himself, and make him forget the petty annoyances of a work-a-day world, as the society of pictures. A book may fail to fix our wandering thoughts, because in reading an appreciable effort of attention is always necessary; but no effort is required to get into the spirit of a beautiful landscape, or to lose one's self in the contemplation of a beautiful face.

Well, so much for art; but is there no other resource at our command for the enjoyment of a Saturday afternoon? Certainly, there are the old bookstores on Cornhill and Washington Street. "Breathes there a man with soul so dead," that he taketh no delight in delving into a lot of old musty books, standard works of the writers of all time, - the firstborn of the art of printing, - handed down through many generations of book lovers, who have bequeathed us their thoughts and feelings in the form of marginal notes and comments? Take, for instance, an old epic, or some love sonnets, and the faded marking of these voiceless poets, who could appreciate, but not create, lends an added meaning to the lines, and proves that the true essence of poetry is there which appeals to the feelings of all man-kind. A reader's ticket to the Athenaeum will introduce you to a very paradise of books, and the very cosiest of places to read them in. I am convinced that surroundings contribute much to the delights of reading; and to no place does that indescribable, but always appreciable, literary atmosphere so much attach as to the Athenaeum library. It has become impregnated with the romance of the books with which it is filled. But space fails me, and I must be content with these few suggestions of Saturday afternoon resources, which, if acted upon would result, I am confident, in a more satisfactory disposition of the afternoon than is ordinarily effected.

S.