CHEMISTRY, I believe, is one of the popular departments here. All my friends seem to have electives in it, including even Simpkins, who is studying mineralogy to improve his eyesight. Heaven knows there's need of improvement, for he is near-sighted, cross-eyed, and, according to Dr. Jeffries, color-blind. I don't elect Chemistry; in fact, I know so little about it that at the dinner-table, when the Freshman who has heard Cook's lectures asks me to "approximate the H2O," I stare stupidly at him, and cannot understand that he wishes me to pass him the water.

Yet there was a time when I prided myself upon my knowledge of Chemistry, and gave every spare moment to the science. "Sed tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis." Excuse the quotation; only the dead languages can express my feelings. Before I came to Harvard I studied a couple of years in a Western college, and there I grew interested in Chemistry. My teacher was a man of many subjects, who might be classed as a Professor Intelligentiae Generalis. He taught Chemistry, Moral Philosophy, Botany, Geology, and Greek, besides occasionally some other branches when either of the other two professors happened to be ill, and he spent his evenings in reading themes. The college laboratory, too, was in a rather uncertain condition. There was one large room in the building, - the college building was really very fine, and a steel engraving of it was put each year in the catalogue, - and on one side of this room were a couple of dozen bottles, some test-tubes, and an air-pump; on another side were some rocks, a few fossil bones dug up in the neighborhood, and a huge wasp's-nest presented by one of the students; on the third side was the library, consisting of about four hundred volumes, mostly publications of the American Tract Society; a large picture of the founder of the College, - a red-faced man gazing thoughtfully into the distance while an open volume of Plato rests on his knee (the founder made his money by selling mules to the government, and, it was currently reported, could not read, so the Plato, I fear, was an artistic fiction) - hung on the fourth side, and about it were three or four chromos and a plaster bust of Clay.

This room was the laboratory, museum, library, and art gallery, and since I left, I understand that a melodeon has been put in it, so that it has also become the music-room.

As might be expected, my opportunities for learning Chemistry were rather limited; but my zeal was great enough to overcome all difficulties. I fitted up a laboratory in one corner of my own room; and there I concocted all manner of horrible compounds. There were objections to this private laboratory. A peculiar odor was wafted into the entry every time I opened the door, and several violent explosions made my neighbors fear lest I should some day blow the house to pieces. But I had the true chemist's indifference to smells, and the greatest confidence in my own skill.

The college, as perhaps it is needless to state, was for both sexes, and just across my entry there roomed a couple of young ladies, one of whom was in my class. They both protested strongly at first against my odoriferous experiments, but presently I succeeded in arousing some enthusiasm of the science in my classmate, and invited her in one afternoon to witness some interesting experiments. We had a very pleasant time, and I was gaining great renown as a chemist, when I discovered that the sulphuric-acid bottle was empty, and that before I went any further I must have it filled. I left Nell in my room, and hastened down town to an apothecary shop. I had to carry back not only the acid, but also a large bundle, so I carelessly thrust the bottle, lightly corked, into my pocket.

Just how it happened I never knew, but when I had nearly reached the house I found, to my horror, that the bottle was uncorked, and the acid was gently trickling down over my clothes. I hurried on, but quickly the damp feeling was succeeded by a burning sensation, for the acid was beginning to eat into my flesh. Thoughts of the Inquisition, of martyrs, and of a four-column article in the local paper upon my untimely death flashed through my mind, and I dropped the bundle and began to run. I dashed up the stairs and into the room. Nell was there, waiting patiently for me. "Quick!" I yelled; "the ammonia." She handed it, and I poured the whole into the remnants of my pocket. There was an explosion, a woman's scream, a blinding smoke. When this smoke cleared away I was alone, and wearing the most demoralized suit of clothes that ever a poco dreamed of.

It is all over now. It seems as if it happened ages ago; but do you wonder that I don't elect chemistry?