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[LADIES in the gallery yawning at the frescoes; Little John and Robin over the clock. Below, a surging mass of heads and hats. Enter the Waterjug. A wag cries "Bring in the spouts." Loud laughter at this capital joke. Newspapers collected. The curtain is rung up and the Committee with their usual affable selfpossession arrange themselves on the dais.] MR. PRESIDENT—" Order, Order." (He smiles blandly at the gallery.)

Some

[The Librarian brings forward his list of books, with his best of looks. Some member objects to a book on the list: he has never heard of it ("Sit down, Sir"), and doesn't think anyone else has. (Laughter, and hear, hear.) For his part he prefers—(here he expounds his views on things in general). Another hon. mem. opposes "Bible, 4s. 6d." on the list. He doesn't see that the society needs any more theological literature; it has got on well enough for 50 years without a Bible, and can perhaps dispense with such a

HENRY V., Act I., Sc. i.

book. If they must have a Bible, let them get a 10d. one, as more chairs are wanted for the coffee-room. (Great uproar.)]

MR. P. "Order, Order." (He smiles blandly at the gallery.)

[Here an hon. mem. is understood to rise, and misunderstood to say something. Those near him think that he supported the Bible 4s. 6d. he preferred one with good print, and for his part he wished for an opportunity of studying a work which, he had heard, was a masterpiece of English style, and besides contained valuable matter for the comparative mythologist. Upon this a stiff hon. mem. with a little dignity, and his right hand planted on his thigh, wishes to ask Mr. President if this language is in order. ("Sit down, Sir.") He bridles up like a rheumatic jack-in-the-Box and asks," Mr. President, is this language in order?" Mr. P. not having heard doesn't know. Business.]

[An hon. mem. fills a glass of water and looks about uneasily while the house streams through the door. He doesn't

know whether to begin or not until there is order, consequently more go out. He drinks some water.]

R

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MR. P. “Order, Order." (He smiles blandly at the gallery.)

[He then begins (hands in his pockets) to approve of Cremation. He brings forward several arguments which he appears to think original and telling. He takes especial delight in one, namely that Cremation will do away with the school-girl sentiment about churchyards and graves. When relations are stored up in crocks in the house there will be less excuse for the namby-pamby flower-planting mania over mere material remains. He winds up by appealing (hands out of his pockets) to the Gigantic Spirit of Common Sense. (He subsides after this effort.)

An energetic member saws the air in fiery denunciation of Cremation. He wants to know what we've got to do with your gases and your innovations when there's the grand simplicity of your Resurrection. He guesses it's something more than sentiment to plant flowers over graves. He don't see the use of wasting time over your crotchets while a Temperance Society has got to be established in Oxford, and while a Conservative Ministry has got

to be put down. The house fills again rapidly while he goes on to expound his views of the state of society in Fiji, America, and other uninhabited parts of the globe.

A tender voiced member thinks that Cremation would imperil the Resurrection.

An impious fellow says that if it would that is a strong argument in its favour, for all the religions in the world consign the majority to the worse place, and in the interests of the majority the result that is suggested would be very desirable.

MR. RHEUMATIC JACK-IN-THE Box again asks the President if this language is in order.

MR. P. thinks it is not exactly out of order, but recommends the hon. mem. not to be so flippant in discussing a serious subject.

The impious fellow proceeds. He thinks gas more spiritual than worms. (The House laughs consumedly and noisily.)]

MR. P. "Order, Order." (He smiles blandly at the gallery.)

[Ladies putting on cloaks, &c. in the passage disjointed talk all round. "Rain. ing, I declare, and I haven't brought my umbrella." "No, I have though, allow me." Awfully killing; is it like this always, Charlie?" "I don't think you can manage it, let me button it." More of the same sort.]

66

BRUNETTA.-But why do they all look afraid of you as they pass, Mr. Little John?

L. J. Afraid! Bless you, my dear, they aren't afraid of anything. Only they don't like an old fogey like me making fun of them. Why in my day we were just the same; we would fight

The following document was picked up last Term, near the G.W.R. Station, and is believed to be authentic :-" The Warden of Keble authorises the stationmaster to provide the bearer, who is now in statu pupillari with a third-class ticket to Woodstock Road."

It takes a Jesus man 14 hours to row a dingey to Iffley: he has another row on the way with the Univ. Eight coming up at 32 strokes a minute: if the Univ. Eight has a long swearing stroke, what are the odds that the Jesus man's name is Jones?

Last term a toothless old woman used

-BRET HARTE.

to perform very funny tricks with a rotten staff in New Road. A strange metamorphosis has taken place, if report is true: we hear now that the old woman is a stick, and the staff a lot of old women.

The Benjamin-Professor of Balliol is so called because in his lectures he can get through five times as big a mess as any other Professor.

Examiner." Who led the children of Israel across the Red Sea ?"

Examinee."Pontius.-He received the surname 'Pilot' because of his valuable services on that occasion."

COLEMAN. High Life Below Stairs.

giv'n

To us, and musing o'er this dismal sight I thought me of a song I once had heard On this same Vance, when erst to Oxford town

He came, and as I think the song rang thus

"The vulgar song, the snobbish jest of Vance,

The coarse rude joke, the half-indecent dance,

These now shall Undergraduates entrance.

"The wondrous words of mighty Shake

speare's pen,

The polished wit of cultured Sheridan, These shall in Oxford ne'er be heard again.

"So when hereafter in our history

Men shall find writ these words, 'The

memory

Of Shakespeare in the nineteenth century

Was lost in Oxford,' and they ask per

chance,

"What name was his whose fame she did advance ?"

The page will blush recording it wasVance."

Thus was I musing when I heard the train,

Whose coming I awaited, shriek and groan

125

And pant into the station; in I got Revolving many memories, till the heat Sent sleep upon me, and I gently slept. MAID MARION.

SIR,-To pourtray your virtues would task the longevity of a patriarch-the span of an ordinary life is insufficient even for their discovery. On the other hand, when we regard your character apart, we are unable to detect a single fault-a striking confirmation of the Philosophy which teaches us that change of impression is necessary to our being conscious.' You boast that you have been blessed at Oxford with what you are pleased to call a liberal Education. It must, Sir, have been indeed liberal, even to prodigality, and have reduced itself to penury before it undertook your guidance. It appears to have taught you two great principles. First, that the position of a gentleman being unattainable, the position of a bear is the nearest approach thereto. Secondly, that the eyes of Europe are invariably fixed upon your person. Wearied of existence, you manage not to be alone in your wretchedness, for you have cunningly contrived a system of 'Lectures,' attend ance at which, with singular foresight, is made compulsory.

You expect men to resign valuable time in order to be regaled with stale scraps of erudition, culled from works upon their own bookshelves and garnished with the few astounding falsehoods which your disordered brain has in its lappier moments devised. How can you, Sir, comprehend the truths of History when you are ignorant of the passions of Mankind? How can you appreciate the exquisite Poetry of Greece, when you understand not the nature of that Love which was its inspirer. It has been said that you exult in being a misogynist.. This trait of cheerfulness, if genuine, would nearly redeem your character. A Man whose humility could rejoice in submitting to the contempt of the fairest portion of creation would indeed be hovering on the verge of Christianity. But, Sir, I fear for your own sake, that this exultation is but the veil of the Eastern prophet. Could we but penetrate the blackness of your soul's dungeon should we not behold your shrivelled mind peering vacantly through the phantom-peopled gloom, in the vain