May I confess my ignorance on one point? For everyone there is one thing unknown, and what I don't know is, at what stage of his existence man invented riddles.

I think it the very height of egotism for a man to ask himself questions all about himself. I knew one who was always wanting to know whether he was happy or not. In the midst of a ravishing waltz, he would stop dead, with one foot on that of his partner and the other on her train, struck rigid by this doubt. At least he did this once. He may have been happy just before, but he wasn't after.

I once woke up this man of whom I am speaking .and asked him if he was asleep. I forget what he said, but it is not a great pity, as the Editors wouldn't publish it.

He was in many ways a strange man. A very funny thing happened to him while he was a Fresh

man

St Mary's

16

And that brings me back to the subject in hand. I trust (. .)1o old joke . . . Artemus Ward (. ..) Freshman tall hat, umbrella and gloves (... sort and should be encouraged.

surplice, gown, .)"1 not half a bad

G. G. D.

[We have been compelled to cut out considerable portions of the last thirty folios of this article. We have roughly indicated the length of each lacuna, by means of dots and algebraical symbols.-EDD.]

THE FAIRIES' SONG.

O, the fairies' song! the fairies' song!
Somewhere 'tis ringing the whole night long!
Where the far lines stretch by the starlit way,
Like airy Blondins, we play, we play :
And a song resounds from our elfin choirs
That throbs and sobs on the pulsing wires,
A song of joy and a song of sorrow,

A

song

that shall ring in men's hearts to-morrow.

O, the fairies' song! the fairies' song!
Somewhere 'tis ringing the whole night long!
Where in the moonlight, hand in hand,
A youth and a maiden lingering stand:
Though earth is white and the skies are bare,
They reck not, they feel not the piercing air,
They are wrapt in bliss while the round world rolls;
Our fairy singing has filled their souls!

O, the fairies' song! the fairies' song!
Somewhere 'tis ringing the whole night long!
Where the mother watches her slumbering boy
And his face grows light with an inward joy:
Where alone, in a chamber cold and mean,

The old man dreams of the days that have been :

Where the meek of the earth, who have kissed the rod, Dream of the rest of the sons of God

Be sure in the midnight watches long

We fairies are singing our sweet, sweet song!

G. C. M. S.

we,

Ped.

See the flag that's floating o'er us, read the motto "Si je

crescendo

puis," It's

000

a golden rule of rowing, true since rowing first be

gan, ev'ry race we must mean going, aye, and winning if we can.

Margret ev'ry man, though we can-not all a

set the Cam on fire, yet we'll get the boat up higher, if we can!

WHY WE TALK.*

HE question before us this evening is an absurdly simple one. Why do we talk? Why, because-because we've got something to say. Very good, but what gives us something to say? Suppose I am going along the street and I meet Bill-good old Bill, you know-just opposite a pub. What do I say? I say "'ere Bill, coam and have a drink, mate!" How do I know that Bill will say "Not for me, mate, I signed the pledge night afore last," or perhaps walk into the pub. and expect a pint of 'arf and 'arf? If I made a mistake and instead of Bill it was a Frenchman who didn't know any English, he wouldn't stop, and yet he would hear just the same sounds as Bill.

Perhaps after all the first question is not why do we talk at all, but why do we talk differently. I remember once reading a book about the adventures of a boy in America who ran away from home with a nigger called Jim. Jim was a slave, and they were very much afraid of being caught, so they made a raft of logs and floated down a great river on it, lying hidden all day. Well, Jim being a nigger and a slave, hadn't been taught much, and Huck, that was the boy, wasn't much wiser; but one day he thought he would show off, and he said "Jim, what would you say if a man said to you 'Polly voo franzy?'' Say," said Jim, "I would'nt say anything I'd knock him down, I wouldn't let no man call me that." "But he wouldn't be calling you anything,

This paper was found among the late Mr Darbishire's MSS by Dr Sandys; it is probably the draft of an address given to working men during the time of Mr Darbishire's residence at University Hall, and is here printed as one of his lighter contributions to the popularisation of Comparative Philology.