and brightening the narrative. Above all, whether in humor, in pathos, or in dramatic intensity, it imparts life and picturesqueness to his several characters "so that we cannot think of the world without them," writes a modern essayist, "and they seem more essential than great statesmen, artists, soldiers, who have actually worn flesh and blood, ribbons and garters, gowns and uniforms." Charles Cheney Hyde.

NOTABILIA.

ALTHOUGH rather unusual, it would be obviously out of place in the present instance not to add something here in connection with the "Leader." No word about the æsthetic needs of the University would be at all adequate without a reference to Professor McLaughlin. No one felt more strongly than he our shortcomings in this respect, or worked harder to overcome them. No one tried more earnestly to instill a broader spirit of culture into the English department and the University at large. His influence was almost inestimable, and in his death the University suffered an irreparable loss.

The midwinter vacation is over; for some of us the last one. Into our holiday enjoyments has filtered something like a feeling of genuine sadness. From cradle to graduation is one period; then comes the plunge into cold realities, and work. This it is, together with the necessary loosening of the threads of college companionship, that introduces a shade of melancholy into our return. The rapidly approaching Prom. week should, however, dispel such serious melancholy ruminations.

Just a word about the manuscript contributions for the LIT. It would seem that out of fairness to one's self it would be more profitable to present reasonably decipherable copy. After reading steadily for hours, the eye and brain weary, and it is almost impossible, despite one's best endeavors to be unprejudiced, to bestow the same amount of attention on an unpresentable mass of AngloSaxon hieroglyphics as on a reasonably neat or type-written article-Verb. Sap.

PORTFOLIO.

A SONG OF THE SEA.

Ding-g, ding-g, dong-g-g!

No sound wakes the summer sea

Save the sound of the bell, like a slow-timed knell
That speaks of Eternity.

Ding-g, ding-g, dong g-g!

Now it's clear-now faint and far;
Aye it fitful seems as the flow of dreams,
Or the wavering glance of a star.

And the sunshine glints on the wave,
And the winds are light and fair,

And the white gulls fly 'twixt the sea and sky
In the joy of the summer air.

-In the early darkness of an Autumn afternoon, an American sauntered across Westminster Bridge, toward the Abbey. As he entered the nave, the dim light which barely penetrated the stained windows, sufficed to indicate that the day was too far spent to permit of an examination of the Poet's Corner, least of all the more secluded Chapel of Henry VII, or the tomb of the Confessor. In fact, as he groped about the uncertain light, an iron door grated on its ancient hinge, with its loud resonance, shutting off for another day some of the most interesting of the recesses of Westminster. A verger stalked away like some spirit of the sacred place, his black gown conspicuous against the back ground of white

statues, grey pillars, and yellow pews. He walked toward the stranger and would have passed had not the latter touched his arm as though to address him.

"I suppose it is rather late to visit the Chapel of Henry VII," suggested the American.

"Closed till ten o'clock to-morrow, Sir; last party just out," responded the verger, moving away sidewise.

"I tell you I'm in a fix," continued the stranger, seizing the man's flowing sleeves, and imbedding a florin in his open hand, "I sail from Liverpool to-morrow; have been laid up a month, and have not really seen the Abbey yet."

"Perhaps I can 'commodate you," said the verger with a leer, "Tommy, make room for your Uncle," and he stamped his foot, conjuring up as it were, a tiny mouse which squeaked and scampered away after a morsel of biscuit which the verger tossed behind a neighboring tomb. Then he unlocked the same iron gate which grated dismally as before, and the two persons alone passed quietly in among the graves of England's medieval sovereigns. As they went into the choir of Henry the Seventh's Chapel, the verger tossed a piece of another biscuit just beneath the seat of one of the high black oak stalls.

"Now you can say that you've seen a verger feed his mice," said the man, and almost as he spoke another squeak announced that his beneficence had been appreciated. As they walked through the Confessor's shrine, the man asked abruptly, "You know why Edward built it, don't you?" and thinking it impossible that the American could possess so broad a knowledge of English history, he continued: "Edward was an exile in Normandy, and vowed to St. Peter a pilgrimage, if he could get back home. St. Peter brought him home, made him king, and the Confessor built the Abbey instead of making a pilgrimage." Thereupon he threw more biscuit into the dim obscurity; it struck something of stone, and crumbled in a feast abundant for all the mice in that part of the church. The two retraced their steps, and made their exit by the same gate at which they had entered. This time, as the mass of iron swung open and shut again, the sound which rose to the very dome of the Abbey seemed like the concentrated voice of mice innumerable, wishing a good night to their benefactor, and a thankful farewell to the intruder from across the

sea.

C. C. H.

-In a country where prose is preferred to poetry and the practical to the sentimental, it seems at first strange that so much respect is paid to age. We see evidences of this respect in Americans of to-day, both when traveling abroad and when at home under the inspiring rather than soothing influences of the times. Silver buckles and trinkets, worn by court beauties in the olden days, are in special demand, while pieces of furniture made by our Puritan ancestors are now valuable relics. Indeed so much do we revere the past that we even imitate it. New things are made to look old, and the marks of the old ones diligently preserved.

A curious example of this love for reproducing the past may be noticed in the building of old fashioned wine rooms and inns like those still to be found here and there in the older countries. These may be seen in our metropolitan cities, snugly lying between brick walls and all the other indications of a nineteenth century civilization. The old lamp over the door, with its rusty iron trimmings, is usually furnished with a most modern gas jet for lighting purposes. This in itself is rather a mixture of the old and new, but apparently dissatisfied with the contrast, the good inn-keeper still places a bright electric light above the other. And so far outshining its more staid and lowly companion, modern invention, in spite of its surroundings, seems to bear witness to the superiority of new science over old customs.

Yet in this confused combination of the old and the new, in this almost inconsistent respect for age, may be seen the growth of sentiment in this country. However unceremoniously the two opposites, the young and the old, may be thrown together, the reason is apparent. We desire the old

without losing the good of the new, the sentiment of age and the practicability of youth. According to our modern ideas the poetry of the past should be written in the prose of the present. As the two are joined now they form a most confused mass; their successful combination will be accomplished in the future.

R. S. B.

-Some one has said that the identity of a house and the character of the dwellers therein can be determined conclusively by the appearance of the front door. What better diploma can a good housewife claim than a polished brass