your rudder and defeat varying from one foot to three. But if you come out of it successfully, it's a thing to be remembered for a lifetime."

"I have not forgotten the race you speak of," said the Poet. "How does this tally with your re collections?

'Twas just after Ditton was rounded,

That they came with a rush in the straight,
And loudly their rattles were sounded,
Portending our imminent fate ;

And their men on the towpath were shouting,
Plunging madly through gravel and dirt,
And they thought they were in for an outing,
As they yelled to their stroke for a spurt.

And it came—like a rush of sea horses:
What hope to escape it had we?
In practice we'd done no fast courses;
All said we were slow as could be.
Aye, it came, like the waves o'er the shingle
Driven on by the flow of the tide;

It came, and it made our blood tingle,
It came, but it slackened and died.

It died, but with sudden reviving

Came again, and again it grew slack;
And on we went, somehow contriving
To stave off their direst attack.
For our stroke was as sturdy a hero
As ever won chaplet of bay,
And even when hope was at zero,
Still somehow he kept us away;

And once 'twas a matter of inches,
And often 'twas less than a yard;
But base is the oarsman that flinches,
Though fortune be never so hard:
So we struggled right home to the finish,
With a gap of a yard at the most,

But we suffered that not to diminish

Till, by George, we were safe past the post."

"Those were hard times," said the Philosopher as they continued their homeward walk. Suppose we have something more cheerful to take us along. For rowing, like most other things, has its ups and downs, and, if you stick to it, you get compensation for these little annoyances in time. In fact, I doubt whether it's a good thing for a man to be very successful at the beginning of his career. A little wholesome adversity will keep his ideas on the subject of himself at the proper discount, and make his success all the sweeter, when it comes-and it will come if he deserves it."

"Well," said the Poet, "here's a ditty to remind you of some more of the old days:

When the crew's rowing well,
When the ship's going well,
Moving like creature alive,
When there is nought to do
Save what is sport to do,
Only to swing and to drive,
Then there's a pleasure, lads,
Passing all measure, lads,
Which to the heart it reveals,
Thing to be waited for,

Worth being slated for,

Only to know how it feels.

Even and long the stroke,

Clean, crisp, and strong the stroke,

Gripping the water right back;

Long, smooth, and straight the swing,

Steady as fate the swing,

Blades getting hold with a smack;

No dirty finishing

Rhythm diminishing,

Legs working hard as a horse;

Leaps to the lift the ship,
Steady and swift the ship,
Over the whole of the course.

Then though the days be dark,
Though hopes of bays be dark,
Stick to it "steady and true:"
Be your stroke long enough,
Be your faith strong enough,
And you will turn out a crew.
Then a good time will come,
Moments sublime will come,
Worth all the trouble bestowed,
Words benedictory,

Glory, and victory,

Then you'll have really rowed."

"I was just about to remark," began the Philosopher

"Sed iam satis est philosophatum," interrupted the Poet: "it's getting nearly time for luncheon."

"Tu poeta es prorsus ad eam rem unicus," retorted the Philosopher.

R. H. F.

SOME CIGARETTE PAPERS.

WENT into my friend Johnson's rooms the other day, and found him out. I don't mean found him out in the ordinary sense, I did that long ago, once and for all; what I mean here is that I found he was not in. Johnson is a very refined sort of person-refined people in these days always bear some banal name like Johnson, or Smith, or Boggs, the reason being, I think, that they cultivate refinement as a set-off against their names.

Having helped myself to the best cigarette I could find, I proceeded to investigate his waste-paper basket. Among the heap of deceased "comps." and unpaid bills it contained, I found a small cardboard cigarette box covered with little paragraphs written in leadpencil.

I went away with the box and some more cigarettes. The cigarettes I have smoked, the notes are transcribed below, in the order of their occurrence on the box. I have endeavoured to discover some order in them, but have failed. I may mention that Johnson and order are not on speaking terms. The only order he ever has is a coal order, and that he promptly gives away.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.

If I have but my cigarette, and from the bore am free, Angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty.

*

Cigarettes are productive of a most delightful egotism in conversation. They lead men to narrate the little incidents of their history in a most delightful manner-little incidents, scarcely stories, which make the narrator's personality so much clearer and so much more charming, drawing us closer together, fastening our friendship with yet another white bolt. They are not told in a boasting spirit-and here greatly lies the charm-but in illustration of the matter in hand, in perfect sincerity, and without a trace of self-assertive

ness.

I do not like the man who says cig. It is profane, it is irreverent, it is contemptuously familiar.

The graceful sound of cigarette seems so fitting. The slender white-coated shaft has all the delicate grace of the word--this word and this work were made for one another. And contrast cigarette lisping gently from the lips with the rampant sound of cigar and the vulgar sound of pipe. One can imagine the fairest of of fair women saying, cigarette-but those other words!

Who could imagine an angel with a pipe! But a cigarette would not soil even an angel's fingers. I myself have seen cigarettes in the fingers and between the lips of the visible angels of this world! the cigarettes seemed perfectly in place, and a shade more charming, a little hallowed. But to return to the invisible, I am sure my guardian angel indulges in cigarettes. I know she is kinder to me when I smoke them.

The cigarette is the property of the refined man, cigars are too brutal, pipes too unclean. But between his white fingers, between his cultured lips, it finds its resting place, and there perishes in its rapture.