A LETTER.

Addressed during the Summer Term of 1888 by Mr. Algernon Dexter, Scholar of ------ College, Oxford, to his cousin, Miss Kitty Tremayne, at ------ Vicarage, Devonshire.

After W. M. P.

Dear Kitty, At length the term's ending; I 'm in for my Schools in a week; And the time that at present I'm spending On you should be spent upon Greek: But I'm fairly well read in my Plato, I'm thoroughly red in the eyes, And I've almost forgotten the way to Be healthy and wealthy and wise.

So 'the best of all ways'--why repeat you The verse at 2.30 a.m., When I 'm stealing an hour to entreat you Dear Kitty, to come to Commem.?

Oh, come! You shall rustle in satin Through halls where Examiners trod: Your laughter shall triumph o'er Latin In lecture-room, garden, and quad.

They stand in the silent Sheldonian-- Our orators, waiting--for you, Their style guaranteed Ciceronian, Their subject--'the Ladies in Blue.'

The Vice sits arrayed in his scarlet; He's pale, but they say he dissem- -bles by calling his Beadle a 'varlet'

Whenever he thinks of Commem.

There are dances, flirtations at Nuneham, Flower-shows, the procession of Eights: There's a list stretching _usque ad Lunam_ Of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: There's the Newdigate all about 'Gordon,'

--So sweet, and they say it will scan.

You shall flirt with a Proctor, a Warden Shall run for your shawl and your fan.

They are sportive as G.o.ds broken loose from Olympus, and yet very em- -inent men. There are plenty to choose from, You'll find, if you come to Commem.

I know your excuses: Red Sorrel Has stumbled and broken her knees; Aunt Phoebe thinks waltzing immoral; And 'Algy, you are such a tease; It's nonsense, of course, but she _is_ strict'; And little d.i.c.k Hodge has the croup; And there's no one to visit your 'district'

Or make Mother Tettleby's soup.

Let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you; Oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_.

With their croups and their soups and their ague) Dear Kitty, and come to Commem.

Don't tell me Papa has lumbago, That you haven't a frock fit to wear, That the curate 'has notions, and may go To lengths if there's n.o.body there,'

That the Squire has 'said things' to the Vicar, And the Vicar 'had words' with the Squire, That the Organist's taken to liquor, And leaves you to manage the choir: For Papa must be cured, and the curate Coerced, and your gown is a gem; And the moral is--Don't be obdurate, Dear Kitty, but come to Commem.

'My gown? Though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, You 'd better leave fashions alone.

Do you think that a frock lasts for ever?'

Dear Kitty, I'll grant you have grown; But I thought of my 'scene' with McVittie That night when he trod on your train At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity,'

You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne.

And your gown was enough to compel me To fall down and worship its hem-- (Are 'hems' wearing? If not, you shall tell me What is, when you come to Commem.)

Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto?

Of the words whispered under the palms, While the minutes flew by and forgot to Remind us of Aunt and her qualms?

Of the stains of the old _Journalisten_?

Of the rose that I begged from your hair?

When you turned, and I saw something glisten-- Dear Kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there!

But that idiot Delane in the middle Bounced in with 'Our dance, I--ahem!'

And--the rose you may find in my Liddell And Scott when you come to Commem.

Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer.

We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball, And the morning shall find you a dancer In Christ Church or Trinity hall.

And perhaps, when the elders are yawning And rafters grow pale overhead With the day, there shall come with its dawning Some thought of that sentence unsaid.

Be it this, be it that--'I forget,' or 'Was joking'--whatever the fem- -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor And come,--you _will_ come? to Commem.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.

Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children.

By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).

And is it so? Can Folly stalk And aim her unrespecting darts In shades where grave Professors walk And Bachelors of Arts?

I have a boy, not six years old, A sprite of birth and lineage high: His birth I did myself behold, His caste is in his eye.

And oh! his limbs are full of grace, His boyish beauty past compare: His mother's joy to wash his face, And mine to brush his hair!

One morn we strolled on our short walk, With four goloshes on our shoes, And held the customary talk That parents love to use.

(And oft I turn it into verse, And write it down upon a page, Which, being sold, supplies my purse And ministers to age.)

So as we paced the curving High, To view the sights of Oxford town We raised our feet (like Nelly Bly), And then we put them down.

'Now, little Edward, answer me'-- I said, and clutched him by the gown-- 'At Cambridge would you rather be, Or here in Oxford town?'

My boy replied with tiny frown (He'd been a year at Cavendish), 'I'd rather dwell in Oxford town, If I could have my wish.'

'Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why.'

'Well, really, Pa, I hardly know.'

'Remarkable!' said I:

'For Cambridge has her "King's Parade,"

And much the more becoming gown; Why should you slight her so,' I said, 'Compared with Oxford town?'

At this my boy hung down his head, While sterner grew the parent's eye; And six-and-thirty times I said, 'Come, Edward, tell me why?'

For I loved Cambridge (where they deal-- How strange!--in b.u.t.ter by the yard); And so, with every third appeal, I hit him rather hard.

Twelve times I struck, as may be seen (For three times twelve is thirty-six), When in a shop the _Magazine_ His tearful sight did fix.

He saw it plain, it made him smile, And thus to me he made reply:-- '_At Oxford there's a Crocodile_;[1]

And that's the reason why.'

Oh, Mr. Editor! my heart For deeper lore would seldom yearn, Could I believe the hundredth part Of what from you I learn.

[1] Certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the Museum, had been perplexing the readers of the _Oxford Magazine_ for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning.