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The last point was disputed by the President, who adduced in support a paper on Ants by Sir John Lubbock.

The proceedings terminated with the following exhibitions:-An Abyssinian Bible and Prayer-book exhibited by Hooper ; a Queen Termite, a petrified bird's-nest, and other curiosities, by D. A. Hailes; The Cocoon of the Club-horned Bee; some Snake's Eggs.

A Potato plant with the tubers above ground; A drawing of a branched specimen of Broomrape (Orobanche minor) by F. E. Hulme, Esq.; a specimen of wood, coloured green by a fungus, exhibited by Reiss, a mummy Cat, some Bush string (the sinews of the Kangaroo's Tail) and a Swift's egg.

There were 72 persons present, 2 Honorary Members, 33 Members, and 37 Visitors.

On Saturday, July 13th, a small Expedition was made to Woodborough, on the invitation of the Rev. E. G. Wyld, the Rector, who pointed out the most favourable localities for Botanical and Geological work in the neighbourhood; the best thanks of the Society are due to Mr. and Mrs. Wyld for the kind way in which they entertained the party at tea afterwards. The day was very successful; over 210 plants were found in flower, the wild Clematis being discovered in a new locality; several rare moths were captured by F. S. Alston, and over 30 Entomological observations were made. The weather was not very favourable for Ornithology; and only a few fossils Near Alton a White Horse was were obtained. passed, which dates trom the beginning of the Century.

FOOTBALL.

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Subjoined are the accounts for the season 1877-8.

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July 8th, 1878.

H. VASSALL, Hon. Sec.

Printed by PERKINS & SON, at their General Printing Offices,

Waterloo House, Marlborough.

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ONCE more a Midsummer term had drawn to a close, and the Editor found himself sitting in judgment over many contributions both in prose and verse. There was a goodly pile, and it was with feelings of deep pleasure that he perused each little fragment, and admiring its beauties, wondered why it had been reserved so especially for his enjoyment. There was such a variety in both departments: there was a charming poem in rhyming metre but without rhyme, there was a soft-love ditty without an incident. There was a lullaby mingled with lines from a familiar hymn, there was a fantastic dream which had a glance at the universe before the Garden of Eden existed, there was a fragment which ended with the suggestive words, "let me but die for I am past my day;" the Editor was of a tender heart, he did not wish that so dolorous a fate should befall the composer; yet he felt that there was some truth in those last five words, and drawing the moral said to

But the Editor was not selfish; some of the contributions, at least, had distinct merit and the school ought to have a glimpse at them.

And so first he turned to the Prose compositions. The longest of these was a description of a "Breton Fair." The author had been staying in Brittany and went to the fair of Sainte Anne. The festival was of a twofold nature and centred round a small Chapel in the interior of which prayers were being said, while outside Panoramas of the siege of Paris were being exhibited. The mixture of these two forms of entertainment "was very striking," but the conclusion was more so, for the men wended their way home for the most part (as the author regretted to say), unconscious whether they were walking on their heads or their heels." Thus ended the great fair of Sainte Anne, which the author considered not among the least of the attractions which Brittany offers the tourist.

66

However there was a certain merit about this contribution, and but little fault to be found, except that it was of considerable length and there was a certain lack of incident; and it is for this reason that such descriptions are always especially hard to render interesting.

Our next contribution is of a different nature. It was with some difficulty that the Editor could decipher it; it appeared to be in a strange dialect, which was unknown to him. The first words were apparently French, the next sentence in broken English. The apparent aim and object of the composition was to introduce a not very amusing pun upor the word Cheap-side; the hero of the tale asks for the "Hotel de Vil," and in reply is told, dat dare is no Cheap's Hotel in Paree, do there is Cheapside in Londres." We cannot help fearing that this joke must have been perpetrated by the erratic genius, who offered it for the public enjoyment. And for the advice of future contributors, we may suggest that to misspell words, though sometimes unavoidable, is not a very high form of jest, and that such puns as the above quoted are perhaps more amusing to the genius which creates it, than to the "profanum vulgus."

We have a misgiving that our next prose composition was by the same pen: there is the same luxuriance of fancy unrestrained by the sobering effect of reason. It is that which few Marlburians are spared for a whole year, viz., "A Dream." In dreams there is an unbounded scope for imagination, which, in the present instance, has been almost unmercifully taken advantage of. The author was in a Pullman's car, on the great Pacific line before the creation of the animal world. The anachronism seemed a little bold even for a dream; but what dreamer ever hesitated at an anachronism? space of a few moments, the dreamer saw "Forests c nturies old, lo! and animals ah! and smoke, red

In the

men dancing and fighting, sowing, and hunting, eating and sleeping, and last, but not least, dying and being born." We can only apprehend that some very little boy suffered a restless night, after the unusual excitement of the lecture delivered last term on the

Railroad in question. And we hope that the lecturer may not again visit Marlborough, lest another little sufferer be similarly affected.

We will now pass to the other department, which is considerably superior to the efforts in prose.

Our first contribution is a short poem on the Dart, which the author compares to the Rhine, twice in a stanza. The poem, however, is by no means to be ridiculed, and were it devoid of one pecularity, would have found a place in the columns of the Marlburian. This peculiarity is "That though written in what should be a rhyming metre, it does not rhyme," and yet it is by no means modelled on the Psalms. We will quote one verse to shew the style:

"Than Sharpham woods, where find a fairer scene,
Through Italy, or by the German Rhine,

In adoration to the stream's bright course,

The trees bow down and touch the water's side."

Our next contribution is that to which we have already referred, as the love ditty without an incident. The poem is written in hexameters, and describes a summer evening, and a boat "filled with a joyous crew of youths and maidens rejoicing." The sun went down, the waters were hushed, and a maiden voice was heard singing a song, of which we will quote one stanza : –

"Then o'er mem❜ry steal Days long gone by, Once more I seem to feel

Love's presence nigh."

When suddenly the roar of thunder is heard and the lightning flashes forth. Ah! thought the Editor, as he hardly could repress a tear, the maiden will be

drowned. She will never again feel "Love's presence nigh."

But to his great disappointment, a very commonplace mariner, observing the storm, advised a speedy return to shore. advice which was immediately fol. lowed. The introduction of the storm appears a little meaningless, except to give an excuse for concluding. The reader would at once suppose that the maiden was to be drowned, and that she should return to shore without even an effort appears a little unjustifiable.

Our next contribution bears as its title "The rising in the West," and refers to a rising which took place in these parts in the days of Oliver Cromwell. But to one unacquainted with the geography of the country immediately round Marlborongh the names and references are a little tedious. The conclusion of the poem is depressing and rather upsets the generally received opinion about the valour of the Cavaliers. For after their chief Penruddocke had stated publicly with some pomp that the usurper was to be cast "from the throne of Whitehall," on the arrival of some horsemen who from Andover town came "thundering down," we learn with regret

"That band of brave heroes was melted like snow, O'erwhelmed by the numbers untold of the foe, And backward along the west country they fly, Too many, alas, for their courage to die." That they should have melted like snow and fled was not creditable. In the epithet "untold" we notice at once the hyperbole, and the attempt of the author to palliate what would otherwise be the most paltry cowardice-and the fact that too many, for the courage which they showed in flying through the west country, died, does not enlist much sympathy from the reader. This composition on the whole was poor and lacked spirit.

Our next contribution was entitled "A Fragment." At first the Editor thought that some friend had sent him an acrostic, but little by little the truth broke on him that this "fragment" was a lament over the new window in A House; but the author appears to have been unduly biassed by his excessive affection for that edifice

"Whose perfect symmetry on every side

Was food for admiration, fer and wide."

And again he speaks of the architect as "Rejoicing in its beauty." No! thought the Editor, that could hardly have been. But it seems a pity that walls have no ears: otherwise what rejoicing would be held among the red bricks of A House at so unexpected a compliment!

There were other contributions besides these, but time pressed and Mr. Perkins was very urgent, so the Editor rolled up the other contributions, and for the sake of safety put them in his fender.

IDEM ALIUS.

We played with the glamour of love; and his dower
To me was a harvest of tears,

A withered heap of dead feelings to shower
On the tomb of the vanished fears.

But thou wilt rebuild, love, thy castles of air,
Regather the poppies of youth,

Dream on yet awhile of the joyous and fair,
Nor wake to the dismal truth.

But when-and the day will soon come which thou priest
When flattery cannot enthral ;

When restless and weary thou bitterly criest: "O Love, O Life, is this all ?"

When thy soul, from the lurements of falsehood around,
Would soar to the noble and true,

And dimly thou seest that nature is crowned
When her fair ones are holy too;

Then come with the yearnings and aching of mind,
From our old love solace to borrow-

Our old love seven times purged and refined
In the furnace of pain and sorrow.

H. L. S.

THE DECORATIONS OF THE CHAPEL.

"A small circle remained, and passing the silken rope, approached and narrowly scrutinised the picture. Among them were Theodor and Lothair, the chief patron of British Art, an R.A. or two, Clorinda, and Lady Beatrice. Mr. Phoebus, who had left the studio but had now returned, did not disturb them. After awhile he approached the group. His air was elate, and was redeemed only from arrogance by the intellect of his brow. The eircle started a little as they heard his voice, for they had been unaware of his presence." "To-morrow," he said, "the critics will commence. You know who the critics are? The men who have failel in literature and art.”*

MR. Phoebus, whose pictures had no doubt been severely handled by some more or less ignorant critic, spoke not wisely but too well, when he made that assertion. It is an undoubted and most lamentable fact that books are often reviewed, and works of art criticised, in well-known journals, by men who are utterly unacquainted with the subjects they discuss, and who have sometimes themselves signally failed both in literature and art. And indeed is it reasonable to suppose that any reviewer can know half as much about a book as the author who has made it his special study, perhaps for years? Not infrequently a book which has cost its author ten thousand hours of hard work is reviewed by some quidnunc jackanapes, who has glanced at it for twenty minutes; and who having read the preface, and skimmed the table of contents, thinks he is competent to pass judgment upon it.

If this is true of a book, how much more true is it of a picture!

In England at least our knowledge of art is, in ninety-nine cases out of an hundred, tenfold less than our knowledge of literature, and we must not rashly express any very adverse opinion concerning a picture which we have looked at for five minutes, while the artist who painted it has bestowed hours of thought and weeks of labour upon it.

The pictures which have just been added to the walls of our Chapel, appear to us to be somewhat unequal both in style and treatment. But they are not intended to be examined minutely apart from their environment, and we must wait until they are all in their places, before we can say anything with

Lothair. By Lord Beaconsfield, K. G., chapter 35.

certainty as to their general effect as decorations of the Chapel. It is altogether unfair to look at them one by one, and minutely, as if they were Meissoniers. It must be remembered that they are intended to be viewed at a distance, and in a somewhat dim light; and that they are links in a chain which is as yet by no means complete.

Therefore I say to those who looking upon this picture exclaim "That angel, in armour of Henry II, is Anglus non Angelus," and looking upon that, say "The shepherd's arm is as long as his body; " who complain that this has no background, while that is all background; this is too bright, that is too dark, and so on-to them I say "Wait till the whole thing is complete and then pronounce upon it." The aim throughout has been general effect rather than particularised propriety, and that this general effect will be altogether successful in accordance with the ideas of a certain large school of artists, we have no doubt. For our own part we are disinclined to criticise at all, because we infinitely prefer such ornamentation as that of the Church of St. Ouen, at Rouen, to that "qui commence de dévorer la face de l'art dans l'oratoire de Catherine de Médicis, et le fait expirer, deux siècles après, tourmente et grimaçant, dans le boudoir de la Dubarry."

MORS OMNIBUS UNA.

[Translation from Lucretius iii. 1024-1052.]

Thus mayst thou commune with thyself awhile :
Good Ancus suffered death to close his eyne,
Whose life was nobler, foolish wretch, than thine.
Since then great lords and mighty kings have died
Whose sceptres swayed the nations far and wide.
He too who formed a highway o'er the deep,
Whose power granted armed hosts to leap
O'er ocean's salt abyss, and proudly brave
On winged steeds the murmurs of the wave;
He too, with broken frame and failing breath,
Quitted the light of life, and slept in death.
E'en Scipio's self, the dread of Carthage town,
A thunderbolt of war, is stricken down

And lies beneath the earth, like slave of no renown.
All they who taught men fancy and deep lore,
The comrades of the muses, are no more.
Great Homer's self, the lord of song confest,
Sleeps with his brethren in the same long rest.

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