this character will be stamped, as they deserve, with the disapprobation of every one who has any respect for the laws of the city and the rights of the citizens.

The city papers, of late, make serious complaint of what seems to be a growing evil. Those who prowl about the streets, under the cover of darkness, mutilating signs, carrying off barbers' poles, unhanging gates, and in a variety of ways trespassing upon property, may think they are doing something very valorous and spirited. We should be sorry to have any Collegian caught in these mischiefs, but should they suffer the penalty which the law prescribes, and from whieh we have yet to learn students are exempt, they would be simply receiving their deserts. If this is too severe, we can only say, "This deep disgrace of brotherhood touches us deeper than you imagine."

It seems to be a season of literary dearth in College. We beg leave to inform our readers that the drawer of the table is by no means full. It is far from a pleasant task to scour the College buildings, for the purpose of drumming up delinquent contributors. Somebody, too modest to append his name, has sent us a Song. As it is a pity so much light should be entirely hid, we give the opening verse and chorus. It is all our readers can bear. Its rhythm and sentiment will be alike admired. We leave the remaining verses for the scorching criticism of our

successor :

Old man, Horace, sprigg'd with bay,

Truly you do say, sir,

Time streaks faster on his way

Than two-forty racer.

CHORUS.-Give us but our rum to sip

We don't care a clam-shell

So we kiss the pouting lip

Of the blooming damsel.

The Literary Societies are in their usual state of absolute quiescence. The "Brothers in Unity" was lately the scene of a lively debate over a contested election, which called together a large crowd. The discussion was animated and lengthy. It resulted in declaring the election of the week previous illegal, on account of informality in the mode of election. The same thing might have been accomplished in an easier way, but no one was hurt, and everybody enjoyed the fun of seeing "how harmless lambs were butting, one the other."

The Seniors have taken to juvenile amusements. They have not forgotten what the poet told them in Sophomore year:—

"Dulce est
Desipere in loco."

And so any fine day you may see them indulging in the innocent sport of spinning tops. Whether they toil or not, they are bound to spin. Between spinning and skinning," we think they are likely to distinguish themselves during the brief time that remains.

แ

Reader, the Table is full, our task is done, and we gladly give up our seat to one who can fill it more worthily than we.

SAID an old Scottish gentlewoman, "Tak' a wreath of snaw, let it be never so white, and wash it through clean water, it will no come out so pure as it gaed in, far less the dirty dubs the poor Queen has been drawn through." Angelic purity would be stained by earthly association. Humanity at best is so full of suspicion, prejudice, and ignorance, that the noblest character seldom gets full merit. Hence the painter's keen satire-Justice painted blindfolded. If they said of Christ, “He hath a devil," how shall men and women keep themselves unspotted in the world? How shall Mary pass through a rude and brutal age, through an atmosphere of murder, plots, treachery, and unchastity, and be clean? Yet notwithstanding this natural disposition to love scandal, to search out and believe ill, there is no character in history so eagerly and sincerely defended as Mary of Scotland. Book after book has been written against this lovely Queen by the greatest names among historians, but their united testimony cannot convince the world or silence her defenders. Crime could not live thus. It is against the laws of nature. "Murder will out" is no unmeaning proverb, but finds attestation every day. How then could Mary escape, when so many keen eyes were upon her and have been to this day. But the verdict of the world has been adjourned from generation to generation-the charge is still unproved. And more significant still, the machinations of her enemies are being

exposed from time to time. Not long ago a manuscript was found in Sweden and translated into English. It was the villain Bothwell's confession. In it the plottings of the Scottish lords are revealed. We see all the toils set, and some of them put in action, which were to dishonor, discrown, and destroy the Queen of Scots. Waiving for a moment the question of her guilt, there is a sad but tender interest in watching the flow of her sorrowful years. At the age of five we find her in the Isle of Rest, a delightful garden, to which the presence of the little princess, "a winsome wee thing," seemed to add a brighter beauty. Her infantile grace and gentleness grew with her growth until she developed into a womanhood of farfamed loveliness, and as true if not as well known goodness. Poetry does not overspeak the truth:

"Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds

Was in her very look:

We read her face as one who reads

A true and holy book.

The measure of a blessed hymn,

To which our hearts could move;
The breathings of an inward psalm,
A canticle of love."

Such was the Queen with which Scotland was blessed; a woman of rarest courage, beauty, gentleness, and toleration. Though a Catholic in faith, she was a fitter type of Christianity than the surly and bigoted Protestants of that day. She had hardly sat down on her rightful throne when the troubles of the reign begun. Fierce factions quarreled for her favor and then heaped the coarsest insult upon their sovereign. Even domestic happiness was denied her. She had the misfortune to love with woman's unchanging affection, a man ungrateful, brutal, and proud, who made her unspeakably wretched. With an unfeeling husband, a rude and factious nobility, a convulsed kingdom, the Queen, though the wickedest of women, would deserve the charity if not the compassion of the world. Her husband demanded more and more power, until he enjoyed the crown jointly with his wife. The insolence of the nobles culminated in the murder of Riccio in the Queen's presence, and an attempt upon her own life, but they were met with an unflinching courage, before which brutality quailed. They had never dreamed that their gentle, long-suffering Queen possessed a soul as heroic as it was kind. Thus was Mary hunted, per

secuted, and insulted. She endured it as a martyr. At times she resented, protested, quarreled, and shed tears, but never did she allow vindictive hatred or calculating revenge to have place in her heart. She was always ready to forgive, concede, conciliate. But nothing could save her from the plots and fury of ambitious nobles and bigoted Knoxes. We cannot go farther into her mournful history and tell how she lost the crown of Scotland. We all know the story by heart. Throneless and in peril she fled to England and begged a hearing at the English court. This step was the double proof of her innocence and her folly. Elizabeth repaid her confidence with a prison. For no crime but beauty and royal blood, she was withheld from her kingdom and her kind. The proud Tudor feared a Stuart, though a weak and friendless woman. Such outrageous treatment of a sovereign Queen, such open violation of the sacred rite of hospitality, would not now be tolerated by the Christian world. It was simply an act of arbitrary power which the age was not free enough to resent. The Queen of Scotland was answerable to no English court for her actions. Elizabeth might have refused her protection, but had no right to hold her a prisoner, to send her from castle to castle, to deprive her of outdoor exercise, and gradually to draw the bonds so tight that even her jailors, who were not remarkable for tenderheartedness, one after another begged to be relieved from their painful positions. Yet all this rigor, which increased until it equaled the treatment of the meanest criminal, did not wrest a single complaint from Mary. Her constant wish was to see her "sister" and plead her cause. This poor boon was continually promised but denied, and spies were sent to draw from her some accusation against Elizabeth. But all arts failed, simply because her gentleness and good will were sincere, not simulated. But it was left to James the Sixth to fill up the full measure of his mother's suffering. When this unworthy prince assumed the government, Mary sent him a robe embroidered by her own hands. It was refused and sent back, and soon after James wrote a coarse and cruel letter, disowning her right to the throne and declaring that he would not connect his interests. with hers. The last silken cord was now snapped, and Mary was an insulted and heart-broken mother. Cold must have been the age that could not pity such desolation and anguish! The Queen's health at length gave way. Sorrow and cruelty were hurrying their victim to the grave. Elizabeth had the exquisite satisfaction of watching the wasting of that beauty which had so eclipsed her own. Jealousy rioted in the gray hair, the limping gait, and wasted form and features

of the suffering Queen. Young, beautiful, innocent, she had entered the English prisons; old, lame, diseased, shorn of her loveliness, but still innocent, she was led forth to trial for the crimes of all Catholics. In this infamous trial Mary was compelled to conduct her own defense, but she eluded all the tricks of the lawyers, and answered every charge. Sincerity triumphed over skill. On the part of the prosecution the commonest rules of evidence were violated. Letters were received as testimony which abounded in inconsistencies of dates and names. Nor was Mary allowed to look even at copies of them. An express statute of England was broken, inasmuch as the witnesses against the Queen were not examined in her presence, but at a distance, and perhaps under torture. In this shameful manner a sovereign Queen, who had thrown herself upon English hospitality and justice, was tried and declared guilty of compassing Elizabeth's death. After some delay the fatal warrant was signed, and, in the great hall of Fotheringay, Mary fitly closed a life of persecution with a martyr's death.

From her sad and fateful life we gladly turn aside to dwell a moment on her lovely character, and here we find her gentle but complete vindication. Thrown into the hands of a turbulent and brutal nobility, surrounded by an atmosphere of murder, intrigue, and wickedness, she had little opportunity to unfold the graces of female character, and follow the dictates of her woman's heart. Tender and beautiful, she was unfitted to govern bad men. In this trying position her steady attachment to her unworthy husband, her kindness to her brutal brother, her gentleness toward the arrogant lords, and her implicit confidence in their promises, show a lofty and ingenuous nature, calling for sympathy and admiration, not reproach. When wronged she shed tears instead of demanding blood, she met violence with mildness, revenge with forgiveness, death with prayer. Nor was this from want of courage. History does not give us a brave Queen, but it was woman's gentle heroism-patience under wrongthe highest type of courage, drawing its life from the holiest of books. She granted free toleration to the Protestant religion, and whenever the factious court allowed it, took a deep interest in the welfare of her subjects, and was rewarded by their love. Had she lived in this age, she would have been a Scottish Victoria. Had she lived in this age, no dungeon would have been found strong enough to hold her against the liberating armies of a nobler Christendom. In her deepest misfortunes she never lost her royal character. Crowned Queen and woman she moved at Holyrood or Fotheringay. The idle