THE LADY MARGARET FOUR, NOV. 1863.

BRIGHT October was come, cold, misty-morning'd October, Cheering the toil-worn earth with its yearly promise of rest-time, Changing the verdure of aspen and lime to the red tints of

autumn;

Clusters of golden leaflets droop from the shivering birch-boughs,
Pendulous, heavy with dew, most beautiful now as the coming
Winter bids them descend, and carpet the earth with their rich
brown

And gold. Beautiful bright October (except when it rain'd, then
'Twas cold, horrid, drizzly, dreary, fraught with consumption)
Welcoming votaries up to the shrine of the goddess Mathesis,
Some in the verdure of freshness, some junior, senior sophs some,
Hastening joyfully, all, to the scene of their pleasant but hard work
Past or as yet but expected. Came up too the lazier fellows,
Spending great part of their terms in the pleasures of boating and
cricket-

Spending, but not quite wasting their time; albeit the immortal
"Muses hard-grain'd of the cube and the square" are seldom in

season,

And the others, the Classic I mean, for them have few charms, still Somewhat they gain in the genial mirth and chaff of companions, Somewhat of good for themselves, for each other of generous feeling,

Somewhat of energy, hardihood, pluck, in their boating and cricket

Term was begun in good earnest. The tortuous bank of the river "Ditch," as our Oxford friends sometimes provokingly call it, Echoed with pattering steps, and noise of hard-working "Coaches" Panting and shouting by turns to crews of Freshmen amusing; "Back straight, 'Two.'' “Now 'Three,' do a little more work at beginning,"

"Into your chest well, 'Five,' and don't screw out of the boat so," Shouting and panting by turns, urged on by zeal patriotic, And a sprinkling may be of pride, as with dignity new-fledg'd.

But when the day was done, and the calm still twilight descended,
Then Lady Margaret call'd together her sons to a meeting,
Margaret, honor'd of all, silv'ry-headed, the Pearl of Boat-clubs;
Margaret, Pride of St. John's, belov'd of the "Ancient Loganus,"
Held a meeting again in the rooms of the Classic Cylindon.
Silence gain'd at length, with a smile uprose the First Captain,
Metaphor only" uprose"-for indeed he had never been seated,
Stood and proposed with a smile in language Thucydidean,
(His own words I would give, but do not remember minutely)
That our club should send in a Four to the on-coming races.
Cheering succeeded, and chaff derisive, and laughter informal,
Cheers and laughter and chaff, "Please don't, Sir," by Clericus
bellow'd;

For well knew every man in the club that the Four were in training,
Full well knew the places and forms of those muscular Christians;
Often, with Dan'l in stern, had seen them start from the boat-house, ›
Often had run on the bank to watch them time, swing, and finish,
Often had waited to see them return with Dan'l for Coxswain:
Dan'l-addicted at times to trying the cold water system,
Not on himself, but on others unwilling in river so muddy-
No "lone lorn Dan'l" he, most weighty, most cheery of "Coaches."

Help me, O muse, awhile in the arduous task of description, Spare me, O friends, if perchance, though strong my wish to do justice To all, a theme so grand o'er-top the force of my language.

Beebee was bow,' as last year, the lively cigar-loving Beebee; Voted "no end of a swell," in cruelly dry mathematics, Language (ancient of course) and mythical lore of great Rome, in "Musical chaff of Old Athens," in Pindar and Poets excelling, Good classic he, and successful, the Beau of Bell scholars; Beebee was bow,' as last year, the lively cigar-loving Beebee. Hawkins succeeded as 'Two,' for two quite big enough truly, Hawkins, the grave, demure, large-limb'd and active First Captain, Worthy all praise and all thanks for his energy, zeal untiring: Limner of witty Cartoons, sent up to friend Punch, and inserted. 'Three' was the Pride of our Club, was Marsden the shapely, the straight-back'd,

Playfully christen'd "The Little" because of his giant proportions; Marsden, the brave, unboasting, surpass'd by none as a worker, Rara avis in terris of the genus hard-reading, hard-rowing,

No mean disciple of Selwyn the Great, a good oar, a good classic. Watney was stroke, the lithe, dark-eyed; of oars the most lucky, Lucky, deservedly too, for "who help themselves, them the Gods help :"

Winner of pewters unnumber'd, of medals (in anticipation),

Never 'tis said has been bump'd in a race! Ah! would that I had not!

This was the crew. They were steer'd by the cool-headed bird

the Coturnix,

Steady and skilful in taking a corner-but not as the bird flies.

Think it no strange thing, that we look'd with hope to their winning,

Proud of their long sweeping stroke, their swing and their strength unequall'd,

Still at the meeting 'twas hinted by some that "Third" was the better

Boat, and Emmanuel "not to be sneez'd at."-"Wait tho' till Monday,

They have only just tried their out-rigger, but when they get steady-!"

Bid me not now recount the hopes and fears of the next week; How they went splendidly one day, did the course under "Eight something;"

But on the next, without reason apparent, were nearly "Nine twenty."

How with gladness of heart we saw them spurt in from the willows, And cheer'd and shouted with joy, but next moment with faces Lengthen'd, and spirits deprest, we heard Dan'l sigh, as he mutter'd

"Worse than yesterday." So, when the prizes of life are contested, Hope, disappointment, fear, joy, are strangely inter-commingled. Happy who shrink not, through dread of defeat, but with patience

and courage

Strive and battle and win, in the God-given strength of their manhood.

Rose on the Monday eventful, old Sol, in his splendour of
Autumn,

Softly rose-tinting the bared limbs of the lime and the sturdy
Old oak conquer'd at last; rose-tinting the weeping willows,
Drooping their amber leaves to the bank of the swollen river.
Need I relate how in spite of a manly and spirited effort,
Victim fell Trinity Hall to our longer stroke and our harder;
Capital race it was round Grassy and up to Plough corner,
Where in a rattling spurt, our Four won the first of its honours.
Tuesday brought little of Glory; for "Third" having spurted out
Pembroke,

Nothing was left us to do, but, reserving our strength for the morrow,

Calmly row over the course, with Emmanuel three places forward.

Throng'd were the willow-fringed banks on the day of the final struggle,

Long 'ere the three rival crews fared forth on their arduous errand,

Thirsting for honour and fame, for self, for club, and for college. Hardly a race was expected by many who thought themselves judges,

"Third' was pre-eminent, certain to win, and Emmanuel second: Our four had such mite of a chance, they might as well not start. Well! they did start, and went up the first reach with motion unsteady,

But at the corner improv'd and flew like an arrow to Grassy.

Shudder'd our hearts as we watch'd their Cox'n the skilful Coturnix, Lest he should steer them too close and our chance be lost in a moment:

Needlessly shudder'd our hearts, for indeed he steer'd to perfection. Now they sweep round Ditton corner, 'mid shouts of "well row'd" and "well steer'd, Sir."

But as they enter the Reach, our hope so lately renascent
Suddenly dies away as we see them perceptibly losing.
Dies to be newly rekindled; for as they near the willows,
Starting again into life more vigorous, joyous, elastic

Than ever, quick'ning their stroke but not lopping its length or its power,

Sinews strain'd to the utmost, and hearts beating high with excitement,

Forward they leap in a last "dying spurt" and-hark! their

gun goes:

Eagerly all eyes turn to the other boats; are they still rowing?
Has a gun miss'd fire? Oh! the fearful suspense of that waiting
Till come the sharp "crack," "crack," with hardly a second between

them;

"Third" is third, O mirabile dictu, and we are the Victors— What follow'd who shall describe? such cheering enthusiastic Never before has startled our old Father Cam from his slumber; Never such waving of hats, such rapture almost universal.

Brimful of nobly-earned kudos, our four paddle back to the boathouse,

Greeted at every point, as they pass, with "Well row'd, Lady Margaret."

"Well row'd indeed" let us sing; and as we tell of past triumphs, Let us with brightening prospect, look forward to others as well-won:

Let us remember our Motto, remember its real meaning, And when the races are over next May, we will, if we can, shout "Cheers for the Lady Margaret first boat, Head of the river!"

D.

A LETTER.

MR. EDITOR,

I am an old Subscriber to The Eagle, and have in my time contributed more than one article to its pages. In common with all well-wishers to the noble bird, I should extremely regret, that from lack of support it should, after six years successful flight, now droop its pinions, and I should therefore wish, with your permission, to address a few words in your pages to your numerous readers, for of them there is no lack. I have lately read with great interest the exciting tale you have just published "The Ghost Story," and as I laid down the last number, after its perusal, I dreamed and I thought that I was addressing your readers in such terms as these:

"You have heard of the Ghost which troubled Miss Hester is there not a ghost which continually haunts and troubles you? Do you not at times see the ghost of a noble bird, once the proud and perhaps pampered pet of this College, now reduced to a state of literary destitution and semi-starvation? Does not this attenuated spectre, with drooping beak and dim eye, at times address you in these words:

"I was once the King of Birds, the minister of Jove himself. For six years I have dwelt in this College. Senior Wranglers and Senior Classics encouraged me to my first flight. They fed me on the choicest morsels of literature; they gave me solid prose for meat, and poesy sweet as nectar

for drink.

"Now I pine melancholy, neglected: and unless speedy contribution be made for me I shall die of inanition. In vain do I look around for the Senior Wranglers and Senior Classics who formerly befriended me. People seem to be afraid of me: the young and rising generation, to whom I look as my chief supporters, avoid me, and leave me entirely dependant on the contributions of a few Editors, without