man, whose natural soul had not yet learned the niceties of knife and fork, and despised the enervating influence. of the napkin.

At recitation also this difference is apparent. The smaller ones approach very closely that ideal of the true teacher a band of students working together for a common end, with the distinction of master and pupil practically vanished. In the larger courses this distinction is sharply apparent. The teacher is the pedagogue, and his pupils a lot of very unruly school-boys; indeed, not every teacher is master in his own class-room, and yet were this same professor to give private instruction to any single member of his lawless class, he would find him a quiet and submissive pupil.

In administrative matters the undergraduate body, which within certain limits is allowed to manage its own affairs, tends rather to an oligarchy or a despotism, than to a democracy. The editorial boards of most of the college papers elect their own successors; the athletic teams choose their own captains, who then rule with absolute authority; no supervision is exercised over the Glee Club, which to many thousands all over the country is the sole representative of the college. Yet as individuals we feel our position as citizens of a republic, and clamour against "taxation without representation," and power that is not responsible.

In other ways the distinction might be drawn between the undergraduate body and individual. Let us take these examples as sufficient, however, and in turn examine the causes which determine this distinction.

There is in the first place the bald influence of the mob— the gross strength of number. The individual is responsible to the authority of the college government-the mass is responsible to no one. One man may be expelled for raising his class flag at the Promenade concert. But three hundred men? The matter is very different. There is safety in numbers, and though such a feeling is essentially cowardice, this immunity is reckoned on.

Next there is the ethical lowering peculiar to the mob. For, as the slowest ship determines the speed of the fleet, so the most lawless element determines the tone of the mass. The mob is as young as its youngest member, and the old schoolboy pride in outrage for outrage sake has thus full play.

The result is at times unfortunate, and will often happen so, so long as the mob retains its power. This power, however, is being gradually weakened by the breaking down of the barriers which separated class from class and the college from the outside world. Elective courses, the growth of the various departments, the increase in comfort and wealth, are steadily destroying these barriers. Perhaps the time may come when the college man will no longer be considered a distinct species, and the college body be assimilated to that of the body public.

Huntington Mason.

A CHILD SPEAKS.

I wonder, when the blue goes black

And clouds come rumbling 'cross the sky,
And dust goes flying down and back

Upon the road, while thunder's crack

Makes blind, white sparks that hurt my eye,
Is it God's carriage going by,

I wonder?

I wonder, when the sun goes out,
To leave the world all dark and sad,
And water's sobbing in the spout,
While birds sit drooping all about
And skies are grey, instead of glad,
Does God feel hurt because I'm bad,
I wonder?

W. H. Field.

IT

IN THE SQUARE AT MONTIGNY.

T all happened very long ago-not so long but what we old people can remember, but still long enough to be before our great Emperor had come into power. And that must surely have been very long indeed.

Gil had left Paris and was coming back to his old home in Montigny-Gil d'Arblay, hale, hearty, forty-five and a captain in the King's army, whose business was gone, now that the Revolution had pulled down his master and imprisoned him in the Temple. He had left Paris not without a sigh, or perhaps even a muttered curse on the heads of the patriots who had driven him forth, but Paris was not a good place in those days for an ex-captain in the King's army; and so now, as the spring-time freshness of the fields crept into his heart, driving out all thoughts of the Terror-clouded Paris that lay behind, he left the highway, just where it makes the long turn among the hills, and, passing through the fields, came to the old gates of the town-those old gates guilt by Charlemagne in the days when Montigny was to be a great city.

Passing beyond these gates he strolled along between the quaint, tiled cottages of his native town, whose little wellkept grass plots and red and white boulders shone clear in the sunlight, until he came to the great square in the center, where flowed all the drowsy life of one of the provincial towns of France.

Here he paused for a moment, looking around at a scene familiar even after the lapse of years. The old church in the corner, the Hotel de Ville further on, the Inn, close by, were all much the same as in the old times, and Gil, happiness in his heart and forgetfulness of the ruin of his old master the King, sat down on the stone bench before one of the cottages and dreamed of his old life, whose memory was far from unpleasant. And here he might have been sitting for half an hour, or it may have been longer, when the quaint old square began slowly to fill with a crowd of

villagers, very different from the crowds of the old times, when the local nobility were much in evidence, or even of our own time under the great Napoleon, but still not different enough to disturb the thoughts of the dreamer. Not even the noisy chattering of the peasants could disturb his revery, save when an occasional glance in their direction showed that he felt some languid interest in their

movements.

Presently, however, a sudden hush caused him to look up, just as a coarse man in a red shirt began to read a dirty paper that he held, half crumpled, in his hand. Gil judged, by the attention of the people, that it was a notice of some new act of the Convention, sent out from Paris by the local member. He had seen this kind of paper before; turning away with a shrug of the shoulders and an ill-concealed, smiling sarcasm, he saw for the first time another man, apparently a stranger like himself, standing quietly beside the doorway of a cottage only a few feet away. There was a vague expression of hunted gauntness in the younger man's face, which, mingled with a certain natural pride of bearing, appealed to Gil with peculiar emphasis; he eyed him curiously for a moment, then turned back toward the crowd, dubiously.

Presently there was a rasping sound from the middle of the square. "I have a letter from the patriots at Paris," snarled the big man in the red shirt. "At its reading it is not right that any traitors should be present. According to our custom I ask, are there any here who dare to speak for the man who lately called himself King of France?"

There was something coarse and offensive in the man's voice, that set Gil d'Arblay to biting his lips. "Yes," yelled the crowd, "is there anyone here who will speak for the Citizen Capet?"

on.

There was a pause for a moment; then the big man went "Know you all that if you speak not, you are taken

I say

to be of our side. We want no aristocrats here. again, are there any who dare to speak for the traitor, the so-called King of France?"

The man's leer and coarse words were unbearable. Moving quietly over to where Gil was sitting, the stranger looked earnestly into his face; "If I mistake not, you are of our side," he said in a low voice. "You are older than I. Will you speak for the King?"

Now Gil d'Arblay was no coward, but I fear that he started a little at these words and perhaps even turned pale. As his eyes turned involuntarily towards the stranger, they fell on an old-fashioned lamp frame that hung, a gaunt arm of wrought iron, in front of the Hotel de Ville. He had seen many of the kind in Paris and knew their modern use well; he turned away again, shuddering and undecided. "I think it is not necessary; at least now," he said mumbling.

A strange light came into the younger man's eyes. "I see I have made a mistake," he said quietly, but with a scarcely suggested irony in his voice, pausing a moment, then strolling airily across the square toward the crowd. Gil d'Arblay noticed for the first time that he carried a sword, one of the light, sharp-pointed weapons so popular among the nobility in the old times, but so rare during the Terror. His high-heeled shoes touched with a certain grace the rough paving of the square, and his clothes, although showing signs of exposure, were clearly those of a gentleman.

Gil d'Arblay, remembering that he had thought it wiser to leave his own sword and uniform behind on quitting Paris, felt the hot blood mount to his cheeks, and became conscious of a certain very decided admiration for the young royalist now slowly and silently crossing the square.

The crowd was too much engrossed with the reading to notice the newcomer; a ragged woman on the outskirts looked up for a moment and, seeing the stranger, eyed him curiously, then turned away again unconcernedly. Suddenly the big man in the red shirt stopped short in his reading, his eyes falling for the first time on the stranger. “I thought we had cleared out that lot," he mumbled, nudging the man at his elbow. A whisper ran through the