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Ladies' Letter.

Quite a bright, breezy little social was given by the C.V. early in the session for the purpose of welcoming new toilers. Even the shiniest lights grew almost as caperish as innocents abroad at an Easter Tournament, and the beautiful row of Professors who sat in a beautiful row on the stage, and made touching little speeches waxed almost humorous in a high class way. The gentlemen vocalists were keenly appreciated, especially B., who got up with an air of seriousness, almost of pathos, and sang us a weird soulful air that went to our very hearts. Lady vocalists were conspicuously absent, but a charming student in pink performed a morceau, and another charming student not in pink performed another morceau, while yet another recited a poem—an inspiring, stimulating, uplifting, all-sufficing, Scotch poem. At least H. declared it was Scotch, and his opinion ought to carry weight, considering he is at present engaged in taking a course of instruction in Scotch and Maori from the natives themselves. It certainly was uplifting, for it made H. rise and stagger forth into the frosty night air and miss all the rest of the beautiful morceaux, not to speak of coffee, and wafers and——'celebrities.'

I don't think I enjoyed those celebrities as much as I should. It is too candid a form of amusement for my liking. To discover first hand from one whom you have every reason to believe was a friend that you are unbecoming, far from young, a pro-Boer, and a football enthusiast is calculated to give one a narrower opinion of human nature than is expedient. Besides this the game is distinctly cruel. I had nineteen pin jags in my shoulder-blades, which necessitated a visit to the chemist on my way home, for a pot of ointment. An unwounded friend who had preferred to "look on," scouted ointment, and gave a glowing description of marine soap and moist sugar. I bought the soap—a large bar, in case I should be inveigled into any more C.U. "celebrities"—and sent in the bill to the Union. They curtly returned it with the intimation that "this Society does not provide sick benefits," and trusted it would soon be convenient for me to pay my annual sub.

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[Entry in my diary.—Eschew "celebrities."]

"History repeateth itself!" In the Debating Society we have this month had the pleasure of welcoming Abou Tassan to the chair. Needless to say, "The Commander of the Faithful" occupied his position with becoming dignity, and we have every reason to congratulate "the Faithful" on their choice. That half-sad, half-stern, Napoleonic air, that pitying O—what—a baneful—lot—you—unenlightened—promiscuous—magazine—readers—are sort of manner is plainly calculated to impress.

[Entry in my diary.—Abou, thou art a pearl of quality in a sea of quantity.]

The debate on "The Stage" was keenly contested. The mover showed that he had large and extended views as well as an expressive eye, while the amazing intimacy displayed by the opposer towards the wicked wiles of the boards was something rarely seen off the stage itself. It filled us with poignant anguish, it almost brought us to the brink of tears to see that white-souled Briton standing before us, his manly chest heaving, his whole form wrung with unspeakable misery, resisting those wiles, nobly refusing to be elevated. How the evil ones writhed! Even Little Jack Horner who had but a short half-hour before risen from his corner to innocently recount the circumstances attending the most blissful moment of his life, had his sins so vividly brought home to him that he was forced to discover in discretion the better part of valour, and in company with his little brief bag made hurried tracks for Murphy street. Appearances are certainly deceptive. It had always been my opinion that Master Horner was prone to the enjoyment of select and staid delights. But "the sex is peculiar and vacil-lating," to quote one of Scylla's profound remarks. And that reminds me of a friend I lost the other day—on what grounds I have as yet failed to discover.

Ordinarily I try to win a reputation for good nature by other means than by insulting the intelligence of men students, especially the younger portion, by saying that women know anything when they indisputably do not. Still we all, like Hamlet, have our 'lucid intervals of lunacy,' and I really thought, after patiently listening for half-an-hour to the follies and foibles of amateur dramatic clubs, I was justified in asserting when next I encountered C. my deep and abiding abhorrence of all matters stagey. C. gazed at me with withering scorn. "The stage," he began. "I know it," said I, "don't say the word, there's a Professor behind us." "The stage," he continued, "is the plectrum that makes music with the heart-strings of man."

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I answered not; I was mystified. "A plectrum, you must know, is an instrument for striking ancient lyres." "Yes," I faltered, "and modern ones?" I am still waiting for C. to finish explanations.

[Entry in my diary.—Have discovered that C. is made up wholly of the serpent without the least grain of the dove.]

I see at the next debate Sinbad is to hold forth on the elevating influences of the voyages of the Contingenters, which occasion Hindbad will politely beg to differ.