What a relief it is for me to confide in you the mental and moral agony I have undergone during my first year at Victoria College. You ask what I think of the denizens—of my new friends, the local calebs, and what-nots? Bovine, Bovine best describes the weary and dyspeptic creatures that gape around this place, chewing the cud of to-morrow's gossip. One simply has to shove and shove to move an inch. When at last one or two become sufficiently intrepid to amble forth to action the others blindly follow en masse in the same direction. Of course, my dear, there are a few of the younger set—the calves, you know—who are always trying to put the "V" into Varsity, and who do everything in a blaze of anonymity, but these, like the calves at the Zoo, arc not noticed.

And then there are some appalling science students—drug friends—who rummage about in fume cupboards and things all day and night, doped with ether. They keep their body and soul together with tea and ship's biscuits and haven't even the imagination to roast a rabbit—and it's not as though there aren't thousands of them, interiors yawning open strewn round the place.

All the Profs, and the Pro. Profs, disgusted with the general atmosphere of decay, place their names outside their little closets and retire within until 4 p.m., when they skulk into the tea-room for a furtive dish of tea. Have you noticed the way they huddle together far from the madding crowd with their united strength warding off all danger?

No one seems to have anything to say save those misguided intellectuals who expand to an alarming extent on the subject of the College of Electors which I find is the only reagent to which any of the dumbs respond at present. And that brings us back to the future. (a) Is there any hope for it? (b) How is it possible for me, a blithesome spirit, to chirp in this wilderness of sick souls?

It is young blood that is needed throughout the College, dear Grandmother. Youth at the Helm, with crabbed age well chained up, down in the hold.