Proem.

Sic transit—so passeth the glory. The first twenty-five years have gone; we stand up, as it were, altering our studious pose, and stretch ourselves; we fall on our excellent fellows' necks, we beat the festive drum, we tintinabulate (in imagination) congratulatory bells, we blow genteelly but with spirit on our very own tin trumpet. And then we subside. Twenty-five more years are to slide past, past, processional, cheerful (let us hope!) years, before we can celebrate, with due ostentation, that great jubilee, the fiftieth, the solid, substantial one, the real dinkum affair. But in the meantime the first twenty-five have been good, and good the Easter which completed them. we give an inadequate sketch of what happened on that truly auspicious occasion.