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To see them at their best we must meet them on their native heath. The associations of history elevate them in our eyes. Tales of Bruce and Wallace, snatches from old ballads or from the Wizard of the North, crowd into our minds. Their kilts, then, never seem ridiculous, and even the droning bagpipe has a charm for our ears.

It has long been the custom for the English government to station one of the best of the Highland regiments at Edinboro' castle. It is a stroke of art. We know that the Feudal Baron no longer swoops down upon the passing merchant, but contents himself with capturing the American heiress, and that castles themselves can now be bought outright or rented for the summer, but as we enter the esplanade at Edinboro' and see the sentry pacing up and down with measured tread, and hear the notes of the bugle, we are brought back to the days of Scotland's glory. Whatever ideas we had formed of the Highlander when we read Rob Roy, we are not disappointed when we see these handsome, imposing men. They seem to realize their position, for they certainly wear an important, self-conscious air as the visitors stop to admire their immaculate uniforms or fine physique. Off duty, the soldiers relax a little and condescend to tell the stranger their adventures in India or the Soudan.

We arrived one afternoon at the castle and heard quite a commotion in the soldiers' quarters. Presently a squad advanced. Before them came a pair of drummers, then a body of Highlanders carrying between them a long pole. On this precarious seat was perched an unfortunate comrade. The ladies in the party shuddered. Here was a deserter, caught in the act, beaten through the camp. His fellow soldiers showed no mercy; laughter and jeers at the poor man filled the air. Our sympathies were instantly aroused, though we knew him to be guilty. "O dear," said the Farmington girl, anxiously. "I hope they won't kill him!" "O, noo, ma'am," replied a soldier, touching his cap, "they woont hurt 'em. He's joost been married."

E. B. R.

Ville Marie is a town that sleeps the year round. Whether there is some subtle narcotic in the odor of the pines, or a lullaby in the rhythmical splash of the St. Lawrence, which, by slow, imperceptible degrees, has transformed the

town into a slumberland, the good "habitans" have not yet decided-perhaps they never will. Indeed, it is only at widely sundered intervals that they think much about the matter any

Has not St. Denys always kept a watchful eye on his favorite village? What harm can there be in that which which probably is a gift from his own hand? Ville Marie has always been happy in its slumberous state, and like wise folk, the inhabitants do not seek to disturb the peaceful round of their lives by any vain conjectures about matters which a wise Providence has not seen fit to reveal to them.

To the traveler who chances to visit the little village in the forest, the picture seems like a bit of seventeenth century life brought down to modern times, such an air of quaint antiquity hovers over the entire place. There is no young thing there; no gay laughter or youthful voices break the settled calm of the grassy streets. On every side one only sees wrinkled faces peering from the low windows, and bent figures creeping painfully along in flapping garments in the fashion of a century ago. They hardly seem like creatures of this earth, these venerable folk,-so silent, so frail are they,-but rather like aged elfin folk from the deepest forest glades, or ghosts of ancient "habitans" come back to visit the land where they dwelt two hundred years ago.

Twice a year, however, Ville Marie really wakes up. Early in the morning of Mardi Gras and St. Denys' Day, one of the good Fathers in the Seminary up on the hill climbs slowly up to the belfry, and then with a mighty creaking of ropes and groaning of timber, the great bell booms out its sonorous summons to all good Frenchmen to assemble for the defense of Canada against the hated Briton.

The world does not forsee it, but to the mind of Ville Marie the time is not far away when the golden fleur-de-lys-the tricolor being still an untried novelty and worthy of no confidence-shall wave triumphantly over the lion, and good French rule shall again be in the land. And the clangor of the bell, like the blast of a bugle, sounds reveille in the old hearts of the villagers, who from low huts and cottages by the river bank and from deep in the heart of the forest, despite their burden of years, are hastening with eager faces to take their places, pike in hand, where Father Alexis stands in his vestments, bareheaded, before the door of the tiny church.

The women are gathered together behind him, gazing with awe-struck eyes, as the warlike group perform their ancient exercice a Pique, the torn and dingy flag waving over them. Jean Bramont holds the banner; he is over eighty years old, but he grasps the heavy staff firmly, looking straight ahead. On either side are rows of dull green uniforms of antiquated cut, with scarlet scarves over the left shoulder. A forest of stout pikes, their steel tips polished like silver, gleam in the bright sun; Jean looks at them proudly and then scowls at some fancied English grenadier whom he pretends to see behind the captain. "If they should charge! Comme ca o'rait terrible!" he murmurs. The drum beats and the green files advance, right, left, right, left; they pass before Father Alexis and the women; then march with even step down the hill and vanish beneath the pines. The pike drill is over: and Ville Marie once more betakes itself to its hearthside, there to drowse away the long evening and the days to come in tales of the old life at home, or in sage prophecies of things yet unaccomplished, the pikes laid away and the green uniforms folded up in black presses.

To those who doubt the tales of the discontent of French Canada under English rule, let us say that Ville Marie and the pike drill are realities, and the little village is not so very far away either, if you follow the right path. But a few more years will see the end; the ranks of pikemen are growing thinner all the time, and last Mardi Gras Jean Bramont dropped the flag with the golden lilies. It was a mute surrender on his part. But despite their present weakness the pikemen feel sure of having their efforts seconded soon, now. Ville Marie has waited long and patiently;- can we doubt but that it will receive its reward when its battles are over? E. G. T.

A philosopher who "only diverts himself with speculative problems of Deity, Destiny, Matter and Spirit, Good and Evil, and other such questions," is certainly something of a rara avis; but such an one was Omar Khayyam. A Persian by birth, and surrounded by the same influences which moulded Hafij and the other Sufi poets, he stands quite alone in his "laissez faire" view of life, and his cynical materialism. When every tradition pointed to the ascetic; the plain liver and high

thinker, as the highest type of a wise man, Omar deliberately chose to openly celebrate the uselessness of temperance, and the pleasures of wine.

"Drink! for you know not whence you come, nor why.

Drink! for you know not why you go nor where,"

is the philosophy, if not of his life, at any rate of his poems. He was the outspoken prophet of to-day, of present enjoyment; thrown into greater relief by the mysticism and symbolism of his contemporaries.

An astronomer of great repute, his scientific studies may have influenced him in developing his uncompromising materialism. However that may be, his life, as far as we know, was that of a student and sage, and not that of a drunken carouser, as we should be led to suppose from the tenor of his poems. In them we see but inexorable fatalism, more deadly even than the ordinary predestination of Islam; an eyeless fatalism, a fortuitous law from which there is no escape. Life, at best, was to him but a succession of sensual pleasures, stolen from under the very jaws of unrelenting Destiny.

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."

H. L. E.


Foot Ball Captain

For 1893 is F. A. Hinkey, '95.

Captain of the Crew

For 1894 is F. A. Johnson, '94 S.

Captain of the Base Ball Team

For 1894 is G. B. Case, '94.

Captain of the Athletic Team

For 1894 is D. B. Lyman, '94.

The Championship Ball Games

For 1893 resulted as follows:

Harvard 7, Princeton o.
Harvard 9, Princeton 8.
Yale 5, Princeton 1.
Yale 2, Princeton o.

Yale 14, Princeton 7.

Harvard 3, Yale 2.

Harvard o, Yale 3.

Harvard 6, Yale 4.

The Yale-Harvard Race

Took place at New London, June 30, 1893. Time, Yale 24.59,

Harvard 25.17. The crews were as follows:

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