His remarks were framed in his usually felicitous style, especially when he expressed his firm belief in the Horatian maxim, "Mens sana in corpore sano," and with pride referred to the success of his boys in the Cricket Field as well as in School work. "Many a day on which we have won our match," he continued, has had 51⁄2 hours "given to intellectual study, so that while we seek pleasure we take care that business has not been neglected, We shall, I trust, do "still better as times go on, but I feel proud to look back on a half "year of real steady progress, excellent conduct, and much happy "social intercourse."

The Prizes were then distributed, each beaming recipient being loudly cheered by his less fortunate brethren. After three cheers for Lord Devon and his brother who so kindly represented him, and three more of a maddening description for Mr. and Mrs. Warner, the good-natured company, whom we have already thanked, goodnaturedly vanished.

The following is a List of the Prize-Winners:

1875-Senior Exhibitioner, FowLE. 1874-Junior Ditto, COLLYNS, Sen.

Divinity Prizes

1st., Earl Devon's, WHEAT.

2nd., Ven. Arch. Earl's, BRAGINTON.

Latin and Greek Grammar, FOWLE 1st., WARNER 2nd.

Latin Prose & Verse: FowLE. French: FOWLE. Shakespeare: MUNRO.

Mathematical Prize, £3 (Books): WILLIAMS, BARTLETT, Sen., equal.

Euclid Prize: JESSUP AND POLAND, equal.

1st Prize, £5, for best examination of his age: BYTHELL.

THE FIFTH OF THE PAST.

"Rerum dominos gentemque togatam."

What schoolboy has not heard of the Town and Gown riots at Cambridge? What schoolboy (to repeat this "Macaulay-flower") is ignorant of that hereditary feud which successive generations of high-born "gowns" have jealously maintained against the indigemous brood of Cambridge roughs? Its origin, indeed, is veiled in obscurity but certain it is, that so long as gangs of coprolitediggers have pursued their filthy craft in the Trumpington fields, and Barnwell dog-stealers have traded on the good nature of their more delicate neighbours, so long has the struggle been a matter of history. Sinking all speculations on this point, therefore, I will at once proceed, at the risk of being deemed egotistical, to detail my own deeds of chivalry in one of those ever-memorable tournays.

One November night I was "teaing" at John's with a man whom I will call Brown, whose people had run up to Cambridge to see how their Tommy looked in his academical garb and to take stock of his rooms with the fond pride of parents. Shortly before 10 o'clock we sallied forth to escort our visitors to their Hotel, when crowds of small boys insanely rushing to and fro with the most extravagant noises, and a volley of crackers dexterously thrown in our midst, reminded us rather unpleasantly that the "fifth" could not be far distant. Upon breaking this intelligence to the excited Mrs. B. she at once conjured up all kinds of ghastly terrors, and implored me with tears in her eyes to see her darling boy safe back to his College.

Hardly had I given my promise and said good-bye to them at the Hotel door, than we heard an ominous boom issuing from the direction of Magdalen Bridge, and presently a riotous mob appeared,

driving before them, like so many sheep, some half-dozen wildlooking undergraduates, who bore marks of by no means gentle treatment on divers parts of their persons. The wonted shout of "Gown" being raised we at once joined their slender ranks: and seeing another crowd stagnant in the middle of the street, we dashed through without a moment's hesitation and fortunately got clear. Being now dogged by two blood-thirsty hordes, we turned up a side street leading to the Market-place, in the hope of throwing our pursuers off the trail in the mêlée which usually rages there on the "Fifth" but on nearing the end of the street we saw to our great dismay a row of dusky "peelers" drawn up with the evident purpose of barring our passage. Our first impulse was to break through their line but we were basely repulsed with their truncheons: whereupon we commenced a vigorous parley with the Inspector upon the stupidity of his conduct, but were only met with the same reply which the imperturbable coachman gave to poor Horace Greely during his famous ride to Placerville, "I've got my orders !"

Abandoning all hope of escape from our cul-de-sac in that direction, we turned to view our chance of a scatheless exit the other way: but were not a little alarmed to find the street by this time blocked with a hungry mob, headed by a few villainous-looking "roughs" who dared us to "come on"-in their own expressive phraseology. For a few moments our tiny band wavered, but we were rallied by a plucky little Corpus man-a regular "bruiser," who informed us that if we once showed the white feather, we should be surrounded and possibly slaughtered.

Rendered desperate by such a contingency we dashed against the opposing battery of fists and bludgeons, using freely those four weapons of defence with which nature had kindly blessed us, until the front ranks, surprised at our resolute attack, slowly began to retire, and a narrow lane being thus formed, we broke into a trot and swept the rest before us. Scarely had we gained the end of the street when I suddenly lost sight of Brown, and was informed next day that he unexpectedly found himself embracing the Proctor, and

was thus rendered hors de combat. Having now won my spurs, and not being anxious to tempt the fortune of war any further, I slunk off to the Market Place by another route, where to my great surprise all was as still as death. I then determined to make for my rooms, and had got as far as Pembroke Street, when I heard a sound as of a roaring crowd advancing in my direction. Should I wait to see if B. is still engaged in the fray and thus satisfy my conscience? Or should I pursue the safer course and pass by on the other side? Fatal moment! Ere I had time to make up my mind I was surrounded by a seething mob, and sucked into the puny band of "Gownsmen," which I saw at a glance had no connection with my old regiment. At a corner we paused, being dubious of our tactics, when a defiant shout from behind goaded us to madness, and we resolved to offer fight. In a moment I found myself opposed to three truly specimens of the "hobnailed herd," whose mode of attack was hardly that recommended by professors of boxing; but suddenly an unseen hand caused me to gaze on a thousand stars, and drenched me with gore. Blind with rage I stumbled and fell, and at once a dozen hands were upon me: one villain seated himself on my stomach, another on my legs, a third proceeded to rifle my pockets, and a fourth was pleasantly hammering my head against the kerbstone, when a stray "Gown" mercifully scared away the vultures, and I was once and for ever cured of all hankering after distinction in the precarious fray of the "Town and Gown."

MODERN GERMAN POETS.

No. I. SCHILLER.

Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti.-VIRGIL.

Among the great crowd of world writers whose pretensions have been ratified by the concurrent testimony of ages and nations, few names gleam forth more brightly on the bead-roll of fame, than that of Friedrich Schiller, the Eschylus of Germany, the loftiest of her tragic poets. Though Goethe is the poeta sovrano of his nation beyond all limits of rivalry or comparison, yet perhaps Schiller is better known to us in England as the clearest exponent of German thought, and the highest expression of German culture. His poetry is, it has been said, what true poetry is always, the quintessence of general mental riches, the purified result of strong thought and conception, and of refined as well as powerful emotion. With him poetry was the most perfect form for the expression of noble fancies and high thoughts. "His Consience was his Muse." But the man was no less great then the poet. The fiery zeal, the holy enthusiasm with which he vindicated the acknowledged rights and insulted dignity of oppressed humanity, have endeared the man to many who are but little able to appreciate the romantic strength and sublimity of the poet.

The story of Schiller's life has for us a twofold interest—in his unfortunate existence passed under the most unfavourable influences, and in his literary partnership with Goethe, to whom he may be said to stand in a kind of complementary relation. These two great men, the literary Dioscuri of their age, early contracted that famous friendship, to which the history of English literature furnishes no parallel or furnishes a parallel in Pope and Swift alone. The intellectual life and light they had fought for together, found in each their