the school where he was bred, but that is a trifle. The note runs thus:

"The following Anecdote occurs in a volume of Memoranda in the handwriting of Thomas Warton, the poet laureate, preserved in the British Museum.

'Mem. Jul. 10, 1774. In the year 1759, I was told by the rev. Mr. Benjamin Holloway, rector of Middleton Stoney in Oxfordshire, then about seventy years old, and in the early part of his life domestic chaplain to Lord Sunderland, that he had often heard Lord Sunderland say, that Lord Oxford, while a prisoner in the Tower of London, wrote the first volume of the History. of Robinson Crusoe, merely as an amusement under confinement; and gave it to Daniel De Foe, who frequently visited Lord Oxford in the Tower, and was one of his Pamphlet writers. That De Foe, by Lord Oxford's permission, printed it as his own, and encouraged by its extraordinary success, added himself the second Volume, the inferiority of which is generally acknowledged. Mr. Holloway also told me, from Lord Sunderland, that Lord Oxford dictated some parts of the Manuscript to De Foe.

'Mr. Holloway was a grave conscientious clergyman, not vain of telling anecdotes, very learned, particularly a good orientalist, author of some theological tracts, bred at Eton school, and a Master of Arts of St. John's College Cambridge. He lived many years with great respect in Lord Sunderland's family, and was like to the late Duke of Marlborough. He died, as I remember, about the year 1761. He used to say that RobinsonCrusoe, at its first publication, and for some time afterwards, was universally received and credited as a genuine history. A fictitious narrative of this sort was then a new thing.

T. WARTON."

Commending the authorship of Robinson Crusoe to Ignatius Donnelly's attention, let us notice a few of the

Christian names borne by the boys of the 17th and 18th centuries. I have not observed anything quite so characteristic as the Surety-on-High of Pt. I.; but Fonadab, Barachias, Obadiah, Ishmael, Hilkiah, Mordecay, Theophilus and other rather unusual Biblical names occur frequently: perhaps Sydrah, Bremstone and Mercy belong to this class (but the last, found on p. 82, 1. 9, may be the registrary's mistake for Merry). Rumphrey must be a corruption of Humphry. Perantus and Consilius are the names of brothers. Narcissus, Ninyan, occur with Kanelm, Pooty (Smith), Billidge, Foljambe, Acclome, Pheed, and a host of others as strange looking; some of these were probably surnames originally. Thankful, Merry, Hartstrong, Carrier, Grey, Long, etc., look more like epithets. Goodgionius may be an attempt to Latinise Gudgeon (his cognomen is Jackman). Sometimes it is the combination of Christian and surname that strikes one as odd: Simon Sayon sounds particularly scriptural; Augustine Caesar son of Julius Caesar is belated among his contemporaries; while Seth Sissason suggests a game of forfeits. One surname appealed to the humour of our 18th century registrary, and gives us the only palpable attempt at a joke in this serious record: "William Cuckow . admitted

22 May 1712 et post admissionem avolavit." What must have made the vagaries of the old time sponsors more burdensome, is their neglect to give their children spare names; out of over 5000 persons mentioned in the Admissions Part II, hardly more than halfa-dozen have a middle name.

In a few cases parents and sons have different surnames, e.g. "Ri. Lewis, filius Lewis Dauys," p. 21, no. 38; "David Evans, son of Evan Davis,"

* It should have been premised (but the reader has by this time found out for himself) that the College registrary did not set down his facts in plain English, but transfigured them into the language which was commonly known as Latin in those days: a practice which increases our difficulty in getting at the exact truth about the past.

p. 79, no. 51; "Godfrey Jones, son of John Prichard," p. 193, no. 26; "Watson Powell alias Watson, son of Henry Powell," p. 203, no. 20-all from Wales, where surnames were not fixed so early as in England. The father of no. 30 on p. 111 had perhaps changed his

surname since his son's birth. Variations in the spelling of the names of father and son are too habitual to call for notice.

(To be concluded.)

SUSPIRIA.

IN this dim hour of moonlight, when the earth
Seems, what in truth it is, a vision half revealed,
Nothing is real but thy soul and mine.

All that so solid and enduring seemed

Into a dreamy haze of grey has melted,

Only thy soul and mine of all that was remaining.

Around me is a universe of love

Bearing me up, sustaining, giving life:

No thought, no force is left, save love alone.

This veil of air grown visible, made silv'ry white,
Is only woven in my soul and thine,

Is but a part of thy soul and of mine.

I stand before thee now; and though with earthly

sense

Nothing of thee I can discern, my soul

Can see thine own, looking from out deep eyes.

R.

A TRAINING BREAKFAST.

How charming for you lackadaisical folk

To sit by the fire when it's raining,
And skim through a novel, and lazily smoke-
Such joys are forbidden in training.

But though you may think it uncommonly slow,
And sneer at our plugging and straining,
There still is a joy that you never can know-
The joy when you go out of training.

Boat House Ballads.

THE day had dawned, with dawn that scarcely seemed
A dawn, so dark, so drear it was: i' the hall
Flashed forth the radiance of electric lamps
That lit bright eyes, whereon the hand of sleep
Had left its drowsy mark, now half unseen;
And ever on the board the breakfast cups
Made cheerful music as they rose and fell.

And swains there were, all seated round the board
In two long lines, and thrice times eight were they
(For coxes come not into training hall);
Brave souls who ply the sudden-gleaming oar
And swing the boats adown the river Cam.
Thus as they sat, not idle, for their spoons
Made winsome clatter on the hollow plates,
One swain bespake the other, who in turn
Let fly the shafted arrows of his wit,
And t' other was as naught; and so anon,
Like to a ball tossed lightly to and fro,
The talk was tossed from him to him, until
One gallant youth (a faithful Five was he
Of monstrous muscles and broad brawny back,

But one in whom the meditative muse

Had not yet found a willing worshipper)
Upreared his porridge plate, and thus began:

Genial joys of tender training,
Why are ye still left unsung ?
Ye are worthy of attaining

Some illustrious poet's tongue.
And although I'm not a poet

Still my love for you is true,
And I'll see if I can show it
In a lay to honour you.

In the early frost of morning,

When the red sun routs the night,
Warmth of bed and blankets scorning,
Forth, like birds, we wing our flight;
Then with true corporeal tension

Spurt a hundred yards or so,

Most-not all, I'm bound to mention-
Fly like arrows from the bow.

Why describe the joys of eating

Roast and boiled, and boiled and roast,

And, alas, the far too fleeting

Charms of chops and tea and toast?

We've no need for sauce to forage,

Hunger is of sauce in stead,

Come, brave boys, and pass the porridge
For the glory of the Red!

He ended, and anon there rose a hum
Like myriad bees, that flit about i' the morn
And sip the dew-drops from the pouting flower;
And he that erst had spoken passed his plate,
And once again 'twas heaped, and still there flowed
The lacteal fluid from the willing bowl.

But one there was that sat apart, and glum

Of countenance was he, and sad of eye;
And never did a light word pass his lips,