TO my mind, one of the most delightful institutions of the Attic republic was that which permitted the people to banish from among them, from time to time, the men of whom they had grown tired. The delight that an old Greek must have felt at seeing some disagreeable fellow, who had outstripped him in military or political life, or who had neglected to invite him to select little dinner-parties, packed off, bag and baggage, for parts unknown, must have been one of the most unalloyed sentiments that ever filled the human heart; and I often find myself lost in envy of the ancient Greeks.

It seems to me, indeed, that we need something of the sort here. The University - small, classic, and containing more interests than it can peaceably hold - may well be compared to Greece itself. The societies, of which we all are so proud, are not unlike the elegant states which grew up in the genial climate of Attica and of the Peloponnesus, - the modern prototype of which may be found in the shadow of the elms of the College Yard. And, to carry the simile a little further, at the risk of offending some very good friends of mind, the grim body of non-society men are not unlike the semi-barbaric peoples of Illyria and Achaia, to which melancholy region I shall venture to compare the chilly and cheerless precincts of College House.

As we are so very like the Greeks, as, in short, we are elegant, cultivated, and handsome men, with a decided taste for beauty of form, - and for good form, too, - and as we live together in small and purely democratic communities, sufficiently like each other in tastes and interests to be eternally at war, it really seems a pity that we have not yet adopted that admirable feature of Greek polity, - ostracism. It is my fortune to be a member of a certain society, in its elegance and refinement truly Attic, or, to use the current slang of the days of the Regent, "perfectly Corinthian." I need not say that I refer to that well-known organization, the R. E. T., - Rapid Eaters of Tarts. We have occasional meetings, at which are performed certain mysterious rites, which no earthly power could ever persuade me to divulge; and after the serious business of the evening is over we sit down to a supper, of which the uniquely shaped apple-tarts, which give the society its name, form the staple. There is in the same society a man named Swiddle. He passed with much distinction the initiation, the chief feature of which is, that the neophyte is obliged to eat a dozen tarts three inches in diameter in ten minutes, and to wash them down with six tumblers of Fresh Pond water. In Swiddle's case the water was dispensed with, owing to a recent drowning accident, and he ate eighteen tarts within the time, having forty-five seconds to spare. Swiddle is a handsome man, who dresses to perfection, ordering his clothes from Smiler & Compa, Bond St., W., and he never by any chance loses his temper. He is the most thoroughly gentlemanly person that I ever knew, although his best friends will hardly venture to claim that he is a gentleman; and when I first knew him I found him very agreeable. But he has since developed a propensity for quietly laying hands upon the best tarts in every dish. He will lounge up to the table, join in a friendly conversation with somebody or other, and, in an absent sort of way, will slip into his plate tart after tart that I am vainly endeavoring to get at (I may remark, parenthetically, that I am physically small and weak), yet the man is so perfectly pleasant about it that in the present state of affairs I cannot publicly proclaim my disgust at his behavior.

So, although his presence is becoming as disagreeable to me as is the presence of a proctor when, as rarely happens, I feel the need of referring to certain notes in my possession, I have no sort of means of getting rid of him, unless I keep away from the R. E. T. myself. Now I am quite sure that I am not alone in my sentiments, that there are dozens of men who would like to get rid of Swiddle if they knew how; and if we could ostracize him it would give us all the greatest pleasure to do so. As I write this, I imagine myself for the moment an ancient Greek. I imagine myself scratching the word ??? on a bit of shell, and dropping the shell into a vase decorated with designs from the wars of the gods and the giants. And then I imagine myself walking off, and saying, "So, so, Mr. Swiddle, you'll cut a dash in the streets of Athens no more; but off you'll go to the barbaric regions of the North, or perhaps to show your ideas of good form to the great king" - the monarchy of Persia, by the way, I shall compare to Yale; it was a place where loud-dressed and loud-talking people lived, who never accomplished much, and who wore jewels and charms of quaint, mysterious, and barbaric shapes. But, to come back to my subject, the delight that I feel in imagining the ostracism of Swiddle is only equalled by that which I feel when I sometimes imagine for a moment that the new regulations about required church and fifty per cent are nothing but little sells which our rulers have amused themselves by perpetrating.

After all, though, ostracism is not very practicable at present; and I have in mind a much less troublesome system of getting rid of disagreeable people, which I am not rich enough to put into practice. At the same time some of my readers may be able and willing to do so. The plan is very simple. All you need is a large house, a steep staircase, and a pair of hobnailed shoes. The house is a sort of decoy. You invite the man that you don't like to dine with you, or inveigle him into your power in some other way. When he comes to the house, he is led through a suite of elegant apartments decorated with paintings of the "Fall of the Rebellious Angels," the "Fall of Cardinal Wolsey," the "Fall of the Year," the "Falls of Niagara," and other kindred subjects; and ultimately you meet him in a small cabinet from which the staircase descends to an oubliette. You receive him with civility and extend your hand. He extends his hand in return. You seize him by the arm, twitch him suddenly around to the head of the staircase, apply the hobnailed shoe to his person, and send him flying down stairs into the oubliette. Then, after the noise of his fall is over, you rearrange your dress, ring for the butler, order a bottle of your best Old Madeira, - a wine somewhat out of fashion, but for which you retain your taste, - and indulge in the delightful reflection that Swiddle - or whoever it may have happened to be - will never bother you again.

Some tender-hearted people may object to this plan that it is treacherous; that it takes the man at a disadvantage; that it is hardly honorable. I thought so myself at first, but I convinced myself of the contrary by three cogent arguments:

1. There is no sort of need of being found out;

2. The other man would do the same by you if he could get a chance to; 3. The thing has been done over and over again by the ancestors of every decent family in Europe.

So, in my present state of mind, I intend to set the staircase and shoes to work as soon as I can afford it; I sincerely hope that all my friends who are rich enough will do the same; and I shall positively decline, after the publication of this article, to visit any of my enemies on any pretext whatever.

B. W.