I hope it will not be thought to argue defective piety in me that I have, so far, said nothing about the religious state of the University. I am sorry to say that I think the women who were up in my time were, on the whole, far better Churchgoers than their successors of to-day. The old idea of compulsory chapels had disappeared almost before the Five Years’ War; and there was now no worldly inducement to keep even Sunday chapels except that those who went on Sunday evening were not charged for their dinner afterwards in Hall. In spite of the purely voluntary character of these services, I think we had nearly always about a third of the College in attendance; and very heartily, I remember, did they join in the singing. Miss Garvice, our principal, used to conduct the service, and would occasionally preach us a lay sermon: she always refused, however, to pronounce the Absolution; the assumption of anything like priestly powers by women in the present state of feeling, she said, could do no good and might possibly do harm. We used the ordinary Prayer Book service, but, in virtue of a special privilege accorded to us by our visitor, the Bishop of Sodor and Man, we altered the masculine gender to the feminine wherever it occurred in any general connexion: “When the wicked woman turneth away from her wickedness,” and so on. Our devotion to the services of the Church at St. Lucy’s was but part of a great religious movement throughout the University. In those days, the Sunday evening sermons for undergraduates which are now preached at St. Peter’s-in-the-East were still preached at St. Mary’s, and when a really popular orator such as the then Bishop of Plymouth was to occupy the pulpit, you did well to be in time for the opening prayers if you wanted to make sure of a seat. I remember an atheist meeting, which was being held opposite the moving platform in St. Giles’, where the old Martyrs’ Memorial used to stand, being almost broken up by a set of Magdalen undergraduates who were returning from the Bullingdon dinner. When the Archbishop of British Guiana was given his honorary degree (I was in the theatre myself), there was no larking among the undergraduates in the gallery, except that one young man threw down a black and only partially clothed “Golliwog” in his direction—an action which the _Oxford Magazine_ criticized afterward as being in doubtful taste. Altogether, our young friends at Oxford might do worse than go back to the religious standard of the early thirties.