sent a letter to the University of Cambridge, forbidding the members to wear _periwigs_, smoke tobacco, and read their sermons!! It is needless to remark, that TOBACCO has not yet made its EXIT IN FUMO, and that _periwigs_ still continue to adorn "THE HEADS OF HOUSES." Till the present all-prevailing, all-_accommodating_ fashion of CROPS became general in the university, no young man presumed to dine in hall till he had previously received a handsome trimming from the hair-dresser (one of which calling was a special appointment to each college.) The following inimitable imitation of "The Bard" of Gray, is ascribed to the pen of the late Lord Erskine, when a fellow-commoner of Trinity College, Cambridge. Having been disappointed of the attendance of his college-barber, he was compelled to forego his _commons_ in hall. But determining to have his revenge, and give his hair-dresser a good DRESSING, he sat down and penned the following "Fragment of a Pindaric Ode," wherein, "in imitation of the despairing Bard of Gray, who prophesied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation." I. Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Confusion on thy frizzing wait; Hadst thou the only comb below, Thou never more shouldst touch my pate. Club, nor queue, nor twisted tail, Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail To save thy horse-whipp'd back from daily fears, From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears! Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride Of Coe the barber scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane, He wound with puffing march his toilsome, tardy way. II. In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o'er the kennel's stinking flood, Rob'd in a flannel powd'ring gown, With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood; (Long his beard and blouzy hair Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air;) And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! O'er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave, Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; Vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day, The grace already said, the plates all swept away. III.