Oxford is a stage, And all the men in residence are players: They have their exeats and examinations; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman, Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms. And then the aspiring Classman, with white tie And shy, desponding face, creeping along Unwilling to the Schools. Then, at the Union, Spouting like Fury, with some woeful twaddle Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player, Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card, Clever in cannons, sudden and quick at hazards, Seeking a billiard reputation Even in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow, His fair, round forehead with hard furrows lined, With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth, Crammed with old lore of useless application, And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and study-worn Professor, With spectacles on nose and class at side; His youthful nose has grown a world too large For his shrunk face; and his big, manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history In utter donnishness and mere nonentity, Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything. I said that undergraduate magazine humour was a tea-table flower. I should have said that it flowers at tea and is harvested after dinner. The penning of it is a nocturnal occupation, and the best wit is sometimes the result of that pregnant nervousness which comes from competing with time. It was until very lately [Illustration: THE SHELDONIAN THEATRE AND OLD CLARENDON BUILDINGS The steps from Cat Street lead to the enclosure of the Theatre, the east entrance of which is seen. Above the entrance, and crowning the roof of the Theatre, rises Sir Christopher Wren’s cupola, from the windows of which a panorama appears of unsurpassed beauty and interest. On the right of the picture is the south front of the Clarendon Building. ]