Football at Oxford, (where Winchester, Eton, Harrow, Westminster, Rugby, and various “T’other Schoolmen,” _i.e._, those who had not been at a public school, used to play together, each with different rules,) occasionally gave rise to some amusing incidents. On one occasion I saw a Rugby man catch the ball, and, with a complacent smile, was then taking a little run to give impetus to his intended kick off, when Podder, hot from Winchester, darted out, and with one dexterous turn of his leg, laid the Rugbean flat on the ground, and before he could scoop the mud out of his mouth, and compose himself to articulate ejaculation, Podder had carried the ball to the other end of the ground. It subsequently appeared that by Rugby rules no one was allowed to interfere in such a case, whereas at Winchester he who had caught the ball might kick if he could, and if any one ran at him to interfere, he might then run away. Football, though a splendid game for boys, does not do in after life, as it requires constant practice both in running and the art of kicking. About three years after I left, I was passing through Winchester, and went down to College to play football, expecting to enjoy myself immensely, and to explain to the degenerate youngsters how football used to be played in our time. The first fair kick I got at the ball I missed it altogether, and nearly kicked my own leg out of its socket; the second time, remembering my previous failure, and determining to be more careful, I buried my toes in the ground, just short of the ball, which never moved, while my ancle nearly snapped across with the shock; the third time I kicked well into the back of the tendon achillis of my other leg, and was carried off howling. Since then I have confined myself to looking on at football.