* Representations to the masters or authorities are scarcely ever necessary to redress these whimsical grievances, as the injured parties are always remunerated. The next day the spoils and trophies are arranged in due form in a certain snug sanctum sanctorum, the cellar of a favorite inn, well known by the name of the _Oppidan's_ Museum; for a view of which see the sketch made on the spot by my friend Bob Transit. Here the merry wags are to be found in council, holding a court of claims, to which all the tradesmen who have suffered any loss are successively summoned; and after pointing out from among the motley collection the article they claim, and the price it originally cost, they are handsomely remunerated, or the sign replaced. The good people of Eton generally choose the former, as it not only enable them to sport a new sign, but to put a little profit upon the cost price of the old one. The trophies thus acquired are then packed up in hampers, and despatched to Oxford, where they are on similar occasions not unfrequently displayed, or hung up, in lieu of some well-known sign, such as the Mitre, &c. which has been removed during the night. ~58~~ [Illustration: page058] The following jeu-d'esprits issued upon the interference of the authorities at the conclusion of the last Election. The "dance of thirty sovereigns" is an allusion to the fine imposed, which was given to the poor. A Ladder Dance. A moving golden Fish. The Fall of Grapes, during a heavy storm. The Cock'd Hat Combat. A March to the Workhouse. Bird-cage Duett, by Messrs. C***** and B****. A public Breakfast, with a dance by thirty sovereigns. Glee--"When shall we three meet again." The Barber's Hornpipe, by the learned D****. The Turk's Head Revel. Saint Christopher's March. The Committee in Danger. The Cloisters, Eton [Illustration: page059] ~59~~ HERBERT STOCKHORE, THE MONTEM POET LAUREATE. A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE, As he appeared in the Montent Procession of May, 1823. BY BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, AND ROBERT TRANSIT Bending beneath a weight of time, And crippled as his Montem ode, We found the humble son of rhyme Busy beside the public road. Nor laurel'd wreath or harp had he, To deck his brow or touch the note That wakes the soul to sympathy. His face was piteous as his coat, 'Twas motley strange; e'en nature's self, In wild, eccentric, playful mood, Had, for her pastime, form'd the elf, A being scarcely understood-- Half idiot, harmless; yet a gleam Of sense, and whim, and shrewdness, broke The current of his wildest stream; And pity sigh'd as madness spoke. ~60~~