Headmaster, he was introduced to the famous factotum, who instructed him in the art of blowing up footballs, and presented him with a blood orange, which Jowett religiously preserved for many years in a glass-case in his study. In features they were curiously alike, but Jobey's nose was larger and far redder than that of the Master's. I have given a fuller account of the interview in my Balliol Memories, Vol. iii., pp. 292-5, but may content myself with saying here that the two eminent men parted with mutual respect.

I am, Sir, Yours faithfully,

Lemuel Longmire.

Sir,—I wish to point out that "My Tutor's" is hopelessly wrong in thinking that his Jobey is the real Jobey. Looking through my diary for June, 1815, I find this entry:—

"News of Waterloo just received. Jobey, who has charge of all the cricket implements and is generally the custodian of the playing fields, monstrously drunk, on the ground of having won the battle."

This conclusively proves that there was a Jobey before the old fellow who has just died aged 85. But how anyone can be interested in people aged only 85, I cannot conceive. My own age is 118, and I am still in possession of an exact memory and a deadly diary.

I remain, Sir, Yours truly,

John Barchester.

Sir,—Although in my hundred-and-fiftieth year I can still recollect my school days with crystal clearness, and it pains me to find a lot of young Etonians claiming to have had dealings with the original Jobey. The original Jobey died in 1827, and I was at his funeral. He was then a middle-aged man of 93. When I was at Eton in 1776-1783, he stood with his basket opposite "Grim's," and if any of us refused to buy he gave us a black eye. Discipline was lax in those days, but we were all the better for it. On Jobey's death a line of impostors no doubt was established, trying to profit by the great name; but none of these can be called the original Jobey, except under circumstances of the crassest ignorance or folly.

I am, Yours, etc., Senex.

Sir,—It is tolerably obvious that your correspondent "Drury's" is suffering from hallucinations of the most virulent type. Maxima debetur pueris reverentia is all very well, but facts are facts. There may have been many pseudo-Jobeys, but the real original was born in the year of the Great Fire of London and died in 1745. He was already installed in the reign of William III., and was the first to introduce Blenheim oranges to the Etonian palate. He was an under-sized man, about five feet five inches high, with a pale face and hooked nose and always wore a woollen muffler, which we called "Jobey's comforter." To represent him as belonging to the Victorian age is an anachronism calculated to make the angels weep.

I am, Sir, Yours everlastingly,

Melchisedek Pontoppidan.

A MOTHER TO AN EMPEROR.

Commercial Candour.

From a shoemaker's advertisement:—

"8 years' wear! 12 hours' ease."

Comforting the Foe.

"Books and Magazines may be handed in at the counter of any Post Office, unwrapped, unlabelled, and hunaddressed."

Parish Magazine.

"To be LET, FURNISHED, cosily FURNISHED COUNTRY HOUSE, offering rest, recuperation, recreation, and the acme of comfort; 10 bedrooms, 2 bath, 4 reception; stabling, garage, billiards, tennis, croquet, miniature rifle range, small golf course, fringed pool, gardens, walks, telephone, radiators, gas; near town and rail; rent £3 3s. weekly, including gardener's wages."—The Devon and Exeter Gazette.

With a lodge, a deer park, and a "revenue of populars," this would be a bargain.

HOW TO TALK TO THE WOUNDED.

Dear Old Lady. "Have you two men been at the Front?"

Soldier. "Bless you, no, Mum. We've just 'ad a bit of a scrap together, to keep fit."

THE GRAND TOUR.

A Fair