its harvest of youth, of sobriety sun-kindled to a radiancy of silver
joy, of wisdom, peace, and shelter, and Attic glories.

Michael became so nearly stifled by the net of his fancies that he
almost rose from the table then and there, ambitious to take pen in hand
and test the power of its sharpness to cut him free. He clearly saw the
gray-eyed goddess as the personification of the spirit of the
university: but suddenly all the impulse faded out in self-depreciation.
Guy Hazlewood would solve the problem with his pranked-out allusiveness,
would trace more featly the attributes of the Academic Muse and
establish more convincingly her descent from Apollo or her identity with
Athene. At least, however, he could offer the idea and if Guy made
anything of it, the second number of The Oxford Looking-Glass would hold
more of Michael Fane than the ten pounds he had laid on the table of its
exchequer. Inspired by the zest of his own fancy, he read on
deliberately.

_Some Reflections. By Maurice Avery._

The editor had really succeeded in reflecting accurately the passing
glance of Oxford, although perhaps the tortuous gilt of the frame with
which he had tried to impart style to his mirror was more personal to
Maurice Avery than general to the university. Moreover, his glass would
certainly never have stood a steady and protracted gaze. Still with all
their faults these paragraphic reflections did show forth admirably the
wit and unmatured cynicism of the various Junior Common Rooms, did
signally flash with all the illusion of an important message, did
suggest a potentiality for durable criticism.

_Socrates at Balliol._ _By Guy Hazlewood._

There was enough of Guy in his article to endear it to Michael, and
there was so much of Oxford in Guy that whatever he wrote spontaneously
would always enrich the magazine with that adventurous gaiety and
childlike intolerance of Athene's favorites.

_The Failure of the Modern Illustrator._
_By C. St. C. Wedderburn._

Here was Wedders writing with more distinction than Michael would have
expected, but not with all the sartorial distinction of his attire.

"Let us turn now to the illustrators of the sixties and seventies, and
we shall see...." Wedderburn in the plural scarcely managed to convey
himself into print. The neat bulk began to sprawl: the solidity became
pompous: the profundity of his spoken voice was lacking to sustain so
much sententiousness.

_Quo