Harvard has been lucky in her week, for there probably
never was one in which Englishmen had so little to talk about. Nothing has occurred anywhere worth recording for politicians ; statesmen are travelling, or climbing, or bathing like other people; Napoleon is sick, though not ill, and inclined to a very easy chair ; the Americans, like ourselves, are speculating about the boat-race ; the clergy are watching the harvest—Canon Boyd excepted, who has been proving the depth of his charity by opposing the loan of his pulpit to Mr. Liddon—the City would be sleepy but for an irritable craving to vote a testimonial to the managers of the Albert as "most successful financiers;" and the men of science, who are talking away at Exeter as if it were not too hot to think, seem to have unusually little to say, and to be very much bored at having to say it. At least, it is only on this theory that we Can account for a scientific Association putting up with Mr. Daw's buffoonery, and with the silliness of the Archdeacon who quoted the creation of the angel who guarded the gate of Eden as proof of the Mosaic account of the creation of man. They are, however, excusable. Exeter is a good deal south of London, and even in London it is much too hot to hiss.
