In the halcyon days of the MLA, when I was young and my revered master, John Manly, was still in his prime, it was our custom to highlight the program for the annual meeting with two major speeches: a smoke-talk at the big dinner we used to have, and a presidential address. The difference in name reflects a difference in form and matter: the smoke-talk was expected to be in lighter vein; the presidential address, in heavier vein (if I may say so). It was the aim of the smoke-talker above all to be amusing; witty if possible but funny at least. And his success was measured by the number of times he made his audience laugh. The smoke-talk was nearly always well attended, for hope springs eternal in the academic breast. There were those, I admit, natural cynics or members disillusioned by repeated disappointment, who came to the dinner but slipped out after eating their dessert and drinking their coffee, but we could always think they were fleeing the foulness of the tobacco-laden air rather than the prospective boredom of the two speeches (for the smoke-talker had to be introduced and the introducer might speak as long as the speaker). But most of us stuck it out, tobacco smoke and all, and more often than not we went away well content. The most satisfying evening of this kind that I can remember was one at Harvard back in the twenties, when George Kittredge was the smoke-talker and Charles Grandgent introduced him. My mouth waters for more when I think of that pair of speeches. It is a pity that we had to give up the smoke-talk and the dinner that went with it, but there are too many of us nowadays to sit down to a meal together in one room, and so much goes on at our meetings that a whole evening devoted to corporate, communal pleasure (or what passes for pleasure) has become more than we have any right to expect.