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COMMITTEE.
Editor: M. P. REEKIE. Treasurer: A. N. STEVENSON. Third Year Representative: J. RAIVLINSON. Second Year Representative: C. P. YOUNG. First Year Representative (co-opted) : L. PARKS.
THE CYGNET MARCH, 1935
Editorial
W
E are comparatively pleased. As we opened our Shakespeare—our custom always of an afternoon — and read ' The cygnet's down is harsh,' we concluded that the Man of Stratford had been mistaken. Sweet and pleasant to the touch are those curling feathers of foolscap which have fluttered on to the editorial table in such unaccustomed profusion, ballasted by two serious articles to prove our contention that we are fundamentally an earnest bird. The Cygnet utters a quack of modified pleasure and proceeds to don its Hilary suiting. At last we can announce the coming-of-age of our much-respected President, our Vice4'resident and Miss Charlotte Young. We trust that the guerilla warfare of the J.C.R., which the President has waged with such unfailing energy and discrimination, has prepared her for the battle of Life in which, in spite of her pacific principles, she must now engage. Our respect for the Vice-President has been in no degree diminished by the fact that we live next door to her. Can we say more? While expressing the regrets of the whole J.C.R. that Miss Marie Grutter and Miss Karin Classen must now, in the natural course of this transitory life, resign the positions which they have held with such ability and grace, the Cygnet welcomes their successors, Miss Alison Sprules and Miss Dorothy Sherwood. As for Miss Charlotte Young, we can only say that she has done nothing to decrease our initial respect for her as a member of the Favoured Nation (i.e. a Scot). The event of the term which has most deeply affected our lives is Miss Palmer's Reformation of the Bicycle Shed. Instead of extracting two wheels and a saddle from a hugger-mugger of old iron, we now walk straight to a numbered stand and, unless Miss Kershaw has been before us, find our bicycle there. Beside this achievement, even Miss Betty Stinton's attempt to arouse the sporting spirit in reluctant intellectuals pales. The example of those members of the S.C.R. who raise the standard of College teniquoit every day after lunch should stir these book-bound creatures, or, failing that, let them gaze in wonder at the pretty turn of the wrist which
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won Miss Gammack the victory in our annual Ping-Pong Tournament. Another nail has been driven into history's coffin by Miss Ruth McKee, who supported the proctorial system so eloquently in the Union. Those who saw the Time and Tide review of her book on the inhabitants of Formosa—doubtless written from personal experience—will appreciate the versatile nature of her talents. The Cygnet does not wish to congratulate certain members of the J.C.R. whose names have been prominent in a contemporary journal. We consider that fame, as distinct from notoriety, is not to be achieved by the affectation of emblems. We would congratulate Miss Salt, who has borne the temporary absence of Hugo with undiminished cheerfulness. Possibly her time has been beguiled by the destructive operations next door, which are watched by members of the College with such zealous absorption. Cygnet will be delighted to provide straws for spectators. After some recrimination, the fifteen shillings which we have used as bait has been allotted in the following manner :—Five shillings have been awarded to Miss Parks and also to Miss Yeaxlee, half-a-crown to Miss Edith Jackson, and sixpence each to Miss Lovett, Miss Noble, Miss Wilson, the writer of Pigeon-holes,' and Miss Ross, to whom we would recommend the purchase of some paper-clips. The Editor regrets that she has made nothing on this issue.
Together My feet are running on the sands of time Tingling and free, Hard sand Softening at the tread of my warm feet. My hand in yours, My heart is leaping on the sands of space Beside a sea of stillness, Smooth and yet with mirror waves That set colour on darkness, Colour white, Foaming white, Wave foam and darkness . . . . Your feet are running by mine On this soft sun-kissed sand ; Your mind is set Far on the expanses of life's mystery, Your feet are running on the sands of thought. Time flies With the sand
THE CYGNET Between our toes ; Time goes unharnessed. . . . . . . Surf and seagulls And the wide expanse smooth, Silent. Your hand in mine Were running happy on the sands of time That trickling thinly flows M. R. WILSON. Between our toes.
The Ballad of Ben the Bike ' 0 who has ta'en my bonny bike, That sped about the town? The tyres were flat, the pedals squeaked, It cost me half-a-crown. It bore my books, my cap and gown, My notebooks and my pen, My lamp, my pump, and eke myself ; I called it Bouncing Ben.' Then up and spake a trusty friend, Upspake a comrade true, Upspake a maid of loyal heart Who dwelt in 82. Poor Ben is now at L.M.H., Your bike is lost for aye ; Poor Ben is bent with many a dent For ever and a day. His paint is cracked, his brakes are loose, His handlebars awry, His lamp is broke, and every spoke ; 'Twould dim the brightest eye.' 0 bring me then my stoutest shoes, My cudgel give to me, For I will off to L.M.H. My poor Ben for to see.' She hadna gone a league, a league, A league but barely two, Before she met her Tutor wise, Who said What do you do? ' 0 Tutor wise, I go to seek My bicycle so dear. I cannot concentrate on work, I drop full many a tear.'
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The Tutor tore her hoary locks And made a woeful moan ; She rent her dress, she rent her gown, And uttered many a groan. ' Go on, my child, full many a mile Wend on your toilsome way. Hugh grant that you may win your bike At L.M.H. to-day.' So off she went to L.M.H. She bare Ben back again ; She stood him in the old bike shed, And bought him a padlock and chain. L. PARKS. M. JACKSON. S. BANNING.
A
Simple Story
THE EXPLORERESS. Once upon a time there was a little girl called Hermione Aglicinby, who wore black stuff dresses with tight necks and boots with lots of buttons and her hair strained severely back. And Hermione Aglionby had a governess called Miss Pinkerton, because it would not have been suitable for her to associate with other children in case she might comport herself with impropriety and play practical jokes or set booby traps or do something like that. Well, she used to do geography lessons with Miss Pinkerton, and one day they were having a lesson on where do we get our Christmas pudding from, and after she had guessed wrong every time Hermione Aglionby said I don't know, so Miss Pinkerton said from the ends of the earth, and Hermione Aglionby, who was very precise and an unutterable little worm, as you will have guessed, said where are the ends of the earth, and Miss Pinkerton grew very red because she had thought it sounded rather vague and clever. Then she said I am surprised at a big girl like you not knowing that, dear little Arabella Majoribanks whom I used to teach knew without being told go to bed early spices come from the West Indies. So she did. But Hermione Aglionby was not going to be put off like that, so when the Vicar came to tea she asked him about it. And he murmured something about Ultima Thule and the Pillars of Hercules being Gibraltar, which didn't help her very much. So she decided to wait until she was grown up and be an exploreress. So she waited until she was thirty in case she might get married, but she didn't, so she bought some white clothes and changed into elastic-sided boots, because they were much more comfortable for tropical wear, and set out. Well, she went to places where no white woman had been before and to places where some had, and she slept under the stars in the great open spaces and flourished karbkerries and did things like that. But she didn't find the ends of the earth, so she decided to go round the earth the other
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way from top to bottom, and bought some fur mittens and other things and went to the Arctic and Antarctic regions, where she saw ice-pans and fish kettles and the Cock of the North himself very nearly, but never once the ends of the earth. So she came home. Well, she had a very bad crossing, and just as she was getting off the boat she gasped suddenly and then put her pince-nez straight and said how stupid of me, of course the earth is round so it is a mathematical impossibility, but she never told anybody. She consoled herself instead with half a line of poetry which she had found somewhere which said at the round earth's imagined corners. After that she refused medals and honorary memberships and illuminated addresses when they were offered to her because her conscience would not allow her to take them, but she gave lectures to mutual improvement societies and at the Polytechnic because she wanted the money to buy a little flat in town and a runabout. And she gave some of the money to Miss Pinkerton, who had fallen into a decline. J. M. YEAXLE.E'. .
Times Fool Like a flickering flame Danced a fool in a dim-lit hall, While in mad masque Shadows mocked on the darkening wall, And over him hung . . . Waiting to pluck the flower, his face. Never the same, Now swept he by, passing proud and tall, Now, as aught he would ask, Crouched in the half light, appealing, small, The fool as he wrung From, a thread of fantasy steeped in gall (Vividly flung Onto a curtain of dusky space) Passionate grief, Gay posturing. There came a lord into the hall, Dark-eyed, dark-browed, majestical, Young yet Immortal ; moved withal, He watched unseen the dancing fool, Then said : ' Puppet, away ; Hast had thy day.' The fool sank down, the flame snuffed out ; But from the fallen body there arose A sweet perfume, and like rich incense Its curling wreaths took on the semblance Of a phantom fool. And still the shadows mocked upon the wall.
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THE CYGNET When I consider how my cash is spent, Ere half the term in this damp town, on dress, And that one fiver which I should possess Lent to a bankrupt, though my soul more bent To pay therewith my Bursar, and present My true account, lest she demand redress, Doth she exact full payment none the less? ' I fondly ask. My comrade, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, ' Coll. doth not need Either your buttery or terminal accounts. Who best Pay their small bills, they serve her best ; her till Is bursting ; thousands from her precincts speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest. They also serve who leave unpaid their bill.' L. PARKS, S. BANNING.
College Personalities She cruises round the J.C.R. And blights the wholesome day. With glassy eye and mouth ajar She cruises round the J.C.R. ; We sense her coming from afar, Enveloping her prey She cruises round the J.C.R. And blights the wholesome day. I gravitate from dance to dance, My end and aim — the Isis. I have to seize the slightest chance So gravitate from dance to dance ; My tutor looks on me askance I know no sordid crisis •' I gravitate from dance to dance, My end and aim — the /sis. I've reached the height of my career, I'm playing for The College. My comrades cannot choose but hear I've reached the height of my career ; No tutor now may domineer— What use have I for knowledge? I've reached the height of my career, I'm playing for The College. I'm getting a petition signed, And have you paid your sub? The State is being undermined, I'm getting a petition signed ; The clear of sight must lead the blind So won't you join the club? I'm getting a petition signed, And have you paid your sub?
M.P.R.
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The Man who Wasn't Cartwright swung round, his heart thumping dangerously. Yes, there was that figure again. The street, except for those two, was empty. Corners shrank back into deepest shadow, and grey shapes loomed in sudden contrast with huge masses of black. The street was narrow, and the houses seemed to crowd together, huge shoulder to huge shoulder, and rise terrific into the sky. Cartwright felt small, insignificant, overwhelmed by their mightiness. For a moment he thought of houses not as mere shells where human ants lived, talked and worked, but as separate beings, with characters of their own. He was filled by an indefinable dread. The hair on his head and neck seemed to bristle like a dog's, cold shivers ran down his spine, and, unconsciously, he bared his teeth, and something very like a snarl escaped him. His eyes peered into the darkness beyond him, and he was sure he caught sight of a figure lurking, hovering there, a figure curiously at one with the threatening bulk of houses. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, clutched his coat closer about his hunched shoulders, and almost ran along the street, whimpering with fear. No sooner had he begun to move than he thought he heard footsteps behind him again. They did not hurry ; deliberately they moved behind him, but they never slackened. If he hurried they increased their speed (though not so much as to be called hurrying), deliberate as ever but never falling behind. If he slackened pace, they did. If he stopped, they stopped. In the ominous silence of the night his own steps echoed hollowly on the pavement, and his ears strained to distinguish echo from the footsteps of his pursuer. Fear gripped his heart, and his breath came in short pants. In the distance he caught sight of an arc lamp, glowing feebly in a vain effort to combat the encircling gloom, and he set his eyes steadily on that, scurrying along as fast as his trembling knees would let him. At long last he reached it, and stood with his back against it for a moment, but the darkness beyond its pale circle seemed thicker than ever, and he felt eyes on him peering, glowering evilly from every side. Fear swelling in him to gigantic proportions, he made off once more, his small figure tracing an uncertain path between the two massive walls of houses, which seemed to nod over his head to each other and then cackle faintly with maniac laughter. For over a month this fear had haunted him. He felt, he was sure, that everywhere he went someone was following him—inescapable as doom. In the morning he felt him near in the crowded streets, dogging his heels ; all day his presence hovered near him in the office ; and at night, worst of all, he had him at his mercy. Cartwright gained the comparative safety of his flat, where he lived alone, locked the door and flung himself into a chair, panting and white with fear. The bright cheerfulness of the electric light revived him for a moment, but gradually the stillness and the silence began to tell on his nerves. He mixed himself a stiff whisky and soda, and moved restlessly about the room. The thought of food sickened him, and his own footsteps startled him. He kept on glancing behind him, or out of the window. He lit cigarette after cigarette with fingers that shook, and more than once started violently as he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. At last he nerved himself to sit down, with his back to the
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fire, and tried to overcome the dread that had taken possession of his very soul. It must be, he argued, an obsession. How could the dead walk? For, worst of all, Cartwright knew the name of his insistent pursuer. Eight years before he had killed him, and buried him in the bush in Australia. No one had guessed. No one should ever have guessed. No one knew better than he how dead, how deep in the earth Dunn was. Yet here he was trailing him, following him, making his life a hell on earth. The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Cartwright looked up — and froze with horror. For there, before him, the whites of his eyes gleaming evilly in the firelight, stood Dunn. Cartwright sprang up with a scream like that of a lost soul, and launched himself at the man's throat. His fingers closed about it, strong and lean. He felt the impotent struggles, the writhing body. With loathsome joy he crushed the life from the pulpy throat, then loosed his fingers, which still clung stickily to the damp flesh, and watched the heavy carcase sink to the carpet. To kill the dead? . . . He wiped his wet brow and put out a hand dizzily. It touched something cold—the telephone. He looked at the body. No hope this time. Burying a body in the bush in Australia was different from this. Bodies in London were not so easily disposed of. He picked up the telephone. Called the police. Gave himself up, in a trembling voice. A murderer. For the second time, and the same man. The voice of the officer of the law at Scotland Yard sounded rather incredulous. He asked for his name. ' Cartwright. Yes. Oh, yes ; I'll send some men round. Just sit quietly.' He let his weary limbs give way beneath him, and sank into the softness of cushions. Rigid, unyielding to the intimate touch, he sat, head bowed, staring into the cold dead eyes of the man he had killed. Dunn lay, his arms outspread, one knee curiously hunched. His hat had fallen off, and his hair stuck up in lumps, glued together by the heavy hair-oil he used. Cartwright realised suddenly that this was how Dunn had looked when he first died. When he first died. The words beat themselves into his brain. When he first died'. A knock at the door. He rose, stiffly, and went to open it ; let in a burly policeman, followed by two others, all looking threatening and very much on the defensive. He stepped back, and silently walked to the body, and pointed. The policemen did not seem to want to look at it. Gently, but firmly, with fingers of steel, they were manacling his hands, talking to him in a sing-song voice the while as if he were a child. Nah, nah, then, tyke it gently. The carpet? No, there's nothing there. You've had a dream, Old Timer. Calm dahn, old son.' The burliest of the three stuck on Cartwright's hat —he had not removed his coat—and pushed him out into the night. The two others followed, talking. ' Yes, funny 'as 'ow these 'ere blokes goes queer when they live alone. We been warned about 'im —been be'aving queer for some time now. So when he rung up the Chief we twigged at once. Murder? Him ! He couldn't murder a cat, 'e couldn't ! It's the loony bin f'r 'im all right. Mad as a 'Atter.' LUCILLE PARKS.
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Automobile, automobile, crashingly, dashingly, automobile. Spinning along, dinning under the night, passionless thrill of mechanical might, rolling along in a measureless wheel ; purringly, whirringly, automobile.
At the Pigeon-Holes I do like a letter in the morning, it makes all the difference to my day. The clouds may be grey, and a crisis may be dawning, but the sun will shine if there's a letter in the morning. By half-past nine my nerves are apt to fray, but a letter —in the morning— makes the difference to my day.
The Pigeon-Holes OUR IDOL. Our Idol this week is Miss Lettice Roach-Roach, of Lady Mildew's College. Never has Oxford seen a more typical undergraduette. Short, plump, slight and slim, with a shy smile and a shining countenance, she wears her clothes with a studied negligence, and her hair as nature and the winds of heaven command. When asked her views of Oxford, she is said to have replied : Veni, vidi, vici.' She is the very quintesssence of undergraduettecy. SHERBET PARTY. Miss Spring Winterbottom gave a too, too shimmering sherbet party, Pigeons, on Saturday last. She received us in a blinding ensemble of purple and.green. She threaded the throng, effervescing with repartee and sherbet. Among the distinguished guests were Sean Bativsky, that sprouting young poet whose future is yet to come ; Miss Joan Brown, who looked as well as she ever does in a clean dress of rustic brown plush ; Mr. Brown Jones, whose red tie lit up the gathering ; and last, but not least, your Editress, who speaks for herself.
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COCOA PARTY. From there, Pigeons, we fled to a rather naive event, a ladies' cocoa party. Scattered over the floor were the pyjama'd guests, resplendent in stars, stripes, spots and plaids, while the hostess was outstanding in a nightie—too, too coy-making, don't you think? Miss Polly Fitz-Mugg was looking very daring in black flannel. And at this point, Pigeons, I must remind you that being well dressed at night needs no extensive wardrobe, and, as you have often been told before, if you took a little more trouble with your clothes, not only would you be aesthetically more pleasing to others, but you would have infinitely more confidence in yourselves. And now, Pigeons, I leave you with this remark, overheard in the High : `Alas ! for the good old days when men were men and women were ladies.' Day strange discovered, Sprung unforeseen, We trod the hill ; But, on a sudden, Broke from the common way, Called by the wood, ash-blonde, Which echoed faultlessly The grass's eldritch light. Hearts clutched, we hailed the spring, Ran headlong in our fear, And in a quiet place Stumbled on primrose leaves. On, to a sunny slope Streaked by a flying hare, Yet restless, mocked we went Under the slanting spears Of our discontent. J. N. YEAXLEE.
A Question of Style Or A DIG AT THE POETS.
I. There's blood in the Radder, A girl lies dead, With a ghastly wound In her shapely head. Who is the fiend Who has done this deed? Was it for vengeance? Was it for greed? Lurking in shadows With glittering knife, Filled with a foul joy To dash out a life.
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' Vengeance ! ' the books cry, Ranged round her head. And ' Vengeance ! ' we echo, ' Avenge now the dead ! ' II. In this vast tomb of scholars' thoughts Her soul has fled the light ; Like a white butterfly It fluttered Twice Or thrice Then vanished For ever Into Night. Her body lies so deathly still With the moonlight Just touching Her hair. It brings to life A thread of gold. Her eyes are still. Very still. When she was alive she was silly And stupid. She even giggled Frequently. But she is very frightening Now As she lies there Dead. III. There was a young girl at the Radder Who made me get sadder and sadder : She worked till I took A very large book And killed that young girl in the Radder ! LUCILLE PARKS.
Biography of a Head Girl Often she had written before. But also she had painted. But also she had sung. But also she had danced. But also she had never written, nor had she painted, nor had she sung, nor had she danced. She never did anything properly. She came to Oxford. She wrote a little. She painted a little. She danced and sang just a little. But she had never loved. So she loved a little. But she never did anything properly.
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On being asked if I was still enjoying my work as much as ever. A student's life is a round of fun.' How often I've heard it said ! And in my esteem it will yield to none That ever a young girl led. Each morning I rise with the lark, and sing Hurrah for a working day ! ' Then I sit me down till the bell does ring With Stubbs' Charters gay. From nine till one my pleasure is such I feel quite drunk with glee: Four lectures—but not a minute too much For a seeker for pleasure like me. The afternoon do not think I waste With games and such-like ploys : The Rad. is so much more to my taste, And Aristotle's joys. In my second year does the pleasure fail? Do I still enjoy my work? Beneath my look the questioners quail— And I turn back to Burke. M. LOVETT.
Heard in the Hall Now I'm an angel.'—Miss Margaret Ross. ' Who was the Apocrypha? '—Miss Betty Stinton. ' What fun ! What fun ! '—Miss Alison Sprules. All the world's a stage.'—Miss Moira Stephenson. Comrades, leave me here a little while as yet . . . While as yet 'tis early morn.'—Miss Zoe Grey-Turner. ' I don't think we've ever had it.'—Miss B. M. Hamilton-Thompson. ' May I borrow your bicycle? I promise to, return it.'—Miss Ruth Kershaw. It's a good thing we haven't to sell the " Cygnet." '—Miss Peggy Reekie. No, Miss; nothing for you.'—Miss Collett. Floreamus.'—The Netball Team. Is a full member of the Labour Club one who eats there as well as talks?' —Miss Margaret Noble. After you with the Mirror.'—Miss Margaret Prosser. ' No, Miss; that's the last.'—A Voice from the Hatch. C.P.Y.
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I had forgotten I ever wrote this poem But as I lifted it and read it through The years rolled from me And I knew, suddenly, What I had loved in you I knew and the stars hurled and the night was young And I was watching beeches cut the blue Of heaven's wide heaven Birds were there and you and stillness And this poem drew My mind back through a grey of years To that past day. The heath, the birds, the beech green branches sway The moving on the grass of shade and light And to this poem that I wrote that night. M. R. WILSON.
' On reading Kant s Morals in the small hours How fine to be a Purely Rational Being, A disembodied angel-creature, without wings But capable of colossal flights of abstract reason, Of making rules and playing at obeying. them Without there ever being anything to think about Or to make rules about ! How convenient to be two separate people, A Thing in Yourself, as well as a paltry Phenomenon ! Because, you see, if anything went wrong with one of you You could decide that, as a matter of fact, you had been the other one at the time, So it couldn't have happened. How lovely to belong to a Kingdom of Ends As well as to the British Commonwealth of Nations ! A sort of frightfully solemn secret society Where you could go and meet the other Ends— All the Book Ends, Bad Ends, Bitter Ends, All the Cigarette Ends, Week Ends and Candle Ends.
From a Diary of a Young Person aged Twenty-one Often when I go to these parties in Oxford I can still see people living through the windows. A message-boy goes by with a basket on his arm. He turns his head to catch the warm glimpse of a_. room. In it other creatures are talking in a dialect which he cannot understand. Sometimes,
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too, my friends pass by. They glance sideways without moving their heads. They have not been invited, or a burst of laughter makes them wonder if it is because they have ink on their noses. Often, however, the blind is pulled down too far, and I have to look into the room, and study to converse with people who are as nervously dull as myself. ' What do you think of Engel ? ' He wrote some jolly good revolutionary pamphlets,' I gulp. They were long words. I couldn't name anything. It might denote that I knew something. Does he write pamphlets? Oh, I didn't think he was a Labour fellow or anything like that.' Engels? ' I ask. And then : I think that I must be muddled. He's dead, my Engels.' 0 ghia-ghia-ghia ' (with a throaty emanation that comes from tickle o' the sere from gin and lemon). My Engel is sitting over there ! 0 ghiaghia-ghia! Must tell Paul his public wants him dead already. 0 ghiaghia-ghia! ' The Ghia-ite loses itself in the crowd. All the Ghia-ites amalgamate their throats to sound a flock-cry of Clubbinette Celebrity. It is at this sort of moment that a young person of twenty-one should die. I am being drowned in a whirlpool of my own sinking. I am being drawn down because I only know Engels. A little fellow starts to talk of objectivity and subjectivity, and the subjectivity of the subject which is not objective about its subjectivity. Yes, yes. I probably know that it is all very right and good. No, no one believes in God nowadays. It's snowing. How beastly ! (But I don't really think it's beastly. There is snow on the hills. Grey clouds are carrying it down from Morven and stately Scottish pines are waving their arms to catch the first embrace of white.) The little fellow talks on . . . For when you're subjective about God, you're probably being objective about the subjective.' Now I find that I have a kind of internal ghia of my own. I am being superior by being inferior. It is not fair play and the-old-club-tie to have a ghia inside when every ghia-ite thinks every other ghia-ite is laughing inside as I do. I suddenly realise with a pang that I have principles not to hurt people with ghias. Everyone else is thinking this. If everyone stopped —if everyone stopped ! In a corner (why always these things in corners ?) two ghia-ites were sitting. He wears corsets,' said the one. My—ghia---God ! Ghia, ghia,' ghia-ed the other. He played—ghia—rugby and did things like that at school. 0—ghia—God ! ' In the middle of the room, beside a tray of empty glasses, stood two men. One was slowly shredding strands apart from a daffodil leaf. The other rubbed the hard side of his forefinger and gazed without any expression into the room or through the room around him. But during the time of peace as well as of war spies are hated.' They have no standards. They're usually ordinary men without nerves.' I pushed my chair and went to listen through this window inside the room. There was once a very small man. He lived in a very large land, in a very large city, in a very large skyscraper. Although he was a very small man, and the very large skyscraper sometimes must have made him feel
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very much smaller than it was good for him to feel, he was a rather important person. He would say so himself often, as he closed the big iron gates of his skyscraper. He would say so to his wife, who would stop dusting and lean on her broom. He would say so to his chief windowcleaner, who would stop his out-breathings on the big show window. He would say that, if it weren't for him and his escalator, there were some big ones (meaning big in body as well as big in business) who would never climb even so far as the first storey (meaning the skyscraper as well as life). There was, however, something even more special about this little man. Many a time as he whirled his largest (in body and in business) gentleman to the topmost storey he used to say that these lifts were ' bad for the figure, sir.' If he (the little man in body, but the big man of the escalator) were the big (in body) gentleman, he would run up the stairs. The big (in business) gentleman would say indeed that he was too big (in body), but while he was big (in business) he had no time to run up stairs. He would wear a belt. Wear a belt? The little man would never wear a belt. His wife said it would keep him warm. But he would never wear a belt. The chief window-cleaner said besides that it was pansy, but still (with an eye on the broom of the wife) a belt would keep him warm. One day among the skyscrapers on Fifth Avenue they all heard that there was a war. The little man was called Weirtheim. Another feeling ran through him that was more astonishing than escalators and belts. He remembered what his grandfather had said over Lager : ' Deutschland fiber alles.' He forgot escalators and belts and he remembered Deutschland. It was a change for the little man. But he got on a big boat and sailed away. His wife had said a belt would keep him warm over there. The window-cleaner said that it was pansy, but still (with an eye on the broom of the wife) a belt would keep him warm. The little man arrived in Deutschland. He offered his services. He had almost forgotten his native speech. But he knew how to say ' D— fiber alles.' Deutschland sent him to England. He became a lift-man. He watched who went up and who came down. He cleaned the offices of a government building and he cleaned its desks as well. One day the little man was found cleaning more of its desks than it thought necessary. The British Government swept out its arm and put little Mr. Weirtheim in prison . Mr. Weirtheim wrote letters to his wife, and he sent messages to the window-cleaner. He said that he was in prison. They were shocked on the other side that he could have made such a nuisance of himself. They were more shocked on the other side when the British Government sent them a letter. Mr. Weirtheim had hung himself with his belt. The British Government regretted it, and Mrs. Weirtheim said it wasn't like him, and the window-cleaner said that he had never heard the like, for he was no pansy. .
The young man had quite shredded the daffodil leaf, and the man with no expression at all had seen someone on the other side of the room. ' Spies have no standards,' said one. ' They're usually ordinary men without nerves.'
THE• CYGNET Subjectivity," objectivity," God," no good,;corsets ' and labour fellows.' I suppose they are all very right and all very good. Good-night. But at least through the window those are message boys, and girls with ink on their noses, and snow falling. And now I also know Mr. Weirtheim.
&Ballad : With very grateful thanks to Miss Maclagan for her kind consideration of the whims of the J.C.R. The President sat in the J.C.R., Biting her fountain-pen ; With a sigh she took the Suggestions Book, And opened it once again. She had not turned a leaf, a leaf, A leaf but barely one, When she angrily smote the Suggestions Book, ' How can these things be done?' For some of the College ask for rolls, While others require their toast ; Some are demanding their mutton boiled, But others prefer it roast.' ' 0 who will provide this food so fine, And who this meat so choice?' She had scarcely spoken this mournful word, When in answer came a Voice. Those who want rolls shall have their rolls, But others shall have their toast ; Some of the mutton shall still be boiled, But -- for those who prefer it — roast.' The Cygnet thanks the household staff With the gratitude it feels, When the College sits in the dining-hall, Eating its mighty meals.
' I am a Barbarian People have often said to me, But is there any Irish literature? I thought it was all oral.' It is impossible to be annoyed with this mistake, as Gaelic literature [it is impossible to separate the Scottish and Irish Gaels in this, at any rate] is written in a strange and difficult language, and not even translations are easy to come by. Above all, it is, as far as I know, never mentioned in the schools. At seven or eight we are introduced to the Greek myths ; the existence of a native literature almost contemporary with that of Greece and Rome is absolutely neglected. I say native ' purposely. The
THE CYGNET gods and heroes of Irish literature were worshipped and sung in these lands, they or their counterparts, before ever Caesar set foot in Britain. Who can imagine the natives of Mediterranean countries walking our woods and fields ? Even the Norse are foreigners, bringing their fame with them from Scandinavian forests and German marshes. Here is the home of the Celtic heroes. When Rome overthrew Gaul and Britain and the barbarian nations of the Balkans, she destroyed or absorbed and modified their culture. The lore of these countries was oral, preserved in the former by bardic schools, which were part of the druidic order ; when it was suppressed its heritage was lost. Alone on the edge of the Atlantic, Ireland never came under the sway of Rome. She was the last stronghold of Celtic civilisation, and held it when Wales and Brittany were contaminated by foreign influences, Their civilisation was of high artistic merit, particularly in design ; its music, peculiarly its own, was built round its own scale, is widely appreciated, particularly since the collection of the songs of the Hebrides. Howover, I propose to treat of its literature only. Perhaps the most important works are the heroic cycles of Conaire Mot- and the Red Branch, of which the latter is particularly famous. It comprises several hundred stories, of which the chief groups centre round the hero Cuchulain, ' The Achilles of the Gael,' and particularly •the Tam 136 Cuailgne, ' The Cattle-raid of Coley.' The story is built round the war between Conor, King of Ulster, and Queen Maeve of Connaught. I do not propose even to outline it here. Read it for pleasure ; if you wish to use it for study — say to compare it with Homer's Greece — do that afterwards. As regards style, the stories are not treated in verse, like the classical epics, but in prose with lyric interspersed. To the same period must be assigned the story of Deirdre of the Sorrows. The cycles of Finn Mac Cool and the Fianna are romantic rather than heroic, fanciful and chivalrous, full of reminiscences of the beauties of nature, and certainly of later composition. They are akin to the Cymric cycles from which sprang the knights and ladies of medieval story. There are many versions of these stories, as also of the heroic cycles, due to the practice of the bards, who modified or altered as they thought fit, some versions being plainly older and more barbaric than others. In addition to these, there are the wondrous voyages, for example ' The Voyage of Bran ' and ' The Voyage of Maelduin,' a composition of delightful fantasy with a most pleasing end. There is no old Gaelic drama (though I have heard of an ancient Cornish drama). Apart from its epic cycles, its chief development is lyric. It • possesses in common witi) the Cymric countries, a whole system of metres and complicated assonances which require great skill to use, and demand of the poet a high inspiration if they are not to degenerate into word and sound pattern ; thus Celtic lyric is probably either very good or rather annoying. To this system Western Europe probably owes as much as to the classical ones. Neither modern Gaelic poetry nor folk song use them : they were strictly the creation of a literary school and caste. Irish lyric ranges from poems attributed to Amergin, the legendary poet of ' The Coming of the Gael,' to lyrical compositions of Finn and Ossian, and continued in strength down to Egan O'Rahilly in the seventeenth century. It displays a school of poetry entirely different from anything else in Europe, the descendant in direct and unbroken line from the bards of heroic days and the bards of Britain and Gaul.
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THE CYGNET
I do not more than mention the Annalists — they are not really a part of the civilisation of the Barbarians ; they are its preservers and chroniclers. Finally, it is not necessary to learn Gaelic to enjoy Gaelic literature. There are quite a number of translations or retellings of the epic cycles. Translations of the lyrics do exist ; some are pleasing, most no better than translations of poetry are apt to be, and they cannot convey the music of the originals. I am a Barbarian, and proud of it. This is our heritage, the heritage of our western islands, a treasury of high ideals and great delight. It was composed for pleasure ; if any care to seek for it, it will reward them freely. E. JACKSON.
The Future[of Literature Who's been polishing the sun? ' A poem in five words. Who could continue in words of equal associatory value and equal everyday currency? We live in an age which respects the everyday, which realises that the true subtleties of life lie in ourselves as acting spontaneously, not as aspiring to some self-imposed standard of schools ' of thought, those sets of poor fools who would pat each other on the back all the way to fame—and sometimes, indeed, succeed in imposing themselves on the public : — the immortalisation of adolescence, the Romantic poets ; the apotheosis of the ghastly and uninspired, the torturing of still life into abstract forms—the form is there, but what is its significance but the corpse-like product of a mind working on a basis of nullity of feeling, thought and conception? Tiny plot, my heaven,' a Bullet ' on the word garden,' gained its creator .',5o,000 as a prize. How better could be rendered the suburban stretch of grass surrounded by exiguous flower-beds, carefully nurtured by loving hands, the retreat of the schoolmaster and business-man on Saturday afternoon? As spontaneity and confidence grow, as they will grow with the decline of murderously repressive standards of living, such gems will be common, and literature will no longer be limited to a few who, by patient toil, have rendered themselves able to express what should have been expressed with no difficulty by thousands. Gems will occur in plenty, but they will not limit themselves to certain people, but will occur haphazard in every kind of place. Then what will become of the poor public, no longer able to assure itself of its appreciative power by reading the works of men who have received universal approbation—worse still, no longer able to talk big by reciting the characteristics of acknowledged authors? But such a deprivation will not occur. When creative power becomes common, we shall all be poets, and if are poets, heart and soul, we shall no longer wish to pose in the eyes of our acquaintances. More important, we shall no longer find it necessary to pose for our own benefit. MARGAREr
NOBLE.
Debating Society The experience of three years has taught us that St. Hugh's is full of talking women, but we have been pleasantly surprised to find that much of this chatter is comparatively co-ordinated. There are among us speakers
THE CYGNET
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who can maintain that they ' would rather be themselves and nasty, than somebody else however jolly' ; who can weigh the respective merits of a dreaming spire and an aspiring dream, and whose eyes can glitter with fervour as they declare that suburbia is the home of bliss.' In the ten meetings which have been held during the Michaelmas and Hilary Terms the. College Society has debated with Ruskin, St. Peter's, the Oxford Majlis, the Queen's, Merton, New College, Lincoln and Balliol. Our largest meeting was held in our own J.C.R., when the Principal and Miss Headlam-Morley very kindly agreed to speak on the motion ' That the educational system of this country is fatally defective.' The Society is always delighted to welcome such an influx of new members, and the debates have been excellently attended throughout the season.
Hockey The success of last term has been well sustained. Out of 14 matches we have won 9, lost 4, and drawn i. The First XI has played well as a team, but has seldom been complete, as four of its members are in the United team—Miss Field, Miss Stevenson, Miss Stinton and Miss M. Stinton. Miss McKee, Miss Reynolds and Miss Wilson have also played for the University. Miss Field and Miss M. Stinton are congratulated on their Blues and on an excellent game at Cambridge. In Cuppers, the First XI defeated Somerville by i6 goals to i, and are now to meet Lady Margaret Hall in the final. The result is anxiously awaited, not only by those who have the interests of the game at heart, but by those who are interested in the inner man. The Second XI defeated St. Hilda's by 4 goals to 1, and are now to meet Somerville in the final. Teams :First XI. — Shaw ; Watson, Scurfield ; Prosser, Stinton, Reynolds ; McKee, Stevenson, Field, M. Stinton, Wilson. Second XI.—Todd ; Lovett, Yeaxlee ; Tanner, Moody, Grutter ; Parsons, Reekie, McGregor, Manton, Allum. STOP PRESS. Won First XI Cuppers. St. Hugh's
2
goals, L.M.H. i goal.
Lacrosse We have not won the cup this term, but we were not far off it. First we beat St. Hilda's 7-4, and then we battled with L.M.H. in the final, and lost by 7 goals to io. They shot three goals before we scored, but they never increased that lead. For the greater part of the game we were only one behind, and the excitement towards the end was intense. There have been three College matches this term. We beat Birmingham University, drew with St. Helen's, Abingdon, and lost to St. George's, Harpenden, after a very close game. I. Manger has been awarded her colours. M. Barrett has been elected Captain for next year. The United team has had a successful term, crowned by a victory of 15-5 over Cambridge. Our Blues are R. Kershaw, P. Stradling, B. Gibbons and M. Barrett. The 2nd United team has included J. Theobald, A. Sprules, M. Gaminara, N. Field and S. Banning. P.M.B.
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THE CYGNET
Netball The College Netball team has cast its slough. In other words, it has won all its five matches this term, has with much vigour wrested the Cup from three sets of opponents, and is now indulging in a little private but very justifiable jubilation. The team as it stands on paper, and as on rare occasions it manages to play on the court, is as follows :— g.s. Long ; a. Smith ; c. a. Sherwood ; c. Stinton ; c.d. Gibbons ; d. Fallas g.d. Gregory. Moody, Bruce and Peters have been efficient substitutes. The attacking half is still the stronger part of the team, and the shooting has been unusually good. Three College awards have been made this season : — Team Swan : M. Stinton. Team Tie : M. Long and M. Stinton. Two ' Old Blues,' P. Smith and D. Sherwood, again played for the United team which beat Cambridge this term. Stinton, Fallas and Long have been playing for 2nd United. In the general complication of matches and practices, United and otherwise, the College Second VII, which contains several keen players, has been somewhat neglected. This should be remedied next year. The membership of this Club is increasing, and there is reason to hope that future teams will continue to justify the existence of Netball as a College game. We are grateful to D. Sherwood for having been a reliable Secretary throughout the season. L. FALLAS .
HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. i.—That the Magazine be called '
THE CYGNET.'
2.—That the officers of the Magazine shall he an Editor and a Treasurer, elected by the J.C.R., and an elected representative from each year. 3.—Contributions shall be accepted or refused by the decision of the majority of the Committee, the Editor reserving the right of the casting vote. 4.----The Committee shall not be held responsible for any opinions expressed in the Magazine. 5.—Nothing of intrinsic merit shall be excluded on account of views expressed therein. 6.—The anonymous character of contributions shall be respected when required. 7.—Contributions are eligible from the Senior and Junior Common Rooms, past and present. 8.—The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the College.