St Hugh's College, Oxford - The Imp, Hilary 1928

THE IMP Hilary, 1928

Editor: K. M. ABBOTT.

Committee: Third Year Representative—E. M. CHALLANS. Second Year Representative—E. SCOTT-HARSTON. First Year Representative—E. M. HICKS. Treasurer: J. M. DICK.

THE IMP MARCH, 1928.

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HERE was a large increase this term in the number of entries for the written competition. We decided to give a prize both to R. M. J. Campbell and N. P. Abbott for the first two respectively of the printed limericks. It was unfortunately impossible to award the prize for the second competition, since so few entered for it, and no drawing was produced which was felt by the President of the Dramatic Society to be entirely suitable for a permanent design for the programme of the College Play.

G. A. Joel's suggestion (printed above) was, however, very much admired.

We are very grateful to Miss Gwyer for allowing us to print her poem upon the match of the Third Year versus the S.C.R. The new cover design is by M. Keens.

Come pour itiapt; to acberon 0 come your ways to Acheron, Where Chapman ' speaks out loud ' ; Full-forded is the Styx to-night And Mottley is the crowd.

Scott-free the Welch-er leaves the course, Slinks Hobhouse close behind ; But from the boat a Stoic Stave

Comes floating on the wind.

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THE IMP Rowe, Farrow, Rowe, the stream goes fast, Let dug-out Leonard jeer ; Defeat's chill cup drink to the Leys, Nor Salt it with a tear.

O Vincent, Vincent, what's the hour?

I'm wounded in the fray !

Lax Phelips is the referee, Speak not of fouls to-day.

When Fox and Fowle together meet And Downee birds must die, When Clarke defies the son of Clark, It little Helps to cry.

O Goulding, Goulding up the bank, And Glover, Glover down the brae, Leave Now to Foxes and to Scots, We have For Ever, we.

Downhearted, then? Why, never less, Since, look, we count it true What Perham once in circle did, Perham once more may do.

O come your ways to Acheron, Where Chapman ' speaks out loud ' ; Full-forded is the Styx to-night And Mottley is the crowd.

13n '1)ei1tucitiation It is an unsatisfactory business (as Laodamia found out) to be in love with a ghost. I cannot recommend it sincerely even as a recreation. Yet these things happen ; without warning, before we have time to protest, they are ; and we have the rest of our lives in which to make the best of it.

I have discovered this since meeting the ghost of Whitehall . . .

From the Horse Guards' Parade you can see the Whitehall of journalism, stiff with the arrogant solidity of the Constitution and Our Administration.

Its pontifical calm is unprofaned by the earnest bustle of Westminster beyond : you feel that the utmost the country ventures to require of it is that it should occupy its site in static majesty, allowing British Prestige to flow from it like an effluence. The fact that it is far from clean only makes it seem more venerable. You steal away, too awed for affection.

But my Ghost is not even visible from anywhere nearer than the central bridge of St. James's Park ; and the best plan is not to look at all until the Buckingham Palace end, and then to stand on the white bridge to the left of the Victoria Memorial, and see it across the whole length of the water.

The water, in fact, is essential. I have hunted the Ghost all round Whitehall, but I never saw it except over water, the more the better. The Ghost of the Embankment is quite different—' but that is another story.'

Whether or not it is the water's fault, you will find, if you stand where I have told you, that while your back has been turned Whitehall has

THE IMP mysteriously become White ; that it has taken to itself points and pinnacles of which, while you kept your eye on it, it was certainly innocent ; that, framed by the smooth vista of lake and drooping- lacquer trees, it is less like anything you might legitimately expect to see in London than a fantasia by Dulac on sixteenth century France. I have never succeeded in adequately convincing myself that, if by some strange means—I fear it would have to be witchcraft ; it seems the only possibility—I could succeed in conveying a boat to the Buckingham Palace corner of the lake and setting out from there, I should not find my Ghost materialised at the other end.

The boat would be either a shallop or a barge. I have never seen a shallop, but it sounds so airy and graceful, as though you might sail it with a lace handkerchief or row it with lily-pads. The great drawback to a barge, for a lone enterprise, is its weight ; there can be no two opinions about its aesthetic value. There have been barges, of course, in which it was only necessary to fall asleep on a fair silken bed in order to wake and find yourself almost anywhere ; but they were so often under more than doubtful proprietorship, and the chances remote of arriving at the right or even a desirable destination. Besides, the idea of sleeping through that voyage ! Perish the thought.

On the other hand, the owners of these craft (as distinct from the passengers) presumably knew how to navigate them : and this one could learn.

Aiihil sine lab ore. Mine might be painted green and gold, like the one that lived among the swans and was known only to lovers, till the knight was killed there ; or it might be hung all over with great cloths of embroidered silk, like those used by lovesick ladies to die in. But on second thoughts, and in view of the port of landing, nothing too mediaeval. Perhaps the shallop, after all.

The real excitement would begin when you had passed the nearer bridge and the breathless moment of wondering whether at that point It would vanish as completely as it does on dry land. After that everything would grow more definite. There would be steps down to the water, and of course the pelicans, and Someone to feed them ; and the Park would be suddenly changed—all velvet and lace and. tempestuous petticoats, and passing snatches of rather shocking little dialogues. Once landed and up the steps, anything might happen—even danger ; you could never be too certain among surroundings so different (as the old lady said after the third act of ' Antony and Cleopatra ') from the home life of our dear Queen.

Or—how should a water-phantom be the slave of social history ?—it might be: .the Dulac after all : a tapering stone flower, with slim flaxen princes and fine-browed, long-fingered white ladies for butterflies, where you could only dare to arrive in a pearl boat drawn by little blue birds ; where perhaps you would not dare to arrive at all, lest at your first material footfall the cloud-capped towers should dissolve and leave not a rack be-hind . . .

I know you can explain everything. Even now you are arranging, with a view to the highest possible standard of accuracy, your- information on the hotel replete with modern conveniences, whose superstructure, mingling with that of Whitehall in the eye of the distant beholder, is the begetter of my wraith. Yours is the precious jewel of true knowledge ; be content, and forbear to cast it into my ephemeral sty. warned you at the very beginning that - it was an unsatisfactory business to be in love with a ghost . . .

E. M. C.

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The to5t fliii5tre55 In vain with service, With songs and lays I seek all day For my lady's praise.

And rustle of silks, And beckoning hands, And voices that whisper Of far-off lands.

For she walks in a dream That none can share But the lovely and viewless Spirits of air.

And then when the ivory Moonlight creeps In at her window While she sleeps

And night and day I may not stir The web of the dream Encompassing her.

Quietly dreaming

For her all day In the crowded rooms In shadow and sunlight Glitters and glooms

In vain I bring her My lovely lays ; She heedeth longer Nor blame nor praise.

A pageant unseen Of mortal man, Save her all only Flutter of fan,

For she walks in a dream That none can share But the lovely and viewless Spirits of air.

Still she lists Songs of invisible Lutanists.

And night and day I may not stir The web of the dream Encompassing her.

K.A.

etiarte5, batte5peare aub Intnortatitp : A SIMPLE STORY. Charles was a monumental carver and carved good monuments for the dead ; but he was mad. It is a mistake to be a tradesman and mad. The people of Lincombe disliked him. His angels looked like Bacchantes and his weeping cherubs leered. And, absent-mindedly, he put the faces of his neighbours on the bodies of fauns for garden statuary. Altogether he was an uncomfortable man to trade with and he quickly became poor. But he continued to carve. Since very few people bought his work he put it into his front garden, which was small and open to the main road. And since he was poor his materials were wretched. Being in the open day and night, his statues decayed. Very rapidly they crumbled, and every week one lost an-ear or a nose or cracked completely in half.

This pleased the people of Lincombe, who paused on their way to work to watch a strong man throwing a stone which had long ago fallen into fragility, or an angel, with his wings lost, become an ordinary girl saying

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her night-prayer. And it was odder still to see Charles in the midst . of them thinking sadly about immortality and reciting Shakespeare.

For this was his madness : he would like to be an immortal and he recited Shakespeare.

What do you want ? ' his favourite statue, a Cockney boy, used to ask on these occasions.

I want to make something that will endure for centuries,' he said, ' and that will be known all over the world.'

In his mind's eye he saw a great statue delicately mellowing through the years, in the greatest gallery, amongst other great works.

Set to,' said the Cockney Boy. So he did. But his materials were poor and his skill was worse. He was a good maker of monuments. When his work was sane it made widows proud of the money they had expended on the dead, and orphan children wept over it. But he could never make a great work of art. He w.as middle-aged before he realised he was a failure, because truth came slowly to him.

He stood in the early morning in the midst of his squint-eyed and crooked-bodied children and was sad. He had never been so melancholy in all his life before. The front garden was like a massacre of the most dreadful kind.

It was no longer his garden. As he stood there his landlord came up the path and touched him on the shoulder.

You must pay,' he said, ' or go.' Charles had no money to give the landlord, so he went. He had no idea of what the profession of tramping is like. But he remembered the picture-books of his childhood and tied a red handkerchief on to a stick. In the handkerchief he put a white overall, his tools, some bread and cheese and a small model of the Cockney Boy. He left his Shakespeare behind him, as he knew it all by heart. Then he walked through the gate and went away, leaving his fauns and nymphs and angels.

And the next day his landlord came and smashed them all. And they built a fine new bungalow in the front garden.

When Charles had walked for some years he came to the sea. He did not know what to do about it. If he went on he would get wet and afterwards drowned. If he stayed still he would very quickly be hungry. Truth came to him so slowly that he had never thought Of turning round again.

He sat down on the sands and opened his handkerchief. There was a tine amount of food in it because people were kind. When he begged at the doors he often recited a little Shakespeare absent-mindedly. The women thought he was a professor down on his luck and a deserving case and gave him a great deal. And at the work-houses, as they went to meet him, they would stop while he recited. So altogether he should have become plump and pleasant on the tramp. But he was still extraordinarily sad.

What do you want to do? ' asked the replica of the Cockney Boy, lying on a bed of beef-sandwiches in the handkerchief.

I want to make something that will endure for centuries,' he answered, ' and will be known all over the world.'

He was even madder than before because he was not even a monumental carver, but a tramp sitting on the sands.

Now at this moment, as he was reciting one of Pericles' soliloquies to himself, he saw some clay on the beach. In a few minutes he had made a

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bust of Shakespeare with his tools. He carved underneath, in fine, square lettering :— SHAKESPEARE. That is quite efficient work,' said a voice near him, in a tone of surprise. He looked up and saw a Man of Affairs, who never expected to find efficiency, looking at his work.

Do you want a job? ' asked the Man of Affairs ; and as there is only one answer to that question in the world, he very quickly took him away.

He led him over huge rocks and very high hills till they came to several large caves which went in at one side of a hill and came out at the other.

Early Britons used to live here in the sixteenth and smugglers in the eighteenth. I want you to carve that on the walls of each cave,' said the Man of Affairs. He was not mad, but he had bought the caves and was charging 6d. for admission, and people want a lot now-a-days for 6d. Then he went away humming, because Charles would be cheap.

Charles carved the names and dates. Then he added moral remarks about the lives of the Early Britons and the smugglers, and then moral remarks about what the sightseers' lives ought to be, all round the walls of the cave. So that a man might go in at one side of the hill, and, if he read scrupulously, might come out at the other an immensely good person.

But people stared and thought about the Victorians and did not read scrupulously.

And crowds and crowds came to see it because it was a novelty. When Charles had filled the caves, he started on the rocks outside. And since he had written all he knew about morals, he wrote lines out of Shakespeare's works.

Business ! ' said the Man of Affairs when he saw it. And he erected scaffolding and put Charles on it. And Charles wrote appropriate Shakespeare on the huge cliffs facing the sea. And hundreds and hundreds of people came, so that the Man of Affairs was able to charge i /- entrance fee. And a reporter came and wrote an article full of inspiration ' and genius ' and awful precipices ' and divine Shakespeare,' and the news ent very quickly round the world. And the place was mentioned in afterdinner speeches and was famous.

That writing will last for ever,' the people said, and were thrilled.

The man is a genius,' others said, and went away to America to lecture about him.

And Charles heard them and thought how they would have praised his great statue if he had ever made it.

When he had completely finished, he went to the Man of Affairs, who offered him one of the entrance fees and dismissed him.

So he tramped away, reciting Shakespeare and thinking about immortality. ' What do you want to do ? ' asked the Cockney Boy, lying between a brown loaf and a cheddar cheese. ' I want to make something that will endure for centuries and will be known all over the world,' Charles said, sadly thinking of a great statue mellowing in the greatest gallery .

0 ! confound you ! ' said the Cockney BOy, at last in a temper. You are slow ! ' And he was.

R.M.J.C.

THE IMP

r ap We have learnt all there is to learn Of this bright day.

Splendid and gold it rose to burn In Spring away. Its flowers' perfection will not come again, Its buds will never be so slender-green And we shall never hold its peace, its pain, This day that was so golden, this, has been.

And shall it, then, itself secrete In old lost time Unmarked save by a heart's quick beat And a stray rhyme ; And shall it carry all that fragrance clown To some dark limbo in Eternity, Streams of sweet sun, the far, illumined town And all the laughter Of the lazy sea?

We knew all there was to know Of this bright day, Watched how it moved, elate and slow On Spring's green way, Seeing the sun's light stray, birds calling, high In some strange future shall turn suddenly Remembering this ; this beauty shall not die Since in our hearts it holds its long eternity.

R. M. J. C.

ebieftain of tbe ).-Barroth You have the wind-swept light and rounded hills, Yours is the faded grass against the sky, And yours the dim sea-floor below the Downs, Where waves of ruddled ploughland surge and sweep Towards that last faint hill of blue which seems The sea itself : are these too poor for you?

I had begun to love the smoky mould, The moleskin night that huddles all the shrill Whines of the hares and laughing of the winds Above me to a close, full murmuring.

And now you tear me from my narrow ease, My night is cleft by lightening from your spade.

You have the downs I hungered for. - Why, fools, Do you desire my grave?

O. M. GRIFFITHS.

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iirbe boob of lift In the clear glades of the tangling moods of our life we hide you, Lovely spirits we know ; And, though caught by red bramble and twisted in brushwood We cannot come nigh you.

Yet as the Greek shepherds saw white mist flying Brighter than moonlight, knew Dian's rout near and were glad, So your dances we see through the tree stems, Rejoicing.

Deep in the quietest tarns of our thinking we hide you, Fairest cities we love ; And though we may never as mermaids float through you, See the light warm on the walls, Yet as the fishers casting their nets see far below them Turret and spire, hear the bells chime and whisper ' Lo Ys ! ' So through the waves we see your soft colours, Rejoicing.

0. M. GRIFFITHS.

about gotbing A STUDY IN ATMOSPHERICS. Raymond pressed his body against the window until it seemed as if the sheer deadening weight of it would somehow reglaze the pane, moulding it inwards. He had the sensation that this cold, shining substance was a wall of ice, growing taut in front of him, suggesting all the gigantic horror of eternity—and he had dared to exert his poor manhood against it, taunting its crude negative with a laugh.

A laugh did I say ?—Well, I suppose it was half a sob. There is something almost abnormal in the tension of a moment.

Raymond stared and stared, until he felt the softness of his body emphasised by this rigidity, and his eyes were hard and hands clenched and scratched against the rivets.

And this is what he saw. A low-ceilinged room, with grotesquelypatterned wall-paper ; in the centre a round mahogany table, set for dinner, with shining plates and cruets, tall wine-glasses and hard, glittering cutlery, and little silver bowls with almonds and olives fantastically arranged.

Seven chairs were drawn up to it. But there were no guests. The atmosphere was expectant, crouching. But it was the lamp which caught his eye—an evil lamp with a drooping red shade and long, carved stand. It bleared unsteadily along the decked mahogany table, shading a peculiar glow over the empty chairs and very nearly penetrating into the far corner of the room—almost suggesting that there was something waiting there in the subtle dimness.

A stone dislodged itself under his foot : Raymond himself slipping helplessly backwards. The blackness heaved round him like a jelly. His knees trembled, and he pressed even closer against the glass. One must grasp something concrete.

A few minutes before he had been strolling casually through a neighbour's garden, as a short cut to his own. But now it was no longer a

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garden. The red lamp-shade had focussed him on to this room. He no longer knew the garden. It had become vaster, more potent and had assumed a significant hostility.

Instinctively he turned up his coat-collar. It was awful not to know what was behind one, Just as, in childhood, he had wakened, suddenly, in the night and known the atmosphere changed and had drawn the bedclothes tight up to his chin, and not dared to open his eyes—prepared to scream at the first touch of what he dreaded, so Raymond felt again a surging oppression. He wanted walls behind him—round him. Nothing can come through walls, if they are close enough.

If only one could see what was in that corner. If one could be sure that the thing was still in the corner. Supposing there was a back-way. It might have crept out just at that moment when his glance was averted, and closed the door very' quietly and be creeping—creeping . . . Perspiration oozed on his forehead and his jaw worked convulsively. Oh, for walls— walls . . .

Still his eyes strained into the room.. He could feel them growing hot and red-rimmed. But one had to be sure. The light was so deceptive.

Would nobody come? The guests were late. It must be long after nine.

But the host was there—waiting in that far corner, not caring very much that his guests had failed him—hiding over there, within ten yards of the window. Soon, perhaps, he would grow tired and come softly and put out the red lamp on the table—he would be very near to the window then.

Perhaps he was already nearer than one imagined. Was that a sound? He might have grown hungry and be groping with long fingers over the table, disturbing its symmetry. But then the lamp would cast a shadow on the white cloth.

What if he disconnected the switch ? No—no . . . Raymond was sick with horror. Springs seemed to be darting up and down ridiculously in his head. Something must happen—soon. One could not go on. What if he had left the room ? But one would know. There would be shadows.

Slowly Raymond's gaze left the corner. He turned sharply round and back into the room again . . . Staring impassively at him through the glass, on a dead level with his own—two large, melancholy eyes.

Raymond gurgled—then ran, stumbling, out through the garden on to the road. A bus was passing. He hailed it, fell into a seat and paid for a 6d. fare.

I forgot to tell you the Atkinsons had a cat.

E.S.H.

cticttion Strive not to climb higher, You who faint in penultimate blue : Free the soul from desire, And the summit shall journey to you— You shall stand in the white of the fire.' ' So of old I have heard, But ah ! sweet is the panting flight Of the labouring bird, The clouds and the cleaving light And the hope deferred.'

THE IMP Be still, you who harass the soul With the flurry of note upon note : All music shall melt in the roll Of one deep bell's throat.'

This I heard in an olden time— Yet dear and most dear Through the growling bass runs the chime Of the treble clear, And melody clings to the ear.' `O brave blind heart, Only I am more old than that song; The comets first sang it apart To the planets young.

Go, running forget the prize, In the tune lose the chord, Pay tears for the joy where lies, Not peace but a sword ; Buy the kiss and the lover's eyes With the parting word.

For the spoils of your battle shall pass, They shall break and grow dim, They shall fall like the mask from the face, Like the cloak from the limb : But the skies they left empty and waste Shall be cloven apart, And the fingers that held to them fast Tell the beats of my heart.'

E.M.C.

onnet I would wear motley gladly for your sake, With joking words to win you to a smile.

For knowing that my charge was to beguile Your idle moments, I would turn and take Myself and all the world to task, and make Of all one vast unending jest, make trial Of all pretence to please you for a while.

But here I dare not jest, lest earth should shake Her aged head at my unwise design.

Let us take hands. Lay your white hand in mine, White as a lily on a wine-dark pool.

And then perhaps we will find a crooked way To lead us back to the world of yesterday.

And you shall be my Queen and I your Fool.

PH. H.

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Intictintax A dull evening wind blew down the upland valley, penetrating Alethea's clothes, permeating her very body. She felt herself become a still, liquid essence of the same rare spiritual . quality as the wind and remote translucent sky and luminous white hills. The stuff of her being seemed to dissolve beneath the mordant powers of the sensible scene, as the sun, sinking ever lower in a pool of amber mist, reflected on the crystalline cliffs in a splendour of copper and gold. A tremor of loneliness and beauty, surpassing all apprehension and endurance, crowded in on her senses with fierce powers, like pain, and there came to her a feeling which evening sunshine alone can bring. The world rendered itself into a fantasy of coloured glass, rare and fine and perilously frail. If only she might once reach and break it, and liberate the pent light behind . . .

This rapturous agony grew ever more exquisite and acute, till, poised on the tremulous summit of beauty, it turned to swift, stabbing fear . . . fear of loneliness and madness and death before beauty too great for comprehension . . . Blind with panic and the swoon of ecstasy, Alethea turned away and ran.

Down the steep slope she sped, leaping from boulder to boulder, and over boggy patches and trickling streams as the path wound lower through stunted birch trees and rowans, then across a belt of pines and into the upper slopes of the oak copses. The snow had wrapped up all the woods in a calm brooding, so still that there was no sound save an occasional splash as her foot. slipped from a green boulder into a muddy patch, or the scuttling of a scared rabbit along its run, or rustle of a wood-pigeon in the hare, frosty trees. Underneath the trees lay wet masses of old bracken, jagged, raw and red-flecked in open spaces by misshapen patches of snow, while above the black and white arabesques of branches loomed a circle of round hill tops, pale pastel grey in the evening distance beneath a sky of mist colours and primrose lights.

Her mind withdrew into a vague, brooding joy of silence and loneliness . . .

The sombre town straggled awkwardly among bleak fields. The house where Alethea lived looked down into the valley on to higgledy-piggledy crowds of slate roofs, tall chimneys and spirals of smoke. It was grey and had three stories. The front door, set between two lace-curtained windows, was of the unfriendly kind which can only be opened from within. Alethea pulled the bell and listened to the hollow echoes, until the high-pitched vibrations became too Laint to be audible. No sound. Still no sound. The slow drip of icicles melting on to black, drooping leaves of ivy, pitted into her brain. A few sparrows made melancholy chirping under the damp eaves. Was Alice asleep? Had everyone gone out? Were they dead?

Then she heard Alice running along the stone steps of the basement.

Sorry I kept you waiting,' she explained. I was just taking tea up.

It's in the dining room to-clay, to save another fire. Lor', miss, aren't you cold? Your shoes look soaked ! And the mud on your stockings, Miss ! ' I'm quite all right,' said Alethea, hastily wiping her feet and bounding upstairs. The commonplaces of Alice's scrutiny jarred discordantly. She passed other bedrooms, heavily furnitured, breathing stale lavender and buttermilk soap, to her own, where a cold blast and wild flapping of cur-

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tains leaped forward in greeting from the open window. She washed in raw cold water, changed her frock, combed her hair. Clean silk stockings stuck and dragged on her damp legs, and powder looked purple and blotchy on her cold, shining face. No one would notice.

Stairs and hall were darkening. In the dining room the light had not yet been lit.

Come in, child,' said Aunt Katharine ; you're late. Have you been far ? ' ' Only to the first grouse-moor. It was lovely.'

Gracious, Alethea,' was her Aunt's comment.

You shouldn't go these long walks alone. Something will be happening one of these days.'

Did you get your feet wet ? ' added Aunt Emily.

No,' lied Alethea ; but I'm fearfully hungry.'

Aunt Katharine poured out tea and Aunt Emily brought the cake-stand nearer. Polite, unsatisfying fare ; white bread and butter, stale sponges, sugared cakes.

For a while she felt pleased to be home. The fire was so red and cheerful, and shone so merrily on the mirror and winking silver of the sideboard, on brass candlesticks, gilded picture-frames and bright jewellery.

Soon the interrupted conversation was renewed, and Alethea listened, holding herself consciously erect on the hard chair. Aunt Emily had been out visiting and was giving her sister a resume of village gossip. They ran the whole gamut : of the new curate's wife, and when she would come to tea ; of the difficulty Mrs. James had in keeping maids ; of Miss Whitworth's long illness, and the baby expected at Grove House (lowering their voices lest Alethea should hear). Thus they rang the eternal changes of births, marriages and deaths.

Aunt Emily remarked You aren't talking very much, Alethea.' She's tired after that long walk,' explained Aunt Katharine, and added, 1Have you finished your tea ? If you have, ring for Alice— and while you're' up, you may as well light the gas.'

Hot trickles of wax ran from the taper onto Alethea,'s hand, and cooled and crackled there as she fumbled for the tap. The light came on with a sudden burst, crude, garish and green. It glared pitiously on the ugly stolidity of the room, dark red wallpaper, enlarged portraits in gilt frames, an elaboration of paired vases on the mantelpiece, hard-worked covers in rainbow-wools and macrame on every table and chair.

Now the blinds,' suggested Aunt Emily. It seemed cruel to shut out the pure velvet and crystal of the snowy night, a final renunciation of all the beauty she had known for a while that day. The window was steamed from the close heat of the room. She pulled viciously at the cord, till Aunt Emily remonstrated, Carefully, Alethea, or you'll break something.'

The next she drew down gradually, gradually, ever more slowly as she reached the bottom as if all her life were focussed on that diminishing oblong of deep blue giass. She adjusted it carefully to match the other exactly in its distance from the floor, then turned round towards the room, saying to herself, Lord, how much longer can I bear all this ? ' W. E. SHEPHERD.

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Tbe TBrolim Room The lavish sun pours insolently down to drowse and fever the pent, stifling air.

It sleeps on polished table, velvet chair, then welters in lush pools upon the brown of wall and floor, as patient senses drown in putrid decadence perpetuate there with gilded mirror, rainbow mats, horsehair, vasses in pairs, white dogs with golden frown.

Here broods brown death as dull .as the dry grass drooping, dust-laden, on the mantelpiece ; save for life kindled in blue hosts of flies whose buzz and sparkle, near and fall, and pass in aimless, circling dances without cease mock life's own futile whirl, and baffled rise.

Opong I wish I could hold back time And linger on one sweet hour, Now when the garden blooms, And the trees burst into flower, And the baby birds open wondering eyes To the pale spring skies.

The days will run into summer, And then we must part.

I would linger on each moment When I am with you, dear heart.

When I hear your voice and see you near, So sweet, so dear.

Turn from your books and smile— The weeks slip by.

The garden has lost its freshness, The blossoms die.

The hour of parting is here, Goodbye, my love, goodbye.

PH. H.

Xbing5 Me Want to lanotv r. Whether the taste for mixed pickles parties is likely to increase?

2. Whether it is the extra hour of sleep which is responsible for ' that schoolgirl complexion,' now, alas ! peculiar to St. Hugh's?

3. Whether college prefers quality or quantity of beverage on the occasion of a Bump Supper?

4. Whether YOU have a guilty conscience?

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5. Why the members of a certain house are so proud of their lawn lingerie ?

6. Who has recently been heard to remark with a self-sacrificing air, when someone asked to borrow a bicycle, Sorry, but it's Lent '?

7. Whether anyone will offer to form a class for instruction in the art of wearing academic headgear ?

College Ouperstittono It is unlucky to be out after 11 o'clock—the bogies may get you : on the other hand you are unfortunate if you are in by nine.

There is a chief oracle which should be consulted on all occasions.

It is a good omen to be seen drinking one's morning coffee from buttery, but how much pleasanter it is to hear the music !

It is unhealthy to dance more than three times during term.

A green light on one's car wards off the evil eye.

1LeE 20 Commanbenteuto bu College 1.

2.

3.

Ton breakfast tu termineras A neuf heures exactement.

Aux classes tu assisteras Sans t' endormir en arrivant.

Au ' Super ' tu ne resteras Qu' une heure, c'est Bien suffisant.

Ensuite au lunch tu bondiras Avalant precipitamment.

5. Puis a la ' shop ' te pourvoieras De chocolat abondamment.

6. Apres tu te reposeras Jusqu' au the inclusivement.

7. Le soir de robe changeras Pour diner solennellement.

8. Quand ' on high ' tu dineras Mang-eras silencieusement.

9. Puis a la chapelle te rendras Prier avec recueillement. fo. Le soir jamais ne sortiras Sans raison (apparemment). it. La ' gown ' tu emporteras Contre les refroidissements.

12. Mais jamais tu ne rentreras Apres ouze heures absolument.

13. Du college ne t 'evaderas Pas pour une nuit seulement.

4.

14.

Les ' dons ' tu respecteras Et aimeras fidelement.

THE IMP 1$. Aux danses tu assisteras Deux fois le Terme seulement. i6. Ton cavalier tu renverras Avant ouze heures prestement.

17. Qu'il n' apporte quand 11 viendra Cocktail ni ravitaillement!

18. Et enfin tu travailleras Un peu, quand tu auras le temps.

19. Et cette vie tant te plaira Que tu pleureras en quittant.

20. St. Hugh's dont tu te souviendras Toute la vie fidelement.

2 &et iﾂｧbantP (With apologies to A. P. Herbert, if anyone.)

What do they do in Council when they've got the Bishop there?

I wonder if they sit him in the most uncomfy chair, And wouldn't he be much happier down on the centre stair?

What do they do in Council when they've got the Bishop there?

What do they do in Cduncil when they've got the Bishop there?

I wonder if they realise the species is so rare?

And does the whole proceeding ever make the poor man swear?

What do they do in Council when they've got the Bishop there?

What do they do in Council when they've got the Bishop there?

Does business interfere with tea, or is it au contraire?

And do they feed on honey-dew and such forbidden fare?

I wonder what the menu is when they're got the Bishop there.

Oh cheerily talks the Bishop as he mounts the cushioned stair, Perhaps he's really happy when he occupies the chair, But窶馬o one's ever seen the Bishop leaving this affair, So what do they do with the Bishop when the Council's got him there?

H. D.

Ver5ortatitie5 I. When indiscretion stoops to folly And finds too late the clean betray, What charm can guide the lost but What hand but hers the pairs astray ?

2.

Whene'er you look on Know that Humanity's a pain, And when she moves, with shade, to dinner Look on the saint and guess the sinner.

3.

Whole-hearty, whole-efficient Captain Tubs all the freshers and then halves the lot ; If you would find her seek the nearest river, For she, like Cherwell, babbles on for ever.

16

THE IMP

ILitnerich There once was a woman in Hall Who asked for a knaife ' with a drawl.

Now had it been you . .

I mean, what could I do? . . .

There once was a woman. That's all . . .

There once was a giant called Fox Who wore the most daring of sox.

When they said ' Why not hose?'

She said down her nose ' These are, but they won't reach my frox.'

There once was a person called Lane Who went for a walk in the rain : She met a young fellah And took his umbrella— He never has seen it again.

There was a young lady called Thrupp Went in for the Yale Blues Prize Cup : And every morn She would dance down the Corn, So that's why they took it all up.

There was a young lady called Walker Had her bicycle pinched by a hawker : She at last reached the gate, But they cried ' You are late : You shouldn't be such a slow Walker.'

There was a young lady called Challans Was perpetually losing her ballans : Canoeing one day She was taken this way, And when she came to she'd drunk gallans.

A fresher was heard to say ' Why, Whenever I'm dining on High, Do they wait, out of spite, Till I'm taking a bite, Before they require a reply?'

There once was a man who said ' Dam P is certainly bad for the tram P, but if he likes sou P he'll never get crou p and possibly, too, never cram:

THE IMP

5be inconb pear

17

Vtap

We have to thank the Second Year for a most diverting evening on March the 2nd, when they acted ' The Rehearsal,' by Maurice Baring, and ' The Fantasticks,' by Edmond Rostand. The first play lacked that essential in a curtain-raiser, climax, but that was the fault of the author, not of the players ; M. Keens was excellent as Lady Macbeth, and all the other parts were very capably taken.

Rostand's Fantasticks,' although translated into verse of the kind that subordinates grammar to rhyme, had a great success. M. Gray and B. Goss, as the lovers, were charming through all their absurdities, and E. Stanbury, Straforel the Bravo, swaggered grandly through an improbable part. But best of all were the two fathers, I. Williams and H. Dixon, the one so stout and good-humoured and blustering, the other so thin and dry and stingy : they suggested the contrast in every possible way, while nobly resisting the temptation to over-act.

The costumes and wigs were becoming in every case, and the lighting effects were really superb. The cold green moonlight, switched on with such dramatic suddenness in the middle of the first act, set us all shivering and feeling about for coats. .

Xhirb gear v. tbe

• e• 3111, •

By untiring efforts and unflagging zeal the Third Year have won back the laurels snatched from them last year by the S.C.R., and though we acclaim their victory we must also render due homage to their gallant opponents.

Miss Salt defended the goal with unflagging courage and a marvellous golf-swing, while Miss Leys also played goal excellently—but unfortunately at centre-half. We must render well-deserved homage to Miss Rowe's indefatigable play ; to Miss Perham and Miss Downie, whose co-operation on the field was as harmonious as it is in the library ; and to Miss Goulding, whose intrepidity in attempting to rest the ball from Miss Glover compelled our admiration. Miss Fowle, too, was very eloquent on the subject of rolls-in.

The match was played with courage and determination by both sides, the final result being a victory for the Third Year by five goals to one.

J. H.

3aeport5 ST. HUGH'S COLLEGE LACROSSE CLUB. The team : — Bone, Buick, Beattie, Zvegintzov, Phelips, Osborne, Duthoit, Ratcliff, Helps, Lace, Robertson, Johnson.

The Cupper, v. L.M.H. Lost, 1-12.

Other matches have been scratched owing to the scarcity of players.

Buick is to be congratulated on her Blue.

THE IMP S. H. C. H. C. Captain—L. STAVE. Vice-Captain—P. SCOTT. Secretary—W. REYNOLDS. On the whole we have had a successful season. The First XI has played 13 matches, won 8, drawn t, lost 4 ; goals for 5o, against 35. The Second XI has played 4 matches, won 2, drawn t, lost i ; goals for against it.

The standard of play has improved during the season, but both teams are inclined to be erratic. Passing is more accurate, but still too square.

The halves, by backing up their forwards more, are really beginning to play an attacking game ; the backs combine well. The mid-field play of the forwards is quite good, but they must learn to shoot at once in the circle.

The result of the Somerville Clipper was disappointing, but they were undoubtedly the better team. Although on our part there were patches of good play, particularly amongst the defence, the forwards seemed to lack dash and never got properly going.

FIRST XI. Teams :— *Goal. B. ROBERTS. A steady, reliable player. She clears well, and has much improved her play by coming out of goal more.

1-*R. Back. M. BEATTIE. Has played consistently well throughout the season. *L. Back. F, WELCH. An energetic, keen and reliable player, but should try to play a neater game. t*R. Half. P. SCOTT. An indispensable member of the team. Her combination with H. Beattie is excellent. *C. Half. J. HELPS. A hard-working, enthusiastic player. Should try to get rid of the ball sooner and feed the right side of the field more.

Played particularly well against Sornerville. *L. Half. M. ZVEGINTZOV. A fast and useful half who well deserves her Blue.' *R. Wing. P. FULFORD. An asset to the forward line. Fast and persevering. Has a good clean shot, but tends to centre too late.

R. Inner. K. JACKSON. Shows much promise. Should vary her passing more, though she uses her spaces well. Should shoot and not pass on the edge. of the circle. t*Centre-Forward. L. STAVE. *L. Inner. W. MURRELL. Plays well in mid-field. Her passing is good, and she has a very useful flick shot. Should try to rush more in the circle.

L. Wing. W. REYNOLDS. Keen and fast, but should get rid of the ball sooner and centre harder. (* Colour. t Badge.)

SECOND X I. The Second XI are of a high standard, particularly the forwards. Their great fault is too much fouling.

Team :—*g., M. Punter ; r.b., M. Gray ; *l.b., —. Vincent. 7.k., K. Hatton ;c.h., P. Kirby ; l.h., W. Hare ; C. Duthoit ; r.i., W. Ratcliffe ; *c., M. Chapman ; *Li., M. Owen ; *Lin., P. Kirkby.

THE IMP

Oct. 29.

Nov. O. ,, 12. ,' 17.

24.

Dec. i.

3.

Feb. 2.

4.

II. 18.

22.

25.

FIRST XI MATCHES, 1927-28.

Headington School Away.

Cricklade Ladies Home.

Milham Ford Away.

Malvern Wells Home.

Home Students Away.

St. Hilda's ...

Home.

Oxford High School .

Away.

Highgate 'A' ...

Home.

King's College ...

Away.

New College School .

Home.

King's College ...

Home.

Somerville ...

Neutral.

Fairford ...

Home.

3.

12.

14.

Feb. 19.

SECOND xr MATCHES. Somerville ...

Home.

St. Mary's, Wantage Home.

Home Students Away.

Home.

Somerville ...

,'

,,

Nov.

-

Won, 5-2.

Won, io—x.

Won, 7—I. Draw, 3-3.

Lost, 2-3.

Won, Lost, Won, Lost, Won, Won, Lost, Won,

1-4.

3-2.

0-2.

3-2.

1-7..

5-2.

Lost, 1-4.

Won, 6-4.

Draw, Won, 3-2.

S. H.C. N.C. Captain—P. FULFORD. Vice-Captain—L. LEONARD. Secretary—C. HAVERGAL. I should like to thank the Tennis Club for its kindness in lending us a court, without which we should have been homeless. But this is only a temporary arrangement, and it is absolutely essential that we should have a new net-ball court. The Club has been unusually large this year, yet it has not fulfilled its possibilities. Results have been disappointing, and in fact the general standard of play has deteriorated owing to lack of practice on a good court. Individual players are outstanding, and no less than five people are in the United Team.

The First VII match v. St. Katherine's, Wantage, was a very even and exciting one ; the team played very well, and lost finally by two goals.

The Second VII had only three of their usual members, and the quickness and accuracy of the other team told heavily against . them. In the first round of the Cuppers we beat L.M.H. 30-12. It was a very good game, and far more even than the score suggests. M. Vincent played extremely well and won her colours. In the final we were beaten by the Home Students, 24--15.

FIRST VII. An invaluable member of the team She gets free well *HAVERGAL (a.). and her shooting has improved.

HUSE (a.c.). Very quick and varies her tactics wel1. She is still apt to run with the ball. *LEONARD (c.). An efficient and untiring centre, but does not always play a sufficiently defending game.

20

THE IMP

JOEL (d.c.). Energetic and reliable. She jumps well, but does not always make the most of this. Played very well in the Cuppers.

BROWNE (d.). Marks closely and intercepts well. The combination of the two defences is excellent. *VINCENT (g.). A very good and reliable defence ; has played consistently well this term. (* Colours.)

SECOND VII. Lomax (s.), Hicks (a.), Ingram (a.c.), Halton (c.), Mortlock (d.c.), Reynolds (d.), Milner (g.).

It is regrettable that there is such a great difference between the standards of play of the two teams. It is impossible to criticise the individual play of the Second VII, as the full team has seldom played together. The attack on the whole is weak, largely owing to lack of practice. Centre plays well, and is considerably quicker than the rest of the team. The defence needs more dash and confidence. The passing of the whole team is better than it was, but combination still needs improvement. Lack of decision and of accuracy are the most common faults.

S. H. C. B. C. President—MISS FARROW. Captain—B. Morris.

Secretary—M. M. WILDE. Although the river was at a high level during the early part of the term, it did not prevent boats going out, and the supply of competent members is far less than the demand for their services.

The Junior Fours Rowing Competition was scratched. A system of rowing tests has been instituted ; the first half-captains being Reynolds, Alexander, Huse, and E. M. Keeves. Other new half-captains are :-Sculling : Elliott, Goss. Canoeing : Singleton, Hare, Hicho, Alexander.

S.H.C. HISTORY SOCIETY. President—MISS HOBHOUSE. Vice-President—Miss STAVE. Secretary—Miss GENT. The History Society has arranged three meetings this term. The first one, which was of a purely social order, was held on Monday, February t3th. There were about fifty people present, including Miss Mammatt and several members of the Senior Common Room. The second meeting will be a debate with the Debating Society ; and we hope that at the third meeting Miss Buckhurst will read a paper on Place-names : their origin and significance.'

HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.

CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. i.—That the Magazine shall be called ' THE IMP.' 2.—That the officers of the Magazine shall be 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.

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