The Fritillary, December 1923

THE FRITILLARY December, 1923

Price 1 I-.

Ebitor.

Miss MONRO (Lady Margaret Hall).

Committee.

Miss 1•Ticrims (Lady Margaret Hall).

Miss CROOK (Somerville College).

Miss SHRIGLEY (St. Hugh's College).

Miss DREW (St. Hilda's Hall).

Miss SAMSON (Oxford Home Students).

treasurer.

Miss CARPENTER (Somerville College).

frititiar Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges

DECEMBER, 1923 CONTENTS Page

..

Editorial ..

A Note on Hymns ..

The Sea is a Carpet . .

On Travelling by Train ..

Another Sweet Girl Graduate On Meals ..

The Master Builder ..

Clock Worship ..

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3 3 5 6 7 9

French Windows Food. A Poem ..

The Playhouse .. ..

Romeo and Juliet ..

The Colour Scheme A Modern Metaphysical Dog Day The Four Wise Men ..

Notices and Reports ..

Page 10 10 12 13 窶｢14 14

15 17

Ebitoriat ERE, with new scenery and effects, is Fritillary. Entomologically we believe that she has chosen an entirely unique time of year to burst out of a brown and unobtrusive chrysalis, and spread her Royal Octavo wings in the Great Big World of public circulation. We trust that in the length of her life, as well as in the beginning of it, she may differ from her ephemeral prototype.

There are three striking features of this number. The first is Rose Macaulay's article. We are very grateful to her for helping to establish a precedent, and we hope that we shall prevail on other women writers to contribute to subsequent numbers.

The second feature is the way in which contributors harp on the topic窶認ood.. We remember uneasily those abandoned gatherings at the Cadena last Term, and question : Was their real object not frivolity, but buns? In short, is the Oxford woman suffering from a food complex?

If so, surely her case deserves pity rather than reprobation. Shall we 'submit this view to the powers that were? No. The third is that our dramatic correspondent has written a criticism of the Playhouse. This may not seem a particularly startling occurrence.

Nevertheless, it is symbolic. Fritillary wants to become more of a review and less. of a news sheet. At present, with only one publication a term, the danger is that the happenings of the first weeks may be luke-warm,

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or positively chilly by the time they are served up. So, if this number is well supported, and if contributions come flooding in, we hope that two Fritillaries will appear in the course of the Trinity Term.

If you dislike the name, think of a better one. If you can't, don't criticise. The most ingenious suggestion we have had yet is that we should rival The Isis and The Cherwell, by calling it The New Cut. But we have resisted the temptation. And so—as we said before Here, with new scenery and effects, is Fritillary.

R Vote on *Wilms I have just been reading an article on ' Hymns,' by Geoffrey Dearmer, in this month's London Mercury. It is an article which makes one appreciate even more than before how good is the badness of the really bad hymns; but it does less than justice to the few good lines in them. A good line in a hymn is always more of a triumph than anywhere else, because of its background of banality. I know that there are good hymns—that a few hymns are even poetry. But it is strange how out of place these seem when one comes to sing them ; how the content of words like those of Blake's Jerusalem ' seems to be more than. the occasion can bear ; with what relief one sinks back into the safe phrases and comfortably undistinguished rhythms of Praise the Lord, for He is kind,' or Forty days and forty nights.'

People complain that hymns are not poetry, when the truth is that hymns were never meant to be poetry. Poetry expresses an intense and individual experience; hymns a collective experience, dulled to an average level of feeling. If all our hymns were like that last hymn of Donne's to God the Father, the attempt to sing them would be acutely uncomfortable.

A hymn is a public thing; private feelings may possibly find expression in it, but the whole has to be found on page 83, and sung to the second tune, omitting the fifth and seventh verses. And if what we sing is poetry—if it has individual emotion behind it, then we break through two reserves—the reserve of the writer, and our own reserve. What we want is not poetry, but something easy to sing and understand, which will adequately express the more or less obvious feelings that we all have in common when singing hymns, while omitting the more inarticulate ones. 'Praise the Lord, for He is kind ' is, therefore, a better hymn than the Recessional, and Isaac Watts a better hymn-writer than Blake.

I think that it is a state of nature for hymns to be dull. But, as I began by saying, there are a few good lines in even the dullest hymns— lines which stand out with an altogether profane and prodigal brilliance against the background of mitigated piety. It was always exciting as a child to know that the warning lines' Christian, dost thou see them On• the holy ground—' would be followed by' How the hosts of Midian Prowl and prowl around.'

There is something Miltonic about the use of that word Midian, and with what gusto one has to sing the last line ! ' Prowl and prowl around' ,

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It is the sort of hymn one might expect Fenimore Cooper to have written.

And I am sure it was the memory of Coral Island' that lent such magic to Whittier's ' I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air.'

The two lines have a touch of curious glamour. They offered to a child an entrancing alternative to the conventional heaven of the hymns—that place Where suns are not, A far serener clime.'

I would like, too, to put in a plea for All things bright and beautiful,' a hymn in which• each verse is a tiny coloured picture.

The rich man in his castle, The poor mane at his, gate,' may refer to Dives and Lazarus (in which case the moral application is perverse), but it has somehow caught the essence of all the fairy tales.

The same fairy tale atmosphere touches • The purple-headed mountain, The river running by,' and joins with a childish simplicity of outlook+ to write the best line in the hymn, The sunset, and the morning That brightens up the sky.'

When we go to the paradise of hymn-writers there will, of course, be no mornings to brighten up the sky. And I am not sure that even the far serener clime will be a compensation.

R.A.C.

The sea is a carpet shaken with the wind, And feet shall dance and dance The silver of spilt moonlight into it.

The sea was dyed, blue-patterned upon green ; The sun has faded it, And shifting heels, and quick-imprinting toes Frayed its white edge to rags: and now there goes A little moth-like sail still' fretting it.

K.M.L.

On travelling by train What strange moving prisons are these, I reflected, in which we so often and so willingly confine ourselves, abstracting our bodies, souls and spirits from the daily life we lead, enshrining ourselves in a remote and mystic detachment, enclosing ourselves in a small, hurrying space, along with others of our kind, never encountered before, never, God willing, to be encountered again. Fellow prisoners for a moment out of eternity ; ships that pass in the night, and that sometimes, but not as a rule, speak one another in passing . . . . ' Do you mind the window up?' ' Oh no. Oh no, indeed . .

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' Oh, yes,' I said within myself, ' I do mind the window up. If I had wished the window up, should not I have put it up before? ' We have not got away from lies, in this detached and flying cage that swings beyond life's edge. Here, if anywhere, honesty should be possible; therefore honesty is nowhere possible, which is what I have always suspected.

Excuse me, you've dropped your stamp book . . . . And these letters on the floor—are they yours?' ' Thank you.'

How kind, how kind. And how officious, and how unreasoning. I threw the stamp book on the floor because it was finished ; I dropped those empty envelopes because I had extracted their contents and answered them. Had you looked a little more closely, had you been a little less kind, or a little more ready to assume in me the normal amount of common sense, we should both have been spared trouble, you the trouble of collecting waste paper from a dirty floor, I that of saying thank you. But, all the same, how kind. I am not kind like that. I let people retrieve their own dropped possessions, assuming that, if they do not do so, they have, for one reason or another, wearied of them.

Then, if it should prove a real stamp book with perhaps a halfpenny stamp or so left in it, or even more, I would linger after they got out alighted; this is the railway company's pretty phrase), and collect it for my own advantage. As to their dropped letters, what better thing can you do with letters than to drop them? Such a habit, if cultivated, will save you many a tedious hour in answering them. Personally, I never answer letters but in trains • elsewhere, there is always something better to do. Even in trains, th ere are better things to do; pull the windows up and down, look at the racing landscape, pull the communication cord, or merely sit, hypnotised into a drowsy peace as you dash through space. Or listen to the conversation of your fellows, which reaches you only in curious, isolated fragments from which you may or may not deduce the rest. ' When I go through Denham, I always think of Dot . .

Strange ! And yet, why not? ' Yes : I always have to think of Dot when I see Denham.'

There ; she has said it again; it must be true. Perhaps Dot lives at Denham, or died there, or committed there some awful crime. The speaker, I infer, does not want to think of Dot, for ' I have to,' she says.

Perhaps Dot married the man loved by the speaker, and his name was Denham . . . . or can it be merely that Dot and Denham• begin with D ?

Anyhow, it starts in me a train of thought. When I pass Baker Street I have to think of Mr. Holmes. When I pass Stratford-on-Avon, I have to think of William Shakespeare and Miss Corelli. When I go through Criccieth, I have (how distressing) to think of Prime Ministers.

At Hatfield, I like to think about the League of Nations; at Beaconsfield, of primroses ; at Oxford, of fritillaries; at Cambridge, of Naps (I have seen about these on newspaper placards, but I do not know what they are) and when my train runs into Waterloo, I have to think of Wellington and poor Napoleon. It is all very interesting. But, all the same, I do not much care about having to think in, trains ; trains should not be trains of thought ; one can think anywhere ; trains are set apart, in my opinion, for better occupations. Mystic, swinging, rumbling rooms, hurtling their little prisoners from one portion of the busy earth to another —in them, if anywhere, we should enjoy peace and nothingness, slung thus above earth, between time and time. We should not, I reflected, meditating on this subject, even have to think of Dot,

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Instead of doing so, I began to ruminate on the various things which have happened to me in trains. How once I saw a baby being sick ; how at other times there have been hens in baskets, and often a dog. How a young Hungarian once told me he was about to take his life, and I knew not what to say, but that it seemed to me a pity. How I have been enclosed alone with murderers and with lunatics, who nevertheless restrained themselves, even in tunnels, from doing me damage. How mercifully I have been preserved amid all the perils of locomotion and brought safely to my destinations . . . . Never have I had even the faintest pretext for pulling that tempting cord. One day I shall do it and pay the fine contentedly. To bring a train to a standstill ; to set officials running hither and thither, all agog for sensation ; it is cheap at the price. Cheaper than spitting, which costs forty shillings (first time) and surely is not worth it.

It is very interesting, this tariff of expensive amusements which may be purchased in trains. One turns the money in one's pocket ; in fancy one spends it . . . .

But here we are. One more romantic journey is over. When I get to Paddington, I have to think . . . . no, the time for thinking is past; I have to get out.

Ross MAcAubdor.:

Another Sweet Girt 3rabuate No two characters more strongly contrasted could be imagined than exuberant, immature Daphne Lethbridge, with her vulgar, garish clothes, and Virginia Dennison, quiet and pale, exquisitely dressed, and so much the woman of the world, as we see at once fromi her light conversation in her first interview with a tutor :— Surely an attitude of cynicism is the only possible one to adopt towards anything? ' she remarks.

Can anyone who is acquainted with' the ways of ' girls' stories ' be surprised that these two, returning simultaneously after war-work to ' Drayton ' College, Oxford, become deadly enemies during the first weekend of term? Never was there an enmity so full of opportunities, so fertile in happenings. A College Debate is arranged expressly for the purpose of humiliating sophisticated little Virginia, who, as the proposer of the motion, That a life of travel is a better education than a life of academic experience,' is subjected to a direct personal attack led by Daphne, and who, subsequently bursting into tears in the darkness of the garden, is (needless to say) found and comforted by a dear kind don. But the next day she has her revenge, for over morning coffee in the Cadena she tells Daphne that her behaviour has been ' the gross impertinence of someone unspeakably ill-bred '; and circumstances avenge her, too, for Daphne drops a hairpin into an eminent historian's soup, and academic dress and an essay out of her muff at a ' mixed ' tea-party. This is delicious ; L. T. Meade might well be proud of it.

But in the character of the cynical Virginia, whose intellectual brilliance is equalled only by her powers of attracting the opposite sex, we begin to suspect something more than pertains to an idyll of college life.

When Sylvester, the wicked tutor, arranges to ' coach ' Virginia and Daphne separately, in order to be able to propose to the former, our suspicions deepen. But when, after having been refused (and struck in the face with an essay) by Virginia, he proposes the same day, out of pique, * The Dark Tide,

By Vera Brittain. (Grant Richards.)

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to Daphne, and is accepted, we have no longer any doubts on the matter. ' Abruptly he let go of Daphne, who, tortured and ecstatic, nearly fell from the suddenness of his movement. In an instant he had pushed her from; the room and almost down the stairs. Then in a frenzy he tore Virginia's time-paper to shreds and hurled the fragments after Daphne's departing footsteps.' Thus the first embrace—strong stuff for schoolgirls, this! Do we detect Elinor Glyn's ' dark shadow against the light woodwork '?'

The account of the honeymoon is the last proof that The Dark Tide is a modern book—a book that pulses with passion and throbs; with thrills. `Daphne shuddered a little, and yet exulted, at the recollection of that passion which had almost terrified her in Paris:. Though she belonged to a sophisticated generation, she had not realised that marriage would be quite like this.' But we do not stop here ; we dash on—yes, ' dash ' is the word—to, ill-treatment, and desertion, and crippled offspring; and at last to the final scene, where Daphne, in order not to ruin her husband's career, renounces hope of obtaining a divorce, shaking even Sylvester's complacency (his shoulders, of course, are shaken with ' the unavailing sobs of belated remorse ') ; and Virginia (no longer an enemy) bursts into two and a half pages of heroics in an attempt to console her. ' You're in splendid company in your loneliness—the Messiahs of the world will be with you, and all the saints and martyrs who ever toiled and died, all the men of genius, the thinkers and explorers, and inventors, who thought that their supreme effort was in vain, but still went on.' And again : ' Write that the apparently truest love is not always worthy of trust, that the grandest human life is often the most mortal, and that amid all these transitory things success is the most worthless, most transitory of all.'

(In other words : Things are seldom what they seem.')

It is all very dashing; and we have derived a great amount of innocent amusement from Miss Brittain's book. We are sure she will forgive us if it is, perhaps;, not quite the kind of amusement she intended to afford.

E. D.P.

On Mears I think it is a challenge to materialism that one should distinguish meals at all. It shows that one does not think of them as mere occasions for eating; but as spiritual events, with an individuality and significance of their own. Lunch of course, must be excepted. Lunch in college is not a meal at all, but a disillusionment. At its best, it is an uncivilised' scramble; at its worst, one comes, late and discovers there is nothing left to eat but prunes. Then the lowest part of one's nature comes; uppermost ; and, according to temperament, one either sits down and eats prunes with animal stolidity, or else darkly leaves the room, feeling that ' the pillar'd firmament is rottenness.'

For so young a meal, breakfast has; a great deal of character. One comes down in the morning feeling vague and amorphous; and breakfast promptly takes hold of one and shakes: one into coherence. Its special function as a meal is to discover one's real friends. I imagine you might take your worst enemy into dinner, and exalted by the formality of the occasion, ask her at least adequately whether 'she took salt. But you could not possibly have breakfast with her. Breakfast is the meal when you gather your friends around you—the people before whom you do' not mind appearing with your mind unbuttoned. They must not be people

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who talk too much, because you are not yet braced for conversation. But neither must they be wholly silent, or the atmosphere grows unnatural and you begin to feel that you would rather not go on with your second piece of toast. They must not have many letters, because that arouses bad feelings. And above all, if your own instinct is to dislike sausages, choose your friends from among egg-lovers, or by the end of the meal you will be wondering how you could have fancied yourselves kin.

Breakfast is, on the whole, a malleable meal. I imagine that if you chose you could have philosophic breakfasts, and romantic breakfasts.

But dinner moves to a formal pattern ; and it is difficult to break through it. I think one needs a special genius to deal with dinner—to preserve the pattern and yet make variations on it. The worst thing one can do with dinner is to make a habit of it. There are people who go in with the same partners night after night. That is allowable at breakfast, but it robs: dinner of its very character. It is only if one looks at dinner as a perpetual re-arranging and combining—within the pattern—of possibly incompatible people, that it has any excitement at all. If only we could always choose our partners from the people we didn't know ! It would at least preserve to dinner that touch of the fantastic which nothing—even meals—can afford to be long without. In any case, if you must go in with your friend, try to see her as a stranger. It should not be hard ; for the gift of dinner is to lift us out of ourselves. It surrounds us with defensive formality ; it forces us to pose, act, achieve a studied attitude. It offers for the real world a world delicately artificial, in which we see each other, not as people, but as actors in the play. Other meals are meals, but dinner is an art.

I had almost forgotten tea. It is not strange, for tea is hardly a meal.

A meal must be something imposed from, without, while tea is spontaneous.

You go to meals, but tea comes to you. It comes—or it should come— with the faint curl of cigarette smoke; and honey in a brown jar ; and sudden doubt as to how many .spoolfuls should go in the pot; and the brief gleam of a red hockey skirt ; and firelight on borrowed knives ; and the windy space of the river or the fields beyond Cumnor lying wide in memory behind the close-framed comfort of the room. Perhaps they had no tea in the seventeenth century. But I think only a seventeenth: century poet could adequately describe it, saying over and over, in linked metaphysical similes, that tea is a rest, a pause, a refreshing, and in the day's contention falls like a peace.

R. A. C.

the (aster 113uflber If this play is acted at all, it must be acted throughout in perfect sympathy with the author. That alas!! was not its fate when I saw the performance at the Playhouse on Monday, November 19th. Both the character of Solness, the Master Builder, and that of Hilda Wangel were unsympathetically played. I realise that it was the first night, and the actors were not all sure of their lines, but that does not excuse a lack of imaginative insight into the personality of a character. Why did Mr. Earle Grey, as Solness, give us masculine rant, and put his hand inside his coat in true Napoleonic manner? Why did Miss Jane Ellis, as Hilda, give us feminine rant, and put her chin in the air on the slightest provocation ?

Had I been Miss Ellis and subjected to Mr. Grey's apoplectic declamations and painful whispers, I could not truthfully have said I did not think him

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mad. A still, small voice, within me suggests, Exit—as quickly as possible and return with help.' Miss Flora Robison and Miss Florence Buckton did their parts more justice.

It is a strange play, and when the curtain falls, or one has shut the book, a jostling multitude of thoughts keep one• company for many days after. It is a play of the living and the living-dead. On the one side are the Master Builder and Hilda Wangel. They are alive, for their passion is for self-expression, and that is life. On the other side stand Aline, the wife, and Kaia, the book-keeper. These are the living-dead. Aline lost her babies and the nine dolls, that she carried under her heart—like little unborn children,' as a' consequence of the fire, and she has nothing left to cling to except her sad sense of duty. The mother in her has been 'stifled ; her medium of self-expression is gone. Kaia belongs wholly to the Master Builder, who has robbed her of the possession of herself for his own ends.

Between the living and the living-dead, are old Brovik, the architect, and Ragnar, his son, Kaia's lover. Brovik still hopes to live in his son's success ; Rangeur is impatient to prove himself andi come to life.

Twelve years before the• period of the play itself, the Master Builder's home was burnt to the ground. Before this, Solness had built only small churches; but the fire that destroyed Aline was the making of him, for he divided the large garden into' villa plots and built houses upon them. His genius was recognised, and he became known as the Master Builder, a man to be envied. He was not happy. Aline and he had become strangers, not because they were blind to the good in each other, but because her sense of thrty to him and his sense of debt to her had raised a barrier between them. He had wished and' willed a fire before it had happened, and his wish had been given him. The mother in Aline had to die, that the artist in Solness might live. He was, however, terribly unsure. Was he responsible for the fire and its consequences, or was it God's doing too?

Two years afterwards, when he was building the last church, God's purpose flashed upon him. ' +hen I saw plainly why he had taken my little children from me. It was that I should have nothing' to attach myself to. No such thing as love and happiness, you understand. I was to be only a master builder—nothing else. And all my life long I was to go on building for.

Him.' There came the great need for self-expression. When the church was finished, he, who had never been able to climb to any height, mounted to the top of his high church tower and hung a wreath there, upon the vane, and cried to God that he would build Him no more churches, but instead, be free to build as he chose, homes for human beings. So the ten years went by, and he created from the ashes of his own happiness, homes for mothers and fathers and troops of children.'

In the play he is unhappy, afraid of the •younger generation who will supersede him, harrassed by an unquiet conscience, pretending to love a girl whom he has drained of mind and soul so that she may serve him.

Then Hilda Wangel comes. Ten years before when she was a child of ' tower. She reminds him thirteen, she had watched him climb the church that then he spoke to her in her father's house and said that he would return in ten years and carry her off and make her his princess. She is )ossessed with a passion for the high adventure of life; it is all thrilling —or at least, the things worth doing are• thrilling.. The• impossible is a challenge to her ; nothing may stand in her way. Why should I not go a-hunting—I, as well as the rest? Carry off the prey I want—if only I can get my claws into it, and do with it as I will.' She is not troubled by a sickly conscience, and in the end, Hilda has her kingdom when she has saved the Master Builder from the torture of conscience and has sent him up once more to climb as high as he has built ; to hang a wreath upon the

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vane of the tower and proclaim his freedom aloud to God. All that he has built before is nothing, meaningless. Now he and Hilda will build together, not churches nor homes, but castles in the air, they two alone, and in their love. So he falls crashing to his death. God is avenged perhaps; but Solness had his moment, and Hilda her kingdom.

It is an impossible world. Sacrifice and service have no part in it.

It is the world of Ego, and conscience is the great destroyer and must be kept at bay. Only once does Hilda feel that the Impossible is the impossible—that she cannot take Aline's husband from her. Then she is wretched and would like to sleep it away. But it is only a momentary wretchedness; she must have her will. When Solness stands on the tower calling out to God, Hilda hears the sound of harps, the music of a human soul that has caught up its freedom and defies the Mig hty One. But there is a deeper music, and that I think Hilda never hears. It is the music of a human soul that has caught up its freedom, recognising it as service and sacrifice, and so touches God's hand. It is the height, not of a tower, but of the stars.

A. S.

Clock Worthip It is high time for a denunciation of this degrading vice. And Oxford, which has a singular perception of the profound and ultimate absurdity of what is elsewhere called prudence or common-sense, should be the place for a protest. It is there that praises should be sung to that noble and inspiring virtue Unpunctuality. But, as a matter of fact, even in Oxford, they are not. It is a virtue much practised but little praised. Its supporters are curiously modest and even meek, unaware for the most part of their own qualities, their splendid extravagance, their noble carelessness, their unique and magnificent contempt for the ludicrous futility of mechanical measurements of time.

Still, the others may be right. There may be some strange profit for the initiate in Punctuality, in doing a thing at precisely the appointed time.

It is obviously a fantastic, unnecessary, quixotic virtue, absurd but exciting, like walking over Ni agara on a tight-rope. But even so, observe how greatly the unpunctual exceed the punctual in the practice of this virtue; the one begins, to walk his tight-rope and falls gallantly into the Niagara of lateness, the other goes over the bridge and stands jeering on the other side. Or, to drop this unwieldly metaphor, your punctual man starts, so much too early that in spite of all accidents, you shall see him cooling the air with sighs outside his host's door ten minutes before the appointed time. But the unpunctual guest who leaves himself enough time and no more, is cheated by some petty perversity of Chance, and arrives late ; yet ;his noble failure exposes him to the intolerable insult of his host's virtuous; indignation.

Much more might be said of the ludicrous; conceit of those who call themselves punctual, and of the beautiful meekness with which the truly punctual, those who are stumbling on the steep ascent of virtue, continually receive rebukes from their unworthy opponents. But it is too late ; there is no hope now of stirring them to revolt. It is this meekness that is fatal. Long ago they should have risen up, hurled, with one emphatic gesture, the clocks of the world into the Atlantic, and lived ever after in unpunctual ease.

R. B. ,

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french Winbows A greater woman than I might write an epic on them, or at least produce a lyric throbbing with pathos—but I can only ask you to listen to my tale of woe.

The scene, a railway carriage in the Rapide from Paris to Le Havre; the time, about ten o'clock on a muggy night in early September. We were ' discovered ' settled comfortably into our corners, trying valiantly not to slumber over the journal of Marie Baslertskoff. Ai Frenchwoman took off her heavy coat and disclosed a filmy georgette gown. Simultaneously she complained of the cold, and her obedient husband shut the window ; yet she was not content (and anyone could have raised tomatoes in the compartment !)—she demanded that the window in the corridor should also be shut. An undergraduate sitting opposite came to our rescue and proceeded to sum up the situation with excellent logic, but halting French.

He indicated us, an American girl, and himself, pointing to each one in turn, and announced the result of his calculation : Quatre.'

Greatly heartened by this success, he then pointed to a Frenchwoman and her husband and son, and said without hesitation : Trois.'

Then came the full splendour of his argument : Quatre contre trois.'

Mack and alack, it did but produce a storm of mingled fury and defiance, and we were given to understand that if a compartment full of people desired the window to remain open (which, as Euclid might have said, is absurd—in France), and one solitary person wished it to be shut, then by French law the window must be shut. The affair threatened to become an international skirmish, so we preserved a dignified silence, and soon the tirade died away, to be renewed every now and then when the lady awakened and shivered anew. We thought venomously that the French family looked fat and pallid, altogether unhealthy, and exactly as though they never had breathed fresh air. What was it that we had been reading about degeneracy?

At this point the train reached Le Havre.

M. J. T. D.

jroob.

'Poem

Food is the greatest thing in life, Better than children, home or wife : The thought of which, as plain appears, Can lift the soul to higher spheres.

(This is a fact which few confess, But all are sure of, more or less.)

Since this is so, I am surprised That no one ever realised The great importance of the question Of gastronomical digestion— Its influence on one's life and thought, A subject with much interest fraught.

Why did not some wise scribe prepare Shakespeare (the poet)', bill of fare, His turtle soups and venison pies, That we might go and eat likewise, And so become, as he did then, A mighty wielder of the pen?

FRITILLARY. These opportunities are fled We question of the toothless dead, The time for, observation's past.

(Browning thus questioned when he asked, ' What kind of porridge had John Keats? ') The kind of food a poet eats By, inference only can we guess, (A stiffish task, I will confess.)

Yet let us not therefore repine But try by inference to divine On what the great were used to dine.

And firstly through induction's aid It pretty safely may be said Wordsworth on cold boiled mutton battened On valley, hill and mountain fattened— Mutton, 0 plain but wholesome food, Tending to thoughts of moral good— For dainties cared he not a button, But pinned all his faith to mutton.

Coleridge (a famous poet too) Was fed, I wise, on honey dew Licked from his lime-tree bower's leaves And—this the thinking, spirit grieves— Puff pastry was his chief delight, He fed on it by day and night.

But Swinburne lived on pills and drugs, From highly-coloured Kelmscott jugs.

(His sister tried his lead to follow, But choked—and he, in accents hollow, Cried ' Swallow, my sister, sister swallow ' !

But this is merely by the way And rather off the point, you'll say.)

Neatly sliced collops of tender venison Were the chief diet of Alfred Tennyson.

(This statement's motive is Truth sublime, Not the exigencies of rhyme.)

I will conclude these few remarks By noting, Shelley fed on larks— Not brows and feathered birds with wings, But bright, aeriel, skiey things, And zoological fact most odd is It, that they hadn't any bodies !

These, with the best of goat's foot jelly, Formed the chief fare of Percy Shelley.

These useful hints I now will close And leave you all to your repose.

Reader ! be grateful unto me, But note, these is no guarantee That even if you eat all these Your poems will have power to please.

I would not show too much surprise If, having crammed to the eyes With cord boiled mutton, plain and good, You fail to write as Wordsworth could, Or after pots of goat's-foot jelly You still fall rather short of Shelley.

K.

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the Plathouse Why no previous generation started a Playhouse we cannot imagine.

In a few weeks it has become an integral part of Oxford life, and we prophesy that in five years' time it will have the standing of twenty-five, and that in twenty-five its origins will have become almost legendary. The programme has been carped at. Elderly and sophisticated people have complained of too many revivals. But after all, a large part of Oxford is young, and was not of a fit age to be frequenting theatres when ' The Importance of Being Earnest,' for example, was on in town.

The presentational stage is attractive as well as interesting, but it has one limitation. Lack of footlights make it apparently impossible that the make-up should be satisfactory from all parts of the house. For instance, Ernest, though from the back row a presentable figure, certainly had ' wonderfully blue' eyes and eyelids when seen from the front. On the other hand, Cecily's pretty complexion and childish appearance were entirely lost from a distance.

For a repertory company, producing a play a week, the level of acting is high. They have a refreshing lack of professionalism which is delightful, except when they carry it to the length of improvising-. ' Heartbreak House' struck us as a first-rate performance ; but, going week by week since then, we have been disappointed to meet again the same types in amazingly thin disguises, and sometimes even. in the same frocks. We know from experience that Miss Buckton has many more parts in her repertoire than the one excellent character study she gives us; and when, week after' week, she rules her family on the' Playhouse boards in entirely the same tone of voice, we confess to feeling cheated,. This applies also to Mr. Cresswell, Mr. Smith, and Miss Ellis,—and in some measure to Mr. Grey. In contrast, we should like to point out the distinctions which Mr. Goolden drew between Mazzini Dunn, Count Forlipopoti, and Algernon's butler, whose inimitable exits finally convinced use of his versatility in the playing of character parts.

Miss Green has been a sheer delight. Her Mirandolina and Hesione Hushabye are the best things the Playhouse has given us yet : and we are extremely sorry that she is making so short a stay. She seems to us: a perfect. Repertory actress, and to have the gift for pulling up the whole standard of a production.

Mr. Smith as Canon Chasuble was the only member of the company who descended to caricature, and even this was very funny while it lasted.

We hope that his growing reputation for humour will not let him cheapen himself. Boss Mangan, roused from his trance, held the House emotionally in a way which neither he nor any of the other players: have recaptured since.

In matters of technique, Mr. Grey is! unapproached by any of the other men, and perhaps it is his complete mastery of these which makes him seem a little out of place in a singularly spontaneous: and unconventionalised company.

Finally, we are very grateful to the Playhouse for the most enjoyable evening in every week. Mr. Fagan and the Oxford Players have set up a new standard of dramatic values in Oxford, and. incidentally have entertained us vastly.

Since writing this we have seen ' The Master Builder ' and No Trifling with Love.' Except to say that even a very ' first night ' performance could not hide the beauty of Miss! Faith Celli's Camille not the excellent

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humour of other members' of the cast we have no space to appreciate this week's production, for we are still full of• ' The Master Builder.' It has confirmed us in wha t we suspected from ' Heartbreak House '.--that the Oxford Players were made for tragedy rather than comedy. In it Miss Buckton hasi given us a new character, and an amazingly good one ; Miss Robson has had a chance to develop the powers she showed in the last scene of the Prodigal, and has taken her chance ; Miss Ellis has played for the: first time as though she had a clear-cut conception of her part.

Her sustained matter-of-factness is excellent, and her mannerisms, except that ' chins are still worn high,' have vanished. Finally and principally, Mr. Grey's Master Builder was so good that it even blinded us partially to the horrors of twilight effects and crimson lighting. (Are Scandinavian sunsets really so lurid, or was the setting of the last scene symbolic?) His differentiated attitudes to the three women were genuine enough to make us believe in an almost incredible personality, and in the first act we do not think he could have been bettered.

Altogether ' The Master Builder ' is the best Playhouse production we have yet seen, and we hope that Ibsen's name will figure again in the orange and black handbills.

'Romeo anb Juliet Those sceptics who jeered at the idea of a performance of ' Romeo and Juliet ' by women, have plenty to think of to-day if they were at Wychwood Hall last night. The 0.W.I.D.S. producer, Miss Moseley, is to be congratulated on taking the play in the only way possible for the Society.

Romeo and Juliet were kept almost as two children against the background of brawling and merrymaking, and even though our own private Juliet grows up more during the play than Miss Hansen Bay's did (becoming a woman, as ' this bud of love ' became a flower, in a day and a night), hers was too delicate for us to wish it altered. A rather stolid and unimaginative audience sat through the potion scene in a stillness which was not the outcome of stolidity.

Romeo languishing euphuistically for Rosaline; Romeo under Juliet's window ; Romeo making riddling confes:sion ' ; dealing out wit to his friends ; blows to his enemies •' worshipping his lady ; and pressing before hiss father to the grave,' had last night just that exhilarating attraction which we hoped for. In love or out of love Miss Farrell (Romeo), Miss Nichols (Merculio), Miss Thomas (Benwolio), and Miss Broeckman (Tyball) gave the play the vigour, and gusto it might otherwise have lacked. The duelling was particularly good and the scene in which the young men of the Montague party meet the Nurse (Miss Lea) and Peter (Miss Egginton) was the funniest thing in the play.

We do not intend to run through the cast dealing out adjectives in couples. The acting as a whole was good, and the general production was perhaps better than the acting. Nothing except the music and the curtains seemed to feel the unnerving effect of a ' first night' ; the: staging was very simple, and innocent of meaningless properties ; the dresses, set against the plain background of curtains, and almost always well grouped, were beautiful ; the seating and the changes of scene were well arranged.

If the 0.W.I.D.S., its cast, its committee and sub-committees keep up to and advance from the standard of this year's production, the Society may very reasonably, in a year or so, expect to be mentioned in the same breath as the O. U. D. S.

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Zile Colour scheme (With apologies to Mr. Kipling.)

Who hath desired blue curtains? The sight of blue curtains unfettered, In long rolling folds unrestrained, form and colour consummate, unbettered, That yearn from the window and bulge from the sills when the draughts blow thereunder, That trickle on well-ordered rings, being drawn up or parted asunder, Sufficient miraculous curtains transforming the room to a wonder, Idealised curtains—my hat !

So and no otherwise, thus and no otherwise Yearned she to furnish her flat.

Mauve cushions in stripes that enswathe the window seat broad and capacious, Mauve cushions that crash on the mind as a jazz band audacious; When poets with passion portentous may muse in ecstatical numbers, While lapped in encompassing folds their listeners settle to slumbers And harsh creaking chair with its mockery never their peacefulness, cumbers.

Mauve cushions—sufficient of that— So and no otherwise, thus and no otherwise Yearned she to furnish her flat.

Walls yellow as kingcups in May, on marshland or river bank sprawling, Yellow as tulip tree leaves in October, a yellow enthralling:, Blending with curtains and cushions, ascending, triumphantly flaming, A trio stupendous whose splendour surpasses a mere mortal's naming, Mauve, blue, and yellow in jubilant chorusi their triumph proclaiming.

We've had p'raps enough of this chat— Still, so and no otherwise, thus and no otherwise Yearned she to furnish her flat.

A. N.

R tbobern tnetapbysical Mog May Three poplars, grey-green in the morning twilight, a faint breeze fluttering the sinking crescent of the moon, and silence.

Slowly the morn arose and burned above the edge of the world. Faint breath floated up and bore to the foam of the blue her palpitating wings and soft breast ; white beads of song threaded the limpid sky. Life burned within her luminous flame, and spoke tumultuously ; life rioting through the paths of air and quivering arteries and vast pulsating universe ; life thundered on the surging shore and gulfed in deepest billow all eternity ; life seized on joy and brought forth rapture burning to the heavens ; it wooed despair and hope yearned on the heights ; it kissed the fainting lips of loneliness, and quiet sadness bloomed in red and gold ; it looked on love, and passion seized her in his arms; it touched the soul, and love and passion soared to clasp her wings in deathless flight. It moved death's tresses and they lifted sullenly, and floating out hid all the face of day and curled around the soul of life. And life grew pale and dull with

FRITILLARY. death's cold touch and languid breath, and ebbed. Love turned to dust and rapture throbbed and died. The sobbing breath of evening sank, dew-heavy.

Three poplars, grey-green in the evening twilight, a faint breeze fluttering the rising crescent of the moon, and silence.

For those unacquainted with modern English, a brief translation is appended :— The bird sickened and died, after enjoying good health.

be four Wise !Den Once upon• a time, in the city of Samarcand, there dwelt four Wise Men ; they were very wise, and they were very great, and as they walked abroad in pompous meditation men would give place to them, nudging each other, whispering. They dwelt aloof in the four quarters of the city, and there was enmity between them, for each held a different faith.

Said the first Wise Man, : I know nothing, but I know a great deal more than most people.'

Said the Second : •` Life is a battle, fight and be strong,' and he shut himself up in a high tower, fingering musty parchments.

Said the Third : The world is very beautiful,' and looking out of his window he would watch the trees beyond the city wall, shimmering and tossing in the wind.

Said the Fourth : Life is a dream, and not a very good dream at that,' and sinking back among his cushions he would think of more wise sayings to be jostled from mouth to mouth for the discomfiture of his rivals.

Now there happened a day in early spring when the wind came leaping in great bounds across the desert, it swept through the city of Samarcand, and in at the window of the third Wise Man who was busy preparing the horoscope of the Prince's second son. The wind scattered his papers in all directions, and he got up and looked out of the window. The sun was shining, and rain falling, and as he looked he saw a rainbow stretching across the sky, over-arching the city with its domes and fountains and bronze statues gleaming in the sun. The Wise Man looked, and as he looked a great desire welled up in him to discover the secret of the rainbow. ' It is an ancient quest,' he said to himself, but a worthy one; besides who knows what scientific discoveries may not accrue from it' ; and he turned and left the room. The horoscope of the Prince's second son blew out of the window, and was eaten by a passing goat. Nobody missed it. The third Wise Man entered the courtyard of his house, and his wives rushed out to meet him. Where are you going?' they asked.

I am going to find out where the rainbow ends,' he answered. They left him contemptuously, and he passed into the street. He walked into the market place and there to his astonishment he was met by the other three Wise Men, a little dazed and shamefaced, but all bent on the same quest.

So the four Wise Men journeyed on together. The First had brought with him a staff to help him on his way, the Second a sword, and the Fourth a knife; but the Third had nothing till he plucked some reeds by a river-side, and fashioned pan pipes to beguile them on their way. At length, one day as they were journeying the fourth Wise Man stopped,

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and adoresscd his comrades thus : Why should we toil and sweat and hunger here in vain, when one kiss of this, my friend, shall free us of all desire?' So saying he drew the knife from his girdle and plunged it in his breast. The three Wise Men looked at their fallen comrade. Did he so crave for that grey, empty changelessness that men call immortality? ' said the Second, let us at least bury him as befits his station.'

Nay,' said the Third, let us cover him with leaves and let the birds and the squirrels mourn over him.' The First stooped, gazed at the face of the dead man, and Come,' he said, perchance he has already discovered the secret of the rainbow. Let us go forward.' So the three Wise Men journeyed on. By and by they came to a forest and decided to camp for the night. At dawn the Third rose up and, leaving his companions sleeping, wandered far among the trees, until at last he came to a pool.

There he sat himself down, and drawing his pipes began to play. The sun rose high and warmed his back, and the bushes began to rustle and shake with small woodland creatures going about their business. The third Wise Man smiled to himself and went on playing.

The other Wise. Men searched everywhere for their missing comrade, but in vain, so at last they were compelled to continue their journey without him. At length one evening, after many months' travel, they reached a city, and, being weary, went to rest themselves on the steps of a temple. Now the people of the city were in distress, for their Princess had been carried off by a loathsome dragon. They came to the two strangers and asked for help in their trouble. Nay,' said the first Wise Man, we go to discover the: secret of the rainbow, and nothing will turn us from our quest.' But the Second listened to the people, while his sword leapt and struggled in its sheath. He led them out on to a great plain. There they did battle with the dragon till his green blood swamped the ground and his dying agonies caused the very foundations of the city to tremble. Then the second Wise Man married the Princess, amid the rejoicings of the people.

So the first Wise Man was left to journey on alone. At length he met an old, old woman. Mother,' he said, leaning on his staff, canst thou tell me where the rainbow ends?' The old hag looked at him and laughed. ' My son,' she said, the rainbow is a perfect circle and therefore has no end, as even an elementary knowledge of mathematics must make plain to you.' Then the first Wise Man knew that this was truth, so he thanked the old woman and turned his steps homeward. After a long while he once more beheld the walls and towers of Samarcand, the marvellous city of marble and jasper and oricalchium gleaming in the evening sun. Entering in he made his way to the palace, and, pushing aside the guards, came to the great banqueting hall where the King sat at meat.

Then the first Wise Man cried in a loud voice, The Rainbow has no end ; it is a perfect circle.'

What is that to me? ' said the King, and he had him executed for causing a disturbance.

A. N.

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'notices anb 1Repotts THE. CLUB. There exists at ios High Street a Club which has the distinction of being, I believe, the only Club in Oxford that has no name. However, in spite of this drawback, and though it has only been in existence half a term, the Club is a flourishing institution. Membership is open to all women undergraduates and to B.A.'s who are taking any post-graduate course in Oxford. Its object is avowedly to promote intercourse and interchange of ideas' among members of the different colleges, and incidentally it is useful to those who wish to make the best use of an inter-lectural ' hour in refreshment or study. There are two rooms : the clubroom where coffee and social intercourse are to be had, and the reading-room which provides silence and stationery. Though membership is limited, through lack of space, to a hundred and fifty, there are still a few vacancies, and anyone desiring to know more should apply to one of the following : President—I. WILLIAM s (L.M.H.).

Secretary—A. PERCIVAL (S. H. C.).

Senior Treasurer—Mrs. PRICHARD (O. H. S.).

Junior Treasurer—N. MIA.CD'ONALD (S.H.H.).

Committee Members: Miss JAMISON (L. M. H.), Miss ADY (S. H. C.)_, M. J. HARDWICKE (O. H.S.), K. LEATHER (S.C.).

0. U. W. D. C. President—V. M. S. CRICHTON (S.C.).

Secretary—I. WILLIAMS (L. M. H. ).

Junior Treasurer—A. PERCIVAL (S. H. C.).

The Debating Club held its inaugural meeting in Hannington Hall on November Ist. The House discussed and approved the motion, That woman is a political animal.' A second meeting was held on November list, when the subject for debate was, That the influence of the Press is detrimental.' Both meetings proved successful, both in point of speaking and with regard to the general interest shown, though, not unnaturally, the first meeting was the better attended. The Club has been formed because of a general desire for better opportunities of debate and public speaking than are provided by the College Societies. Its success depends on the continued support of all its members.

O.U. G. G. C. President—Lady BURROWS. Secretary—M. M. JENNINGS (L.Mi.H.).

Treasurer—M. DACOMBE (S. H. H. ).

On November 7th the Guide Club had a very enjoyable meeting with the Scout Club. The vocal efforts round the camp fire gave untold delight to the vocalists. It is greatly hoped that this meeting will become an annual one.

The Club is to have the privilege of hearing Dame Catherine Furse at its second meeting, and everyone should make a special attempt to be present,

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0. U. W. L. C. Captain—J. RtE Secretary—B. PRATT (L.M.H.).

Treasurer—E. IRVINE (O. H. S.).

The standard of the game generally has improved through the term, but the 1st XII have not improved to the same extent as the 2nd XII. The great fault both with attacks and defences; is insufficient accuracy in passing, which entails weak Catching. The defences on the whole play a sound game, but the attacks are disappointing in that they rely too much on passing amongst themselves instead of making straight for the goal and being certain of their shooting.

Only one match has been played so far, that against London University, which Oxford won by 13-3.

1st XII :—Goal, M. McAfee* (S'.0.); point, A. Leask (0.H.S.); cover-point, I. Ree* (L.M.H.); third-man, B. Pratt* (L.M.H.); rightdefence, E. Irvine* (0.H.S.); left-defence, G. Thompson (S.H.H.), centre, Brooke (S.H.C.); right-attack, N. Osborne (S.H.C.); left-attack, M. Elkington* (L.M.H.); third-home, G. Barker (S.H.C.); second-home, M. Thomas (S.H.H.); first-home, L. E. Welbourn* (O.H.S.). *Old Blue.

O. U. W. H. C. Captain—A. BULL (S.C.).

Secretary—D. LEESMITH (L. M. H.).

Treasurer—V. FOWLER (S. H.C.).

The general standard of play has improved. The games are fast and even, and the znd XI could put up quite a good fight against the 1st.

Three of our old Blues have unfortunately gone down, and no brilliant Freshers have come up to take their places. Two of the Freshers have played in United matches as substitutes, but both seemed to suffer badly from nerves. Awdry plays well in mid-field, but becomes a hesitating and ineffective player when she gets to the goal circle'. Ashmore has good stick-work and is a promising player, but is at present too slow for a half.

The team plays well together. The defence is good, though the winghalves must learn to back up their forwards and to get rid of the ball sooner. The forwards combine very well and can all shoot hard; Willson is rather inclined to get flustered when she has a perfectly free shot.

1st XI :—Berwick,* Muller,* Crichton,* Fiedler, Fowler,* Sharp, Howell,* Willson, Bull,* Slaney,* Lee-Smith.* MATCHES.

Midlands Universities—Won, 6-3.

Cheltenham College—Won, 7-2.

Bedford P.T'.C.—Lost, 2-74.

O.U.W.S.C. Hon. President—M. U. SHARPE (S.C.).

Hon. Secretary—Y. W. CANN (S. C. ).

Hon. Treasurer—I. CARLEBACH (O. H. S.).

Two matches were held in London after last term : on July 2nd, at Lime Grove Baths, Hammersmith, against the Hammersmith Ladies ; and on July 3rd, at Finchley Road Baths, against the Mermaid S.C. The

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first included water-polo. Both teams proved too much for us, though C. Awdry Nicks (S.H.C.) won the Thirty Yards' Race against the Mermaid S.C. On July 6th, a return water-polo match was played at Cheltenham against the Cheltenham Ladies' S.C., and was won 5-3.

Organised swimming this term has been made impossible, at least since the fourth week, owing to the fact that the baths are no longer heated. It is hoped that a new boiler will be installed before next term.

A most successful entertainment, in aid of the funds of the Club, was held on Wednesday and Thursday nights, November 2z st and 22nd, in the j.C.R. of St. Hugh's, by kind permission of the Principal. The programme consisted of a short play, The River of Light,' a pierrot performance, by the Home Students' Tantalising Ten,' and a mock cinema film, ' Dare-devil Deeds in Dixie,' by members of St. Hugh's. Music was supplied during the intervals by the Somerville Jazz Band. The silver collection realised los.

LADY MARGARET HALL. The only matters of general interest to report this term are in the nature of relaxation. The First Year, after a fortnight's existence as a body, entertained us with a cinema play and other delights, and Toynbee Building, on November loth, gave a belated but enjoyable Hallow E'en party. On November r7th Mr. Masefield spoke here to a very appreciative audience on The Art of Speaking Verse,' and his lecture was illustrated by Miss Irene Sadler, one of the winners in the July VerseSpeaking contest. Nor have our bodies suffered at the expense of our minds ; a lecture on Ju-Jitsu. by Captain McLaglan on November 26th has inspired the formation of a class, members of which will shortly be able to overthrow strong men by a single turn of the wrist.

The Beaufort Debating Society has held a sharp practice debate, and also a vigorous debate at Queen's College with the Eglesfield Debating Society on the motion, That a lawyer is justified in defending a client whom he believes to be guilty.'

The Dramatic Society held a reading of As You Like It' at the beginning of term for the benefit of the first year ; the general standard was high. On November gth there was a reading of Eden Philpotts' The Farmer's Wife' with the Fleming Society at Lincoln. The Society intends to' do an informal play at the end of this term, and its public production at the beginning of next.

The activities of the Italian Club include a paper on Petrarch and Boccaccio, a debate, and a reading of Goldoni's Le Smanie per la Villeggiatura.' The Club celebrated its hundredth meeting by going to the Playhouse in a body to see Mirandolina,' and was much interested in Prof. Salvernini's lecture on Dante given here on November 25th, at the inauguration of the Oxford branch of the British-Italian League.

The Hall French Club has been revived to provide opportunities for conversation and discussion ; debates and a reading of Musset's tasio ' have been held, seven other schools besides the French School taking part.

The Boat Club • and Games Club are pursuing their strenuous way.

The Lacrosse team have had very little practice together, and as a consequence the results of the matches have been rather disappointing. The attacks, with the exception of M. Elkington, who has consistently played well, do not realise the necessity of making straight for goal and using every opportunity to shoot. This applies also to attacks in the 2nd XII.

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The defence, well supported by B. Tidd Pratt and K. Miller-Jones, are sound, but rather slow, and inclined to be muddled when playing against a fast attack. The Club should do well with more regular practice.

SOMERVILLE COLLEGE. Our numbers have been reinforced by forty-two freshers, who have entered into college activities with considerable vigour. We are very sorry that Miss Johnson is to leave us this term, and should like to take the opportunity of conveying our best wishes.

The fixture list for the term is as follows :— October 28.—College Dance.

October 3o.—Miss Wheedon-Cook's Lecture on the Roman Forum.

November 8.—A performance of Love and Friendship' (Jane Austen) by the Dramatic Society.

November io.—A Music Club Concert in aid of the Universities of Central Europe.

November i4.—A Debate with Wadham.

November 20.—Reading of a Paper on Dorothy Wordsworth by Mr. Garrod (Literary Society).

November 22.—A Lecture, ' In the Track of the Argo,' by Mr. HeadlamMorley (Historical Society).

November 24.—College Dance.

November 3o.—A sale in aid of the Endowment Fund.

December 8.—The Scouts' Party (including the Freshers' Play).

Somerville has a very promising Hockey team this year, in spite of the fact that there are very few good freshers up. Miss Smylie is the only fresher who has gained a place in the ist XI; she is a promising defence player, and ought to do well. We have played one match so far, against Bedford Ladies, which we lost 3-1. The game was fast, and Somerville played up very well against a thoroughly good team.

On November 24th we play our annual match against Holloway.

Team :—Berwick,* Crichton,* Miacnaughton,* Glover, Smylie, Sharp,* Edwards,* Willson,* •ull,* Badock,* Headlam-Mbrley.* The LacroSse Club is suffering this Term from lack of members, only twenty people playing, and consequently it has been impossible to get a full game. We have played no outside matches yet, so the team has not been properly tested. We play L.M.H. in the semi-finals of the Cup match on November 23rd.

Team :—McAfee,* Carpenter, Macnaughton,* Patterson, Walker,* Bull,* Young, Coit, Maclean, Crichton, Benson, Adam-Smith.

ST. HUGH'S. We are larger than ever this year, but we enjoy expanding, and welcome Miss Firth from Newnham as Vice-Principal, Mlle. Dufour from Grenoble, and fifty-one cheerful and energetic freshers. No. 4 is very sad to lose Miss Ady, but welcomes Miss Salt, who has taken her place.

Although we are now living in four separate houses and about thirty-two single rooms, College societies have been active.

The Games Clubs are all hampered by each other's existence, but they are to be congratulated upon the number and promise of the freshers who play. The Hockey Club is in a flourishing condition. Its energies have been somewhat curtailed by the loss of its field, and it has been confined to two days' play a week ; but we hope that the problem will be satisfactorily solved next term. Since the team has been playing better together, the 1st XI is practically settled. The team has had good prac-

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tice in playing without its Blues, but still lacks self-reliance on such occasions. Although the Lacrosse Club has played three practice matches with other colleges, winning two and drawing the third, it has only been possible to arrange one outside match, wherein St. Hugh's was beaten

by St. George's, Harpendon. The Netball Club has improved steadily throughout the term, and, despite the undulating character of its ground, has won all its matches.

The Swimming Club has practised water-polo regularly. For obvious reasons, no matches take place during the winter. Again the freshers, three of whom have passed into United, are to be congratulated. We are glad to house a play given by the O.U.W.S.C. in our J.C.R. on November 20th and 21st.

The Boating Club continues to row, scull and canoe with limitless energy. The Literary Society has taken a new lease of life, although it has grown more exclusive. We are looking forward to an open meeting, at which Mr. Matheson will talk on ' Reminiscences of an Amateur in Modern Languages.' The Debating Society, never strictly ,sabbatarian, has met every week for sharp practices, and we have also had two public debates in college and one with Somerville, under the auspices of the L.N.U. The Classical Society is looking forward to Prof. Gilbert Murray's reading of the `Agamemnon.' The possibility of acting a play is being considered. The Musical Society has given a delightful series of informal Sunday concerts, one of the most successful of which was provided by its first year members. The orchestra continues to enliven the east wing. We are looking forward to a concert by the Meredyth Quartet on November 23rd in Hall, and to the terminal dance.'

We celebrated Armistice Eve by a fancy-dress dance a l'Americaine, with music and cosmic illumination. The proceeds went to the European Student Relief, for which St. Hugh's has raised ÂŁ20.

On St. Hugh's Day, the Second Year opened the new stage with a thrilling drama, ' The Purple Mask,' which was immensely appreciated by the audience.

Very hearty congratulations to Miss Cartwright and Miss Chattaway on their Firsts.

ST. HILDA'S HALL. No very startling event has disturbed the even tenor of our way this term. Building operations have not yet been completed, and we still look forward to the time when we shall all be able to dine in Hall.

Several of this year's twenty-nine Freshers board out owing to the scanty accommodation.

Two lectures have been given in College this term, one on October loth by Sir Thomas Arnold, the subject being, ' Religious Art in Islam' ; the other on November r3th by Col. Borden; Turner on the League of Nations and the Bombardment of Corfu.

The Musical Society organised an amusing Round Competition between the various years. The Second Year cafe off victorious, after giving a moving rendering of ' Absalom, my Son !' Wednesday, November 28th, is the date fixed for the annual concert.

The Dramatic Society held a Freshers' Reading at the beginning of term to detect new talent. Later, the Society met with New College and read Housman's Prunella.' The Literary Society held a meeting for the perusal of original contributions by the members. It is hoped that Mr. Greening Lamborne will be able to give a lecture at the end of Term.

The Freshers' play, modelled on Greek tragedy, was so successful that a second performance has been arranged for outsiders.

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Many members of Hall are now spending much free time in enthusiastic practices for the carol singing at the end of term.

OXFORD HOME STUDENTS. On Saturday, November 17th, Miss Ivy Williams received the D.C.L. degree. We offer her our best congratulations. We believe this is the first time one of the older doctorates has been given to a woman. To celebrate the occasion Mrs. Johnson, Miss Burrows and Miss R. F. Butler gave a tea party in the J.C.R. after the reception.

At the General Meeting, which was held in the East School (by kind permission of the authorities) on Wednesday, October 17th, the question of Home Students undertaking social work in Oxford was favourably discussed. Miss C. V. Butler kindly came and spoke on the subject, and a small committee was formed. The work now being done at St. Thomas' Girls' Club is proving an interest and amusement both to helpers and members.

During the fifth week of term, in response to the general appeal for the Students of Central Europe, the Home Students, owing to the energy of A. I. Leask and L. A. Lock, raised the sum of Los. The O.H.S. Rowing Club wishes to thank Mr. Lusk for his coaching.

The time may yet come when we can put a boat on the river.

The Oxford Women's Swimming Club is giving an entertainment in aid of the new swimming baths, on November 21st and 22nd, at St. Hugh's. The Home Students are lending their famous ' Tantalising Ten' to encourage the good work.

On the Tuesday and Wednesday of the eighth week, the O.H.S. Dramatic Society is producing The Careless Lovers,' by Ravenscourt, in Lynam's Hall. This play is believed not to have been acted since 1673 we trust that age has not withered it.

Lovers ' of music will be glad to know that the Sing-Song Club has now developed into the Home Students' Musical Society. It has been fortunate in securing Mr. Watson, conductor of the Keble Choral Society, to train. members. We wish it all success.

The Debating Society has been active this term. Joint debates with St. John's College, St. Edmund Hall and St. Catherine's have been much enjoyed.

Sixty-two freshers came up this October. Miss Burrows has very kindly been giving coffee-parties in the J.C.R. for students. These have been much appreciated, as they have made it more possible for the second and third years to get to know the first.

The Senior Student and Deputy Senior Student gave a party toi the first year on Thursday, November 15th, and hope to give another on the Thursday in the seventh week of term.

A system of ' God-mothers' has been instituted, whereby every fresher is placed in the care of a second or third year student for the first three weeks of term, for initiation into the mysteries of Oxford life.

The Netball Club has now seventeen members, and plays twice a week : on Wednesdays with L.M.H. on their ground, and on Thursdays at Summertown on its own. Matches have been arranged v. L.M.H. on November 21st ; v. Wychwood School on November 23rd ; v. Somerville on November 29th.

Team : V. Guyson, M. Last (sh.); *M. Kelly (aft.); A. Samson (att. c.); E. Monroe (c.) ; *E. Scott (g.k.), captain ; *J. Burgess (d.) ; A. MI. C. Shaw (d.c.). * Have played in United practices.

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