FRITILLARY May
2ISt, 1927
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frittitarp Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges MAY, 1927 CONTENTS Page
Page .. Editorial .. Bound 'Tongues of Dying Men' Death of Anne : a Fragment O.U.D.S. and the Woman The Flowering Cherry in the Wind Music Notes
2 2
4 6 7 7
The Lady Margaret Hall Play .. The Super Cinema ' We Hope to Give Satisfaction Verses Sonnet News in Brief from the Women's Colleges
8 9 10 12 12
13
Ebitorial
I
T is the privilege of the third term of one's third year to be
sentimental about Oxford, its loveliness and steadfastness. There is even a certain satisfaction, as of a long-anticipated hot bath, in wallowing in it, after three years of abstention. Coming up, one affected to despise it, to object to its flavour in appreciation, just as one affected to despise sweetness in wine : it was, indeed, a term of abuse of everything in general. My dear, it's simply crashing ; sentimental to the last degree.' But in one's last term it is almost done' to be sentimental : and what a joy ! It is, of course, to be deprecated before that date : for in youth, at any rate, it seems the bravest thing in the world to have the courage of one's commonplaces. And in the last term it is only a momentary bravery : one will be gone before having to face the consequences : like administering slow poison and emigrating before the victim dies. It is queer how the process of growing-up seems to consist in realising the truth of cliches, maturity to be an acquiescence in the commonplace : and one's ideas at going down to be identical with those of all the Oxford novels that ever were. One had desired to be original. In the hope, however, that the malady of sentimentality that has stricken us editorially is not too widespread, we are having a competition for members of the third year : we offer ÂŁi for the best essay of from 250-500 words : Oxford Obiter Dicta.' They should be sent in before June 4th.
2
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IJ3ounb You are drowned in sound. I have covered you with music, With a music like full waters Softly moulding All your limbs to rest ; And your lips so stilly drooping, Unappeasable ; and trembling Fall of lashes. From your foot's down-curve To your drows4c1 hair's dark evening I have spelled you with my singing's Long desire. Young was your hate, Like the sloe-fruit dark and bitter, Like the sloe-fruit sharp, untender, For my craving. Slowly I will age you ; In the quick brain I have hollowed With the subtle chant of satyrs Will set there a song. Old and witless, sleep. Dead your lovers, dead your beauty. Who shall greet you at your waking, Who but I? You are drowned in sound, I have covered you with music, With the music of a satyr Thieving youth.
R. M. J. C.
but tbev sap the tongues of aping men Enforce attention like beep barmonv. I am going down. And since in the minds of those who run the newspapers of this university the term is synonymous with death in more ways than one, I feel it is the moment courageously to face the state of mind of those journalists who lead our thoughts. For nearly three years I have studied with much interest the mentality of the young and literary undergraduate, or undergraduette, of the Univerties which are essential to success sity, and there are, it seems, various, quali in this line, and others which mark the possessor as doomed to immediate and absolute failure.
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First of all one must be decorative. (And those who know will observe that I have absorbed an essential factor, which is to refer to the individual as one. ') As I say, one must be decorative. This implies much more than one might suppose. To be decorative one must not only consider one's clothes, which one would suppose to be the essential quality. They are of far less importance than one's general atmosphere of behaviour. One must cultivate that degage air which wanders through life engrossed in emphasising those details which one finds so supremely important. One must write in a decorative fashion. That is to say, one must avoid at all costs the direct method. One must string words together solely with regard to their sound and appearance, sense being sacrificed if necessary. Then one must invariably qualify everything, but there is only one type of adjective that may be used. One may judge a picture as being faintly reminiscent of somebody,' or vaguely decorative in a sort of Italian fashion,' thus avoiding at all costs giving a definite, decisive and ill-bred opinion. There are many other ways of being decorative, but this is the most important. Others are subordinate. Secondly one must be uncertain. One must never be definite about one's thoughts or actions, as otherwise one might lose that invaluable thing, an impression. One must be very careful about impressions. They are extremely important, for they may be produced in almost any form, rather like plasticine, except that the delightful and realistic pictures on the boxlid are replaced by the fervent vagaries of the most modern artist. They need not, however, be entirely artistic. The literary impression is important, in that it brings in the opportunity for another essential quality, which is that one must be disconnected. A literary impression should be conveyed largely by dots, dashes and other aids to literary effort, with a fragment of conversation thrown in every four or five lines. Then again one must be familiar. One must cultivate the most exotic of modern artists of every type : and one must talk of them in loud and fervent tones by their Christian names, always accompanied by a term of endearment preferably in the superlative. Actual knowledge in this, as in all other branches of the art, is unnecessary. If no theme for adoration or conversation is forthcoming, one may be invented on the spur of the moment. Of course one must be passionate, preferably with a long ' a.' One's writings must teem with the deepest fervour of one's heart ; otherwise they will miss their aim. It is just possible to be passionate without being decorative, for the latter quality is often allied with a detached and chilly criticism which must be controlled by a tendency which might be described as mental spilikins. But passion allied with decoration is most likely to succeed. Lastly one must be unreal. One must never be tempted to allow one's mind to dwell upon those matters which by their very vigour will throw down the decorated walls which one has established so carefully. One must avoid these realities almost as ardently as one embraces one's artistic career ; for this is Work, always to be spelt with a capital letter to distinguish it from that pastime in which one is later to be examined, and of which it is almost indecent, certainly weird, to speak. One must therefore give great attention to the cultivation of unreality, since the real things of life may have an unpleasant way of forcing themselves in upon one, and of shouting out their ideas in language which is far too definite and bald to leave any doubt as to their meaning.
F RITILLARY And then there is the other aspect of life : do we dare to mention even that it exists ? To those, of whose characteristics we have given a brief description, it must embody the outer depths of barbarianism. It is essentially ' Anglo-Saxon,' for it rejoices in solid realities, and in methods and speech of that directness which the literary world disdains. When it writes or speaks it does so in as few words as possible and avoiding verbal and mental adornments, and the lives of those who enjoy it are spent in doing things or in living rather than in creating an increasing scheme of mental decoration. It is concerned with things that live, for it produces the hand which guides a plough, rather than a pen, and which rears a pig rather than a poem. The things which gives it pleasure is the contact with life, with the real and vigorous creative life of animals and things which grow. And for this reason, when it seeks something to look upon in moments of rest, when ' just to sit' is so glorious, it looks upon the straight reality of a field of plough or corn growing solidly to produce bread, or sheep and lambs concerned with the vital fact of motherhood. And in its mental aspect it is not barren. For the minds of those who live it have seen in nature all that Aristotle saw in her ; and they know that she is the kind, gracious and eternal being in whom is incorporated the ideal of man : the ideal of continuing service and of hope of further things which sustains him in moments of fear, which strengthens him in moments of triumph and which is a constant joy in the' life of doing. This is the knowledge of reality.
death of Rime :R fragment Waking slowly from the depths of sleep that had drowned the extremities of horror and exhaustion, and before her mind was yet awake, she saw that her wall was mottled with sunlight. For a moment she lay watching it, as yet but dimly apprehending even the light itself, and then a doubly unfamiliar quality in the sunlight and the wall thrust at her and startled her awake. A stone wall. A patch of sunlight crossed up and down with regular bars of shadow. The floodgate of recollection burst and poured over her such a torrent of bitter knowledge and apprehension that the sunlight turned black before her eyes, and all perception was blotted out by the blackness of despair which descended on her. Her mind lay stunned, refusing to look that memory in the face ; then, when reality was no longer passive, but braying like a trumpet and cutting like a knife, it sought in the madness of panic that escape which must inevitably be there for the seeking. Suddenly she became aware that one of her hands was cold, and for a moment found relief in withdrawing her attention from the greater issue to concentrate on the pinpoint of physical discomfort. She looked at her hand and found it infinitely pitiful : brownish in colour, slightly malformed in one finger and decorated with two heavy rings, her hand seemed to her at the moment intimate to her own misery. Soon it would be cold for ever, and her waiting women quarrel for the rings : soon it would lie stiff in the dark, that hand that had been so often kissed. In a passion of self-pity she thrust the cold hand in her bosom, and wept without restraint. A finer nature would have been beyond the comfort of tears, but even on that last th pressing on her morning, with the weight of the knowledge of dea
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5
eyelids, Anne Bullen, epicure of sensation to the end, was able to savour the physical relief that comes with an abandonment of weeping. Soon her sobs grew less, and she lay still, her hands pressed to her hot cheeks, staring dully at the barred patch of sunlight on the wall. For a while her eyes saw nothing, and then slowly the barred square of light drew together again on her consciousness, and brought with it a train of recollection that turned her sick with longing. She followed in imagination the path of that dusty sunbeam out into the great courtyard, bright in the early morning and empty except for the sentinel and the great hungry ravens that flopped and picked among the cobbles. That courtyard had seemed dreadful to her three nights ago, when she had arrived in escort, reeling with fatigue, and her neck galled with the weight of her heavy riding cloak ; how much more dreadful would it appear, she thought, when she should see it again in so short a time, in broad daylight and crowded. For an instant her mind dwelt almost luxuriously on the scene, appraising the dramatic gloom of it, the hush of the spectators, and herself pale and pitiful in a black velvet gown, taking her last look of the walls with tragic eyes that should so soon be bound with a white napkin. Her wretched pleasure in the scene became suddenly too poignant to bear, and, clasping her hands to her throat as it to ascertain that her heart still beat warmly, she focussed her attention again on the sunlit wall. This time her fancy turned to the sunlight on the lawns of Hampton Court : lawns that would still be dewy grey, with purple and yellow crocuses stiffly pricked in the grass, and large speckled thrushes that fled reluctantly at her approach and sped through the little stone arches into the sunk garden. She saw it with such vividness that it seemed she could almost identify the fleshy stonecrops between the paving stones, and the different saffron and white blossoms in the wet flower beds. She found that her face was hot with tears because she might not see these things again. How lay that morning sun on Windsor, she wondered. A sense of futility descended on her with the familiar knowledge that it would shine the same on the round sweep of the battlements, even though she were gone, and the scarlet and white pennon flap lazily in the blue air to other eyes than hers. There was a movement in the room behind her, but so great was the preoccupation of her grief that she did not hear it, but gazed at her patch of light in an agony of leave-taking. Someone coughed behind her, and she started convulsively, turning her swollen face towards the room. It was her chaplain, whose patient night-long presence she had forgotten. Now he came towards her, pity and fatigue in his face, and exhorted her to prayer. The hour, he said, was almost at hand. With a gesture that was all but petulant she turned her face from him, and her mind recoiled from the import of his words. How could she, who was still so young, who was still breathing and alive and beloved, how could she who was Queen make a last prayer here and now? Her Protestant soul was overwhelmed with terror for her body ; her mind, that was racked with the memories of certain and horrible guilt, was yet untouched by repentance. Her terror gave her a despairing courage, and she dragged herself from her couch, eyes and mouth distorted with panic, and hands outstretched, straining to find some escape. Immediately a great weariness took her in the limbs and brain and she sank quite suddenly to her knees, tearless and sensationless, her hands clasped in the crumpled folds of her gown, and on her lips a dry rustle of prayers. MARGARET LANE.
6
FRITILLARY
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FRITILLARY
7
the flowering Cherry in the 'mina Loveliness, loveliness, stay one moment : Now for an instant Hold your body Still in the springing, rooted dance : Quicken your intimate Delicate music— Into the sharper poignancy Of teeming immobility. Stay for an instant Poised in fullness Of immanent movement Lively tree : Tiptoe, ready to leap again, But still for a moment, A moment, a moment . So that I may guess at A glimmer of the pattern Of formal movement In complex grace That your dance goes tracing Perpetually. So that I may hear in secrecy An echo of the air that is played for you By remote violins Immortally. R. 0. HAYNES.
Miss Jelly D'Aranyi.
Clbusic 'motes
At her recital at the Town Hall on Thursday, Miss Jelly D'Aranyi gave us an interesting programme ranging from Bach and Mozart to Ravel and Vaughan Williams. The least satisfactory performance of the afternoon was the Mozart Sonata in B flat for Violin and Pianoforte. That is to say, it was only comparatively unsatisfactory, for a high level of excellence was maintained throughout the programme, and Miss D'Aranyi's worst would be most other violinists' best. The Sonata was beautifully played as regards phrasing and technique (in particular there were some intriguing staccato effects), but it was Mozart without the bite. This was partly because Mr. George Reeves, who accompanied with sympathy and ability, retired too much into the background, so that we seemed to be listening rather to a violin sonata than to a sonata for violin and piano. Also Miss D'Aranyi over-emphasised what is otherwise such an admirable quality of hers—restraint. The Sonata was too restrained ; it lacked the Mozartian sense of humour. Throughout the rest of the programme Miss D'Aranyi grew from strength to strength. The Bach Concerto in A minor, arranged by Bach
8
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himself from the D major clavier concerto, was a delight. Miss D'Aranyi has a strong sense of rhythm and line, both of which are indispensable to good Bach-playing, and she got every ounce out of the Concerto. Dr. Vaughan Williams" The Lark Ascending,' written in 1914, is mannered, as most of his work is, but very beautiful. Scored originally for solo violin and small orchestra (strings, woodwind, two horns and triangle), it lost considerably by the substitution of piano for orchestra. Miss D'Aranyi played with exquisite purity of tone, admirable restraint and a great feeling for variety of colour. Ravel's concert Rhapsody, Tzigane,' which was written for Miss D'Aranyi in 1924, is described in- the notes as a succession of brilliant episodes in the Hungarian manner.' This work is a compromise ; it is the ' fireworks' of the great virtuosi of a past age clothed in modern dress. One must question the sincerity of full-blooded ' Hungarian music written by a Frenchman, but as a piece of violin virtuosity, and as played by Miss D'Aranyi with great verve and amazing command of her instrument, it was an exciting end to an enjoyable afternoon.
Oxford Ladies' Musical Society. I was unfortunately not able to go to the first concert of the 0. L. M. S. on Friday, at which Madame Fanny Davies and Miss Marie Soldat played Schumann and Beethoven Sonatas, etc. MOLTO VIVACE.
the labv Margaret tali Vale The Dramatic Society of Lady Margaret Hall is to be congratulated on its adventure in sophistication when the other societies have contented themselves with the more academic atmosphere of phantasy and mystery. It was in the nature of audacity to choose Congreve, whose action is so neat that it can be packed into the raising of an eyebrow and the spontaneity of a simper. The eyebrow was admirably played by Miss E. Harman (Lady Wishfort) in a manner almost acrobatic and the simper by Miss A. Rowe (Millamant), who preserved the play from the commonplace. The producers, having obtained some brilliant costumes, wisely concentrated on their effect and left the scenery alone. The first act was inaudible, and the prompter had too many opportunities of showing her efficiency. We should have been glad to have heard more of Mirabell's (Miss A. Heron Allen) and Fainall's (Miss H. Heroys) dialogue : we were more conscious of their stupendous wigs than of their voices, and this did not help to relieve the preliminaries of the play from boredom. With the entrance of Millamant the play became inspired with its proper vivacity. She was thoroughly enjoyable. She managed to retain her slow demureness while being completely feline and her speeches had the air of the unexpected which was really attractive. We have seen nothing in Oxford so masculine as Miss M. Browne's Sir Wilful Witwond, whose robustness and vigour seemed to have absorbed all the masculinity in the caste. She was the only one who contrived to disguise her sex so well that the audience did not realise it. She was aided by an assured stride and a deep voice. Witwond and Petulant did some good supporting work, but were not required to be remarkable. Woitwell
FRITILLARY was too much like a child repeating a lesson with conscious virtue. This caused some amusement and was effective in the scenes with Foible, but in the other scenes became slightly annoying. The women as a whole were more convincing. Miss K. Ripman was refreshingly natural as Mrs. Fail=ll. Miss H. Belfield (Mrs. Marwood) retained her composure till the end and, although rather static in the earlier scenes, filled the part well. Miss E. Harman's Lady Wishfort was a joy. She raised her voice, her eyes and her hands to such heights that the play became almost rollicking. Her exaggerations were well parodied in the background by Miss M. Cottrell, whose really good acting was overshadowed by the more spectacular part. In such a difficult play some patchiness was inevitable. The action was uneven, but was held together by Millamant, Lady Wishfort and Sir Wilful Witwond, who gave it personality. A certain liquidity of motion seems to be necessary, according to precedent, for any portrayal of the eighteenth century, but ' The Way of the World ' threatened at times to become a mere study in graceful eurythmics, and we became a little tired of hands perpetually floating over the stage in unison. As a whole the play justified the courage of the producers, and was more polished than many we have seen this year. R. M. J. C.
Zbe Super Cinema Some of the more debased among us tend to date our term thus : ' The week that such-and-such a film was at the Super,' and generally the management provides something worthy of so vital a significance. This term, however, there has been nothing of very outstanding merit, though the first programme augured well with the ever-welcome Constance Talmadge. The plot was of wild improbability, but the acting more than made up for this, and the sets, which were all taken in the studio, were convincingly Venetian. It was with interest, if not enthusiasm, that one saw the announcement of ' The Big Parade' ; but sad disillusionment awaited those who anticipated a good film. It has been so well advertised that one was led to think that it must be above the usual standard of war films, but the pathetic fact remains that it is very bad. One grieved to see the talent of John Gilbert wasted on such a production, which was both sentimental and marred by those efforts after effect which only Germany has achieved with perfect success. The constantly recurring vision of soldiers' feet marching over an unending road was not so much impressive as irritating. The most attractive feature of the film was the athletic facial expression of Shin and his great skill in expectoration. The greatest praise one can give ' The Big Parade' is that it is not so viciously bad as ' Mademoiselle from Armentieres ' ; but need we see any more war films ? To see one is to have seen all. The second week afforded more definite entertainment. ' So this is Paris' showed Monte Blue at his best, and gave occasion for some excellent sets of that gay city, ' where everyone,' according to a sub-title, ' has the H-1 of a time.' They certainly had at the Artists' Ball, round which the story centres. The photography in these scenes was astonishingly good for so slight .a production and reminiscent of the cleverest parts of ' Vaudeville.'
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The Waning Sex' rose above the majority of society dramas by the excellence of its acting and the general pleasant atmosphere of its production. Norma Shearer is undoubtedly one of the most attractive actresses on the screen, and her clothes are enchanting. Despite an extremely silly plot, this film is what cinematographic journals calls ' one hundred per cent. pure entertainment.' The whole programme kept up to the high standard, and The Legend of the Willow Pattern Plate' was one of the most artistic productions of the year. The sets alone were exquisite, but the delightful acting of the Chinese made it really memorable. Excellent photography and an admirable restraint in the sub-titles crowned its artistry and aroused a hope that these native actors may be seen in Oxford again. This week the many admirers of Ivor Novello will flock to 'see his frequent and passionate embraces in The Triumph of the Rat,' which is, incidentally, a triumph for its British producers.
lark lbope to Give %atisfaction In spite of the agreeable lackadaisicalness of the Morris pose, which might perhaps be figured, after the manner of Lear, as a young man, draped in green, surrounded by and rejecting the advances of a number of amorous steam engines ; in spite of the more vigorous picturesqueness of its later development, the bubble round Chesterton attitude ; industrialism and mass production' have indubitably increased the pleasures of the senses and of the mind, giving the former surfeit without sickness and the latter change without sorrow : and all this by the institution of the catalogue. More, the Arts have been encouraged : and that not only in the persons of those who create the exquisite young women who walk with so agreeable and unembarrassed a grace, whether in Jaegar combinations, or silk cami-knickers, or pink brocaded stays, through the pages devoted to Ladies' Underwear; but also by presenting poets and novelists with an adjunct to style. Moreover, the progress of catalogues, both commercial and literary, may be traced from the plain love of food, through the more romantic love of rich stuffs and precious stones, to the love of an ecstatic mixed mysticism of the senses : as a journey from Dickens, via Wilde, to the Sitwells. It is obvious how Dickens found the catalogue useful as an aid to book sales. He satisfied the immortal greed of humanity without revolting its mortal stomach. His reader could be Roman, but need no Vomitorium, not even an intellectual one, for, at a surfeit, there remained as a corrective always the description of the heroine's moral qualities to be read : just as, in the catalogue of any really large shop, there is always the pink lampshade department. There is, in fact, no great difference between the reasons partially responsible for the success of `Pickwick' and those why a child of ten chooses the catalogue of the Army and Navy Stores grocery section as its favourite literature. In degree, yes ; in kind, no : except that the Dickensian victuals are usually of a variety more pleasing to the educated palate of the adult, who buys books, than to the child. It is, to be sure, more seemly to be observed taking pleasure in the more nourishing foods of Mr. Pickwick's picnic at the manoeuvres—' Now the tongue—now the pigeon pie—take care of that veal and ham—mind the lobsters—take the salad out of the cloth '—and in the Fat Boy's bills
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of fare, than to be discovered immersed in the perusal of starkly-listed crude confectionery such as Mixed pear drops, lemon and orange, 2/- per pound ' and Best chocolates with centres of montelimart, creme de menthe, tangerine, cafe, rose, nougat, ginger, almond, violet, caramel and liqueur ' ; but the satisfaction to be gained by both diversions is the same. The infinite demands of greed are satisfied : the digestion is undamaged : in a fantastic mental lust the physical desire to taste is both extended and assuaged. The more decorative pleasures contained in the love of precious stones and of a profusion of lovely stuffs were both aroused and administered to by the sober mercers of the 'sixties and 'seventies, who, in a time when to own a dress off the peg' was decidedly to be considered both suburban and extravagant, piled the sense, swooning under the delicious, everincreasing weight, with rich velvets, amethyst, ruby and pearl grey ' ; with imperially stiff brocades at enormous prices the yard with satins, lustrous and expensive. The reader's imagination, agreeably battered by such bales of recurrent beauty, wavered in a dizzy satisfaction. To the poorer and to the low and mezzo brows of the 'seventies came this coarser form of what Wilde's exquisite ministrations to the pleasure of the eye at second hand gave •to the high-brows of a decade later : whose minds were similarly, agreeably, bombarded with jewels—' I have topazes yellow as are the eyes of tigers, and topazes that are pink as the eyes of a wood pigeon, and green topazes that are as the eyes of cats. . . . I have chrysolites and beryls and chrysoprases and rubies. I have sardonyx and hyacinth stones, and stones of chalcedony they gasped with delightful incapacity to grasp these pouring pleasures. The third joy of the catalogue is based on the ecstasy of the incongruous, the mixture of adjectives, the confounding or reducing into one of all the avenues of sense. One reads of sheer ' silk stockings in drab, rose, tan, fawn, sunburn, peach, lovebird, coral, pearl, zinc, camel, lettuce, reseda, nile, Olive, apple, elephant, sax, cream, gold, silver, pongee, nothing, Bergere, moonlight, Sauterne, parchment, Samoa " sheer ' is obviously to prepare the mind for its dizzy, delightful fall into this crash of adjectives : to prepare perception to take heed of flowers, metals, fruit, stones, animals, rivers—all heaped together in one ecstatic profusion. Here the man-in-the-street, or rather the shop, can enjoy the battered bliss of the highbrow who reads Sitwellian verse, the un-understanding dim ecstasy of velvet ribbons, fruits and birds mingled in one decorative unmeaning design. The fourth joy of the catalogue is more coherent, less simply sensual : it is the joy of immortality, or of as near an approach to it as possible ; the power of living a thousand lives at will. Plato's soul, shown and given its choice of divers existences, was not so happy, in that it had to select one to the exclusion of the rest, as the catalogue reader, who may experience all in turn. The comedy of masks made it impossible for the character of, say, the clown to be separated from the clown's clothes : and the actor, in putting them on, escaped his personality, was defended by them from all attacks of the well-known weariness that was himself.. So may the catalogue reader escape into traditional dress, traditional personality. She may become the river girl' (incredible restfulness in having found a label, a label moreover more distinct for being mentioned in the newspapers), ' the river girl ' in an existence of perpetual mild flirtation, clothed eternally in sleeveless washable silk frocks, eating always from a picnic basket, and
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never wearied of waving, with consummate grace, an incredibly short pole ; or the tailor-made woman,' in tweeds, leading an agreeably brusque and jolly' life, striding feudally over Scottish moors, whistling to dogs, shooting perhaps, and returning at evening, wind-blown and sturdily tired, to a very large castle ; or the smart minx,' languid, epigrammatic, perpetually sought after, in a cocktail suit' of thin velvet, inhabitant of a land where it is always just before dinner ; or the efficient but charming daughter of the manor, in tennis clothes ; or the ' vamp,' trailing ' rest gowns ' of mauve and rose and amber, open to show garments of what is invariably described as ' filmy ' chiffon and ' cobwebby ' lace or Milanese silk—the vamp sweetly exhausted, about to be painted by her maid, or (in the evening frocks) the night club habituee, attractively wicked in her simple black clinging dress ; or (this on reaching the jumper section, and seeing numbers of white skirts with Peter Pan and Robespierre and sailor collars and long tie-up ties, or short appealing- hows at the neck) the nice young girl who goes, simple in her piquant beauty, every day to the office—there is no end to the lives that may be lived, the immortality to be acquired. Through the catalogue, as through the novel, the reader has been delivered from the ennui of selfconsciousness to the joy of being conscious of a new character. And catalogues come for nothing, but novelettes must be bought. RENEE HAYNES.
Verses Now in my latest darkest hour All fruitless, inarticulate, Quickly the scurrying days devour Dead dreams, creations uncreate. Her holy face it comes like mist Upon the night, and then is fled : As if her beauty kept a tryst With the enrapt adoring dead. Too sad for wrath, too sweet for hate, Her glance flames tragic on the air. Impersonal, immaculate, Magnificently unaware. My gloomy tapestry of days Is flushed with fever and decay, Be mine the blame, be hers the praise, I will forgive her, though she slay. M.A.B.
%onnet La Nature sert de cadre a ta beaute naissante, Les pommiers en fleur repetent les couleurs De ton corps blanc et rose ; les noires profondeurs De is source cachee, au fond du bois coulante Gardent dans l'ombre verte de leur eau dormante Le doux et sombre regard de tes' yeux r&eurs : Les oiseaux qui y chanteut, pendant les grandes chaleurs Ont les clairs accents joyeux de ta voix riante.
SCHOLASTIC AGENCY. MESSRS.
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Ainsi tout parle de toi, et t'encadre en beaute : La fraicheur du printemps, les roses de l'ete L'or et la brume d'automne et l'hiver dans sa rage Ne forment toute l'annee qu'un fond mysterieux Oil se deroule la trame de tes jours heureux. J'aime la Nature comme etant ton image. PH. HARTNOLL.
1Rews in :Grief from the Ir(rloments Colleges ST. HILDA'S COLLEGE. St. Hilda's History Club visited the library of Merton College recently. Professor Zimmern spoke long and eloquently at a Joint Discussion Group of the L.W.N.S. held in St. Hilda's Junior Common Room. St. Hilda's Dramatic Society performed the first act of ' The Importance of Being Earnest' on St. Patrick's Day. Much interest is aroused at St. Hilda's by the new array of fortifications : every day sees an increase in the extent and effectivity of these. ST. HUGH'S COLLEGE. The First Year won the lawn tennis match between the First, Second and Third Years. The winning couple (C. M. Gray and M. C. Owen) won by 6-2, 6-2 v. Second Year, and 5-7, 6-4, 6-4 v. Third Year. A meeting in connection with the U.M.C.A. was held in the Junior Common Room on May 6th, when the Bishop of Nyasaland and Miss Nugee spoke on ' The Need for Trained Women in Central Africa.' The O.U. English Club met in the Junior Common Room on May 18th, and Mrs. Virginia Woolf spoke on ' Poetry and Fiction.' The Junior Common Room is holding a children's party in June, and the First Year are producing their play later in the same month. Miss Fox has been elected President of the Junior Common Room for the year 1927-8. The College Dance will be held on May 21st.
LILIAN ROSE, Day & Evening Gowns. Millinery. Coats. Blouses. Jumpers. Knitwear. Costumes.
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