St Hugh's College, Oxford - The Imp, Jun 1919

THE IMP.

JUNE 1919.

EDITOR. A. G. YOUNGHUGHES.

YEAR REPRESENTATIVES ON COMMITTEE. A. ROBERTSON. F. PRIEST SHAW. N. HORA.

Third Year Representative.

Second Year Representative.

First Year Representative.

TREASURER. Z. LINDO.

THE No. 3.

IM P.

June.

1919.

Contents.

1 Editorial 3 Lullaby of the wind to the Apple Blossom (verse) .4 Fairies' drinking Song, II, TIT. 8 Modernism. — Some aspects.

12 How to be a minor poet.

14 Lines written before Schools (with apologies to A.T.) The Revenge of the Duchess (a penny dreadful inspired by a 16 pic—nic).

19 (verse) Elsfield — black, black against a drowsy sky — (verse) 20 21 (verse).

Fairy Sorrow —

The entries for the- Imp have been fewer this term but in general of a better quality, we regret there was so little prose.

The competitions were more bravely attempted.

For "Lullaby of the wind to the Apple Blossom" three entries were received.

The one chosen showed most originality though in some ways it was less perfect than the others.

For the "Fairy drinking Song" of the three printed the second had put the emphasis on the first element of the title and the third on the second element.

Only the first made any real attempt to combine the two.

The third was decided the most realistic.

The Committee regret that as it is impossible otherwise tc give the "Imp" any financial standing it will have to be typed instead of printed for the next few - terms.

They trust supporters will not desert them on this score and hope to print it again as soon as possibl-.

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Copies in future, can only be supplied to former students on the condition that they pay in advance.

3/1.?t post free.

Subscription for the year — fr — 1/— per term .

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The Editor is willing to answer questions provided they are not asked in too serious a spirit.

The Competitions for next term will be:— (a)Imagine S. Hugh takes a day off from Paradise and visits this College, make up hiS diary for the day. (b)The six whitest elephants of daily life : (only a list required) The Committee regret that it has been necessary to raise the price of the 'Imp' to 1/1.

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3.

Result of Competition.

Lullaby of the Wind to the Apple Blossom.

Sinks now the sun to bis rest oh! my blossom Come to thy sleep then my lovely pile, come.

Lovely has been the faj_r.day my sweet flower, Lovelier still is my far western home.

There where the sun sinks behind the far mountains Clothing the land in a soft mist veiled red There is my home, and from thence I come bringing thee Sweet dreams and peace when the daylight is fled.

Rest thee oh! rest thee my sweet apple blossom, , evening star, Lit to thy rest by the fair Close in my strong arms I'll rest thee so tenderly Peace shall be over thee, ill dreams afar.

And as once from the westernland far I did bring for thee Crimson of sunset to clothe thee so fair, So to that home of mine soon I will carry thee For all thir.,;s are happy and beautiful there.

For my bride tnd my partner I'll choose thee my lovely one, Clad in white garments like glittering sea—foam Edged with the crimson the sunset land sent for thee Choose thee and love thee and carry thee home.

Sleep, sleep oh my flower Lulled by my kisses to rest Tenderly rocked in my E;urong arms so peacef-Illy Who am thy lover, the breeze from the West.

A.K.

4.

Result of Competition.

I. Fairies' Drinking Song.

Bring hither cowslips They shall our goblets be, And blue-bells sweet from the wood Where late last night we strayed And stole soft moths' wings.

1.

Chorus.

Fill the cup and raise it up Quaff it to our king, Let the ground shake with the sound, Let the welkin ring.

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2.

Bring toadstool's also Soft-cushione d settles they, And canopie6 of cobwebs To hang above our feast And keep small flies off.

Chorus.

3.

Fill the cup and raise it up To our queen we'll quaff, Let the song be loud and long, And the merry laugh.

Go catch me fire-flies And slow-creeping glow-worms Press them to be our torches.

Bring the white may petals They shall be platters.

5.

Chorus.

4.

Catch the falling dew; Soft—scented 1- ose petals Squeeze in it for our nectar, Stamens from pink clover Shall be our banquet.

Chorus.

5.

Fill the cup and raise it up Drink the health of all Let all hate be out of date Spite and envy fall.

Fill the cup and raise it up, While dull mortals sleep We joy here to taste such cheer, And on moonbeams leap.

Then kind Night each joyful sprite Prompt to deeds of mirth, For we plan whene t er we can Tricks to play on earth.

E. Hornibrook.

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II. Fairies' Drinking Song.

Willows are quivering, rushes are whispering Sown by the banks of the still, placid pool.

There in the shadow the lilies sleep peacefully, Dewy forget—me—nots rest in the cool.

Come away, river fairies: the moonbeams shine bright, Come hasten, come join in our revel to—night!

Deep hushed lies the garden, the jasmine buds shine Like tiny pale stars on a dark cloudy night.

The roses are dreaming, and 'neath the great cedar All the smooth lawn is sparkling, and misty and white.

Come away garden fairies: come hither and drink Ere the morning sun shyly peeps over the brink.

Away in the woodland a wee breeze is stirring The clear liquid note of a nightingale lone Comes pouring .Ake trickles of silvery water That tumble and splash on an old mossy stone.

Come away woodland fairies: come hither to play!

Ere the sleepy birds chirrup to welcome the day.

M. Savory.

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7. to

Fairies' Drinking. Song.

Solus.

The "Three Jolly Spiders" the place to haunt,

(omnes)

With a clink, clink, clink, (Mustard, you beetle, come fill up my cup

(omnes)

(omnes) omnes)

To the brink, brink, brink) None of your dew—drop tipple for me But — wink, wink, wink, Heady old hemlock up to the brim Till you sink, sink, : sink, Off - with your caps, you y pestiferous

drones, (omnes)

And drink, drink, - DRINK:

A. H. Park.

S.

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Modernism'.— some aspects.

According to precedent it appears to be the correct This thing to undervalue the age in which one lives. iate the present age, it essay does not set out to deprec merely proposes to give a short sketch of some of the motives which underlie that incomprehensible term We are tempted to agree with - Sir - Philip 'modernism'.

Sidney when.we regard. those who lived in former ages — for what he says of Chaucer is true of all great men, l of whom truly I know not whether to mervaile more, either that he in that mistic time could see so clear7.y, or that wee in this cleare age walk so stumblingly after Doubtless they in their time felt as blind as him'. many of us do now, uncertain as to .where we are going or It is only when we shall coma out of the labyrinth. the next age that can 'mervaile' when that generation However, is enjoying what•the present fought far. this treatise does not purport to go into philosophical, psychological or other deep aspects of modern life, we prefer to keep in the shallows and state as clearly as possible as much of life as can be seen from a small backwater.

Just now we are almost overwhelmed with the extraordinary novelty of our surroundings and even more with the rapid manner in which novelty after novelty The war succeeds the old institutions of pre—war days. itself was a novelty and has brought the others in its train but it would take too long and would probably be a mere repetition of what is already known, did we eria.

The greatest change is the fact merate these 'others'. that, League or no League of Nations, the world has be come irretrievably united; the problems social and political which distrust one country are bound to react to the farthest corners of the earth.

Our insularity

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must fast disappear; England is being flooded with continental customs, thoughts and movements, witness The war has upset us and rightly for most Bolshevism.

Hard facts things, but why this age of disillusion? must be faced, we must work, we are for ever convinced of the sin of idleness and the necessity for action, but Whichever way we turn we why this shattering of ideals? see activity, breezy, buoyant, youthful, but how few castle—builders' there are now—a—days!

'Castle—builders sound superfluous yet they are vitally important to the commonwealth; they hold up the impossible, which sc, Some coinconsecrates and raises all human endeavour. fortable philosophers have called this the ago of the young; if the young implies children then they are wrong.

We may have realized the value of children and the joy of young creatures but children in this age soon cease to be children.

They grow up too quickly, they early shake off their 'trailing clouds of glory', their sweet unreasonableness, and become as hopelessly, usefully active as the rest of us.

Children are being 'understood', and diagnosed, and catalogued instead of just left, fairy mysteries, incomprehensible little innocents.

Moreover we have no grown—up children now; possibly this accounts for the fact that there are so few idealists, we are all so worldly--wise, so material, so screwed down to facts.

And certainly this is the reason why we have no great poets; we have versifyers who turn out pretty little pictures, those who blow bubbles in a corner and imagine they are creati;ig worlds of their own, instead of climbing up to the sun on a rainbow which arches the world, whose summit touches infinity.

The great children of the past have done it.

Milton, whose horizon was as illimitable as the archangel Raphael's when — 'Like Naia's son he stood, And sho(:.k his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled The ci -3uit wide.'

Wordsworth, who felt the earth throb in tune to his heart.

S..%,11ey, who stands for Liberty, for Love and Beauty in L,heir highest sense.

10.

The Present has become the arena in which Collectivism and Individualism grapple, their struggle now almost a thing of the past, since Collectivism is victorious.

Modern poetry, generally speaking, is a protest against Collectivism and it will probably live as such.

It is at the moment retrospect, the leavings from the splendour of the early nineteenth century.

Poetry should be in advance of its age, here lies the failure of modern work I A child crying for the light'.

We cannot be altogether surprised that it should be so since the Poetic Muse, being by nature hardy and preferring rough conditions, is not likely to thrive in a forcing house.

To speak plainly, she cannot and must not be severed from life and her presence evoked in an unnatural atmosphere, such for example, as that of incense fumes, or the Musty learning of a library.

To pass from poetry to literature in general. The characteristic note of the age is realism.

This is the most obvious result of OUT disallusionment.

Ws have revolted from poetic ideedism, fronl the hypocritical ideals of the Victorians who skated on the thin ice of life, content to ignore what was uncomfortable and shocking, unable to soar sufficiently high to dralr, up the low from the shadows to the sun.

We are unveiling the unpleasantnesses which the last age kept covered, but we do not always let in the sun. We are so busy studying the nature and quality of the mud at the bottom of our particular puddle that we cannot see the beautiful images reflected in the water, though dirty; neither can we see and appreciate the line of puddles flashing like a chain of scattered diamonds up the lane.

Introspection forms another marked characteristic of modern literature; we try to diagnose human nature and begin it under that pernicious heading, 'know thyself'.

We stir up the mud and look at each particle; we are tired of great philosophy; we want to get away from broad generalisms te

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to crude facts, and, having minced up every emotion, we have nothing left but an exposition of every minut(,, feeling, its why and wherefore, no great philosophy of We are so engrossed in picking to pieces the life. parts of Shelley's 'many coloured dome' that there is no time to contemplate the 'white radiance of Eternity'.

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So far thiS has been a depreciation of the present 'Modernism' is not wholly unsatisfactory.

We age. live in a queer half-formed, callow age;.• hampered by the rags and tatters of past prejudices, trying to discover the meaning of the Childs' heart, the meaning of humanity. harrowing ourselves in the finite, going forward and yet uncertain of the way. - We shall walk straight and untrammelled one day.

In that day, not far cff, there will ba, a new and great individualism, an age of great utopians: dissatisfaction of course, civilization could not go on without it, but mighty hopes, impossibilities becoming possible, the march forward begun in earnest.

Just now there are many voices crying back, millions shouting on; one is apt to grow confused and Science should be fearful of not obeying the right. a real source of inspiration apart from its utility.

It is young and wonderful, it connects the real and the unreal and by showing the real has discovered much that can never be materialized.

Y.

12.

How to be a Minor Poet.

Nowadays, poets are made, not born. advice and be a success.

Follow my

The best pose is to preFirst choose your pose. * The child of nature stunt, tand you haven't one.

If a pose you must have, warbling its woodland notes. you will find yourself largely influenced by your For instance, if of a mat (swarthy?) personal appearance. complexion with blue—black hair, you must model yourself You must be savage and on the pessimistic Russian typo. sunny—tempered, heartless and sentimental, gloomy in the midst of pleasures, yet ready to burst out into an unrestrained ha—ha of mirth on seeing a man knocked down by In short you must abjure good manners.

Ape a train.

Bolshevism and bushy eye—brows. Disregard poetic form and use the strongest and most violent language you can Pile on the horrors, your books lay hands on.

They will sell like unrationed the "Maniac", the "Pig". butter.

For you who are tall, endowed with honey—coloured locks and an introspective blue eye, for you must be the exotic languid cult.

If stout, cultivate dispepsia.

Leanness is often mistaken for .intellectuality.

Join any society that ends with an —ism.

Lot your conversa tion be spangled with such words as "astral", "thurible".

It will be vulgarity in your case to write more than five lines consecutively. The, triolet, the silhouette, the vignette are your special province. Your works must be published in dull, lotus—pink chamois—binding, with a . tasselled book—marker of silver thread. Choose titles such as — "Etter", "The Blue Moon" — (that little touch of colour you know). Eat asparagus out of season.

13• These are only suggested attitudes'.

Speaking broadly for all types of sprouting poets, your main idea must be to attract attention, in order to impress your I have known one man's poems get ego on the public.

•into a second edition within six years, because he rode up the Strand on a hobby—horse.

If you are a poet (male) of the average kind, you should pay as much attention to your clothes as to make people think you pay none.

A pair of corduroy trousers, puttees, velveteen smoking jacket, neckerchief of purple and green for an evening reception require some - planning and wearing.

Likewise the poet (female), should adopt some distinctiVe and waistless garb, preferably a mediaeval or futurist type.

The material must be either rich or diaphanous.

Flanelette won't do.

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Get your portrait into the magazines. Pay heavily if needs be, and compensate for ensuinfiL decrease in circulation.

If you are the "Bard of the Orkneys", haul Lafayette or Gillman and Saunders up to your little abode. Stand up boldly on a crag near a twisted pine) against the setting suni the light of another world in your eyes, your face in the wind. - Only don't for goodness sake have the breeze behind you.

You will naturally have long hair, and you would look like an advertisement for "Tatcho".

If you are a woman — poetess es demode — have a tapestry background, and let the camera find you looking down into the stamened depths of an arum lily.

Ostensibly you are revolving the symbolism of the flower.

In reality you are classifying it as an epic or perigynous.

Don't be frightened of expressing your opinions in the cold columns of the press.

Hit out from the shoulder when you write "Why I eat porridge".

Neither shrink from labelling yourself as the poet who has written five million words in five million books in five million minutes.

14.

The actual poetry doesn't matter much. Blather away on a wet umbrella, or "My feelings on opening Only don't think — merely repron tin of salmon".

If Be individualistic. duce your impressions. you consider a railway station surpasses the gardens of Adonis, say so.

et

Remember then, pose advertise, — be brave.

A. H. Park.

Lines written shortly before Schools.

(With apologies to A.T.)

It little profits that a student young, In this quiet room, set in this beauteous town, Matched with some eighty such, should strive and toil At barren themes, their interest long since past, 7:hich live but in the minds of antique dons, read and think and sleep and know her not.

I cannot rest from labour, I must read From morn to dewy eve of things long past.

Much have I read and learnt, Shakespeare and Keats, Chaucer and Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, Lamb , I have become a part of each, but now They swirl, confused, in my tormented brain.

Much have I suffered striving to excel; Schools closes all, but• something e'er the end, Some freak of dying youth may yet be done Not unbecoming these whose task it was To wrestle with the digraph and the Pearl, Beowulf and Havelok, and with endless Orm. The short term ends, the fatal week is near, Friends moan of work untouched. Come hither, friends,

AA.

15.

And seek with me the gloomy fated place Set Lop and sitting at historic desks Write on, no matter what, but only write Until the stout brain reels and fingers fail It may be that the t gulpht will wash us down, It may be that the 'Third' will raise us up.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now the carefree set we were Three happy years ago, when Smalls alone Stood between us and peace, and now we are

Made weak with thoughts of p]oughs, but strong ln hope To write, to guess, imagine, to conceal Our h;lpeless ignorance, until that day These fatal lists shal] plunge us into gloom.

W. M. P.

June 1918.

16.

The Revenge of the Duchess.

(A Penny dreadful inspired by a Picnic).

"I cannot bear it!" groaned the cook. her!

"The Duchess must. know at once - yet how can I tell She turned and entered her boudoir.

The room curtains hung glowed in the bound copy of

was spacious and opulent: heavy damask from the windows; a mans of red coals grate: on the table lay an exquisitely Ima Marvell's "Compleat Cooke".

The woman stood in the centre of the room, her body tense with emotion, her hands clasping and unclasping themselves convulsively.

"The hour has come!" burst from her pallid lips.

"The tide of time sweeps on - towards disaster perhaps!"

She turned impulsively to a tiny door half concealed by priceless tapestry and staggered out.

Her steps led her to a small sparsely furnished room where the duchess sat in her shirt-sleeves knitting her brows and a pair of socks.

The cook hovered on the threshold then swept swiftly in.

"Madam", she breathed, "you are harbouring a viper in your bosom!

My daughter and yourson".

"What of them?"

"Have gone - how can I say it? — for a picnic together!

They have stolen the pie that was to have graced to-night's menu.

The larder is open: the pie

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is no longer with us: but two clues remain to show us the culprits — a feather, once in my daughter's hat, and your son's collar stud".

The Duchess seized the poker, then suppressed her emotion and telephoned to the police. This done, she put down the receiver and smiled — "The flies are near the wet" she said, "soon they will be buzzing merrily....

Night's shadowy mantle is dropping on a pine good, where the cold pitiless moonbeams strike an unearthly note in the wierd, solitude.

"Melliphia", breathed Tony, "may r give you some more pie?" el,

"Yes Her teeth gleamed in an answering smile. please", she said lightly, "the moonlight -- Oh, what was that?!1" Her quick ear had caught the sound of snapping twigs.

The next instant there stood before them, — her eyes gleaming balefully fron behind her goggles — the angry figure of the duchess.

The cook's willowy form appe9red behind her, followed by a detective!

"Proof conclusi7ei" cried the duchess — but she said no more, for, quick as lightening, Melliphia hurled herself at the duchess, overturning the cook by accident: while Tony looked around for a weapon.

18.

A piece of pie crust hurtled thro' the air: there was a dull, sickening thud and the detective lay prone on the tablecloth, drop by drop a thin red streammingled with the lemonade: The guilty pair fled like hares.

Towards the level crossing thundered the night express.

"Quick"-, cried Tony, "the mail bag. A Herculean A second effort - they pay panting among the letters. later the duchess dashed on the scene and hurled herself on the hindmost buffers.

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The great express slowed down at Paddington, two hectic figures jumped from the mail bag and disappeared from view.

Quick as thought the duc.hess followed.

Through street after street they sped, their breath coming in gasping sobs.

"I can go no further", panted Melliphia, "we must hide".

They had reached a corner where an old deaf postman was clearing a pillar box.

"Quick", cried Tony, "I'm here". dashed in and slammed the door.

Together they

Gurgling like a walrus the duchess now appeared and had passed the post box but for one more unlucky clue - a piece of pie crust fluttering slowly to the ground.

"They are here", she cried, and prepared to dive through the slot. The old postman now looked round thinking something was amiss.

"Where's your stamp mum? he mumbled and sought to detain her, but she thrust him aside.

"No matter", she said. "I can pay at the other end", and vanished from sight!

M.S.N.H. K.N.

W.G. K.D.

Elsfield.

The white road mounted; but we turned aside Into a field, hedged round with straggling thorn trees.

The leaves were radiant with the green glow of spring, The grass was shadowy green Moon-coloured cowslips sprang up, slender and graceful.

Pink cuckoo-flower and smouldering purple orchis Studded the grass.

Under the hedgerow The crab-apple showered delicate tinted petals A few late birds twittered in tremulous sweetness; The shadows came creeping on; The peace of the evening closed round us.

Green was turning to grey. Hazily on the horizon Glimmered the hills.

Smoke-coloured mist was rising It veiled the distant spire, but the pale crosses Showed where the dead lay sleeping.

We were alive, and our quick restlessness Made us ashamed in the presence of resting Nature But they were one with the mist; The shadowy grass was their raiment, The last sweet songs of the birds Ran through their dreams like bright water.

As the quiet haze stole above them,

With a sigh of happy.contentment They nestled into her bosom And slept in the arms of Nature So we were silent.

The loving arms closed round u,s But life was OUT portion, riot rest; So, knowing our turn must come, We smiled,, and went away.

E. E. S.

Black; black against a drowsy sky, Tall trees drooping.

White, white all round and whits A full moon stooping.

Sweet, sweetetstatic and divine A lone bud calling.

Soft, soft all pale and soft Roses falling.

A. Park.

21.

Fairy Sorrow.

Somewhere down in the garden After the sun has set Someone goes crying, crying There you'll find lying, lying Tears on the roses wet.

Then in the shadowy night time When Silver the moon rides high Someone goes waking, waking With a heart that is breaking, breaking Under the spangled sky.

You'll find .the tears on the roses After the night is done.

When you are sleeping, sleeping A fairy goes weeping, weeping In the garden all alone.

A. G. Younghughes.

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