St Hugh's College, Oxford - The Imp, Jun 1931

COMMITTEE.

Editor—M. SHELLEY.

Treasurer—B.

HENDERSON.

Third Year Representative—H. Second Year Representative—V.

M. FORTH.

A. BASILEWITCH.

First Year Representative—T. LAPRAJK.

THE IMP JUNE, 1931

Editorial

T

HE seventh week of term is ageing to a new editor. Confronted with mulish impassivity, well may she ask what the hundred and forty-two non-contributors do when not working. The answer is NOTHING. Passive in punts, they lapse down the Cherwell. The willows resting lightly as clouds on the level water, the buttercups glinting through a grey-green blur, the sky remotely sweetly blue—all conspire to induce the perfect DAZE. Bemused and mindless, our non-contributors glide on their impotent way—intermittently conscious of cows that crop the grass with a luscious tearing sound at their ear-level.

All this, however, is no reflection on the pre-occupied Third Year, some members of which — old and valued contributors and committeemembers of the Imp—responded nobly to appeal in spite of an excellent excuse. May they write alphas on every paper ! And may the non-contributors taking Schools write alphas also ! The Imp offers its good wishes to all and feels deeply the impending loss to the College.

As there was only one entry for the story of adventure, the competitions have been shuffled. One prize goes to Miss Myfanwy Evans for a metaphysical conceit in the true seventeenth century manner, one to Miss Belle Henderson for a nonsense ballad perfectly nonsensical. Miss Green, however, ran her very close ; while conceits more Elizabethan than metaphysical adorn these pages and reflect credit on their talented compositors.

Miss Henderson's inimitable story of adventure stands alone.

The Prize-winning Conceit A CONCEIT. My love, when her life's- small current beat On the harsh metal of an unyielding world, Whirled in the swift charge of the common stream An uncompleted entity : The metal melted at her little charge, And, not reluctant, yielded up its all— She straight repelled, came pelting back, A positive, exultant particle.

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THE IMP I, negative and unresolved, A unit filled with nought but aimlessness, Since, not so kind, my contact with the world Had robbed me of explicitness, Felt her strong pull.

And she my urgent need Sensed trembling on the live wire of her soul— Then hurtled we to meet, and meeting joined in one Two opposites of electricity.

M. M. EVANS.

The Prize-winning Ballad NONSENSE BALLAD. Why is the moon so late to-night, Aunt Eliza?

Green she goes like a ghoul's night-light, Sacred aunt of mine !

Hush ! The road is a yard of tape Rolled along the dark ; I hear voices in every hush Whispering, hark !

I hear footsteps on the road, Yet it is bare ; Someone is walking by me, yet There is no one there.

O say ! is this thy hand I hold, Aunt Eliza?

It was never so damp and cold, Sacred aunt of mine !

O what is this that walks by me In the dim moonshine?

O save me now ! 0 where art thou, Sacred aunt of mine?

B. HENDERSON.

Ballad I.

Two-and-twenty tailors a-sitting on a seat (Heigh-ho, the world is growing old), Beer was all around them but not a bite to eat (The apple-trees, the singing and the gold).

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Two-and-twenty tailors singing soulfully (Heigh-ho, the marching of the mole), And the youngest of all was passing fair to see (The beeswax, the button and the hole).

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One made a godet, another made a gore (Heigh-ho, the singing of the thrush), But the youngest did nothing but sit upon the floor (The dust-pan, the besom and the brush).

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Along came a beadle to buy a buttered-bean (Heigh-ho, the running of the deer), Along came a lout to buy, a button for a queen (The cerecloth, the coffin and the bier).

Along came a lady upon a kangaroo (Heigh-ho, the ringing of the bells), Laughed upon the youngest, and bade him bind her shoe And turned him to a shoe-horn with her spells.

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Along came a leper, along came a loon (Heigh-ho, the falling of the dew), So the two-and-twenty tailors beguiled the afternoon, Until there was nothing left to do.

BRENDA GREEN.

A Metaphysical Conceit Angelo to Isabella (` Measure for Measure ').

Thou drawest me by the valiant maidenhood Which lures the very thing it most would dread.

That's when thyself art by.

But thou being gone, The cold remembrance of thy chastity Daunts what it first led on.

Desire and fear so struggle in my soul I cannot even view, thy image whole, And thinking thus I cast around and spied The young moon and the lunatic dark tide.

There, ever after her, since time began A blind white virgin draws a lusting man ; And when she sets, her unseen purity Drags back again the fierce-advancing sea.

Yet have I seen Shine from the flood serene The recollection of her majesty . . .

So thought I, ' Only when I am in peace, And my desire and awe their conflict cease, All I can hope from thee I then shall find— Thy dear reflection mirrored in my mind.

JOAN LAPRAIK.

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A Conceit Her eyebrows are two little captive birds, Soft-feathered, and with brown stretching wings, That love their sweet abodes, her eyes, yet long To reach the shadowy softness of her hair.

B. HENDERSON.

A Conceit Why like the thunder's awful voice Do I in heavenly fields despair, And you, my mistress, wantonly rejoice And as the lightning shake your darting hair?

Why sullen, do I anger-bowed Let you with silver shaken grace Run swift the sky from cloud to cloud Fling scorn across my darkening face?

And with your paramour the wind All naked in a cloudy bed, You hear me moan that you have sinned Yet flash with mirth your shining head.

For soon the Lord of earth and sky, The giant sun will find you there, Strike, and laughing watch you die Close shrouded in your blue forked hair.

And I with anger turned to calm The Virgin Rainbow's sweets will woo, And soothe my wounds in coloured balm And think no longer, dame, on you.

P. B.

Conceit Candle ! across the owl-light of the world, Sole-beaconing, Slitting the inclement gloom, star-severing The wastes of air— Might's wings unfurled Bat-like to beat you down, [are sown.

Harrowing the barren ploughlands of the sky, where the cold stars Flame-like, your soul, unguttering to the wind, Illumining The galleries of life, persists, right-intervening To drift the oriel windows of the mind With the irrelevance of dusk and blind The dreaming eyes, that only wake to find The effluence of your taper undeclining, BRENDA GREEN.

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OFTEN AT DUSK COLD SHAPES FLIT O'ER THE MOOR

(Extract from a Novel).

The Chief and Mr. Cheesman A STORY OF

ADVENTURE.

Mr. Benjamin Cheesman, a poor but honest dealer in White Slaves, had occasion to visit Buenos Aires on business. Unfortunately the vessel in which he was travelling was wrecked, and Mr. Cheesman was the sole survivor. He had clung to a spar, with the desperation of the drowning, for the space of three days and nights ; and at last, when almost at the end of his endurance, and having been insensible for several hours, he was cast up on a strip of yellow sand, beyond which, when he recovered consciousness, he could distinguish a line of apparently impenetrable jungle.

Firmly settling upon his head his bowler hat, which, being tightlyfitting, had fortunately remained in position during his struggle with the waves, Mr. Cheesman crossed the yielding sand and halted at the edge of the jungle, uncertain how to proceed. Almost immediately he discerned an opening in the tangled wall before him, and on approaching discovered it to be a narrow and winding path disappearing into the bowels of the jungle.

Having paused a brief space to commend his soul to its Maker, Mr. Chees-

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man left the blue sea and the yellow sand and plunged into the fetid gloom of the little path.

Mr. Cheesman had travelled what he computed to be about five miles, but which was really only one, when he was overcome by fatigue and hunger ; so he sank down by the side of the path and relapsed into bitter brooding over his misfortunes, which had lately been increased by the painful bites of several venomous insects.

He was roused from this moody reverie by a sudden clamour of voices upraised in eldritch shrieks and blood-curdling howls. Looking up to ascertain the cause of this interruption, Mr. Cheesman beheld a large number of men, all of ebony blackness except for streaks of luminous paint, which rendered their aspect even more awe-inspiring than it would normally have been, who were advancing towards him round a bend in the path, and brandishing spears polished to the highest degree of brightness, which caught and reflected, with a peculiarly eerie effect, the faint green light of the jungle. These untaught savages, observing no ceremony whatever, rudely seized Mr. Cheesman, rendered him unconscious by a blow from the butt-end of a spear, bound him with the utmost rigour, and proceeded on their way, trailing the unfortunate man behind them by the legs.

When Mr. Cheesman regained his senses, he found himself tied to a stake in the centre of a circle of mud huts, one of which, rather larger and muddier than the rest, was profusely decorated with human skulls. Outside it, on a brass bedstead, sat a personage who appeared to occupy a position of authority, and who was surrounded by an obsequious group. He was attired simply in a leapard-skin and Mr. Cheesman's bowler hat.

When the assembled savages perceived that .Mr. Cheesman was somewhat revived, they immediately set up a hideous clamour, and several even went so far as to execute a few steps of a war-dance. However, by the time-honoured expedient of bawling more loudly than the rest, their ruler at last succeeded in imposing silence. He then rose and approached Mr. Cheesman.

Benjamin Cheesman,' he said in English, which, though faultless, was yet marred by a slight suspicion of an Oxford accent, I have long wished to have my revenge on you. Years ago, when we were boys together at Balliol, you black-balled me from the Union. I longed to shine in that bright galaxy, and the iron entered deeply into my soul. You are now in my power. Make your peace with your Creator, for your end is at hand.'

Overcome by the bitterness of the remembered slight, the chief made a sign to his attendants and retired to his bedstead. Mr. Cheesman, dazed and stricken too late with remorse, was unbound and carried to the royal kitchen. Here willing hands shaved and trussed him, and as he lay entombed in the great cooking-pot, slowly coming to the boil, the chief magnanimously diverted him by delivering speeches with which he had once dreamed of dazzling the assembled intelligentsia at the Union. When, later, all that was mortal of Mr. Cheesman had found, its way into the black maws of the savages, his skull was carefully polished and enshrined in the place of honour above the doorway of the chief's hut.

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Schools Week-end Lobelia lay in a hollow of the downs. It was warm, but a light breeze rustled through the grass, doves cooed, bees circled humming round her head. The sky was densely populated with larks, singing and soaring in the usual manner. Now, if ever, .was the time to feel poetic. Lobelia gazed up into the clouds, lazily, rapturously. Hail to thee, blithe spirit,' she murmured sotto voce, so as not to disturb Veronica, who was lying, apparently asleep, beside her. ' Hail to thee, blithe spirit.

Bird thou never wert.'

But why not? Why ever not? Surely in this world of doubt it was tolerably certain that a lark was at least sometimes a bird? And that Gladstone was sometimes immoral ? Lobelia could not remember a case ; but

then, on the other hand, she could not remember a case when he was moral either. It made her tremble to feel so ignorant just now, when all her knowledge ought to be consolidating itself and welling up in neat patterns from her subconscious mind. She abandoned poetry and took out a small notebook, heading the clean page hopefully :Things I know. History. i. George III's mother was brought up in a Petty German Court, so she said George to be a king; so he tried, but it didn't work, so he went mad.

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Peel had a smile like a brass plate on a coffin.

Lobelia thought long, with little success. There were other things, of course, but not so clear, not so definitely crystalised ; nothing one could exactly put down on paper. She turned over the page and made a new start :— Economics. Things I know.

Surely there ought to be quite a lot. But it was no good, nothing came . . . impossible to concentrate . . . anyway, economics didn't need knowledge . . . just intelligence . . . so did philosophy . . . so did . . . everything else. Besides, a butterfly had settled on her paper, a pretty butterfly covered with a tidy pattern in brown and gold. It would not do to disturb. it.

Veronica was talking about Love now. Lobelia listened scornfully, intermittently. Love was all very well if it made people marry and have 3.1 children, which was necessary to keep the population at its present level ; otherwise . . . ah ! a thought. She shook away the butterfly and scribbled under the last heading :There is something called the Optimism Density of Population. i.

It depends upon various factors which are all unknown; therefore it is impossible to tell at any given time whether the population of a country is too large, too small or just right. (N.B.—Experience tells us that it is always too Dense.)

That was something. Lobelia turned her attention once more to Larks and Love. ' Veronica, can Love move you to action?'

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Of course.' ' Then it must be either Duty or Desire. Which ? ' Shut up. Love's incompatible with philosophy.'

All right. But not with economics.'

Veronica shut her eyes decisively.

Lobelia gazed out over the mustard fields into the blue distance. No use looking for knowledge in Schools Week-End. The wind over the downs made the grass ripple and shine like waves on a lake ; bees hummed ,• larks soared ; large spiders emerged from the ground and hurried over her notebook. Lobelia noticed none of these things ; her mind was a blank. She picked up Alice through the Looking Glass, sorry she had wasted so much All innasy were the borogoves . .' Yes, time thinking of other things. one must be a borogove to appreciate Schools Week-End. No use trying to gyre and gimble in the wabe.

B.J.S.

The Eve of Schools Or DISSOLUTION OF AN INTELLECTUAL

WITH A MORAL. When one looks at the books one has read, while one dotes on the notes one has taken, still one fears that the years which have fled, but conceal a past zeal all mistaken.

For it seems that the dreams one has cherished unexpounded, unfounded, have perished.

Who could hope now to cope with the knowledge inspired and acquired through their College career, in a mere long week-end of exam, when, bedamn !

THE IMP one must spend quite a fat junk of that In most profitless ways?

In finding one's seat, and in winding one's feet round the chair— In biting one's pen before writing, and then in curling one's hair— In deciding to do for a start question 2 ; then when it transpires that the answer requires \a fact or a date, in beginning too late the selection anew— In keeping one eye on the clock lest the sly thing should leap— and in deep anxious thought what one ought (while there's time) to design in blue ink on the pink desert of blotting paper.

When one muses and refuses to be blind, then at last one must cast hope behind, for the clever oh ! never can find out a way of displaying their mind.

None but fools enter Schools in their pride, glad at length for their strength to be tried-

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THE IMP None but knaves say wit saves them from harm—

If one's wise B. J.S.

one relies on a charm.

Mixed Metaphor Pools in the rock of the world's agonies; Unending nenuphars.

Lake-tranquil ; stars ; these are your eyes.

There are -no other. stars.

Snake in the grasses of my heart's eclipse ; Unslaked, satanic throat ; Mandragora ; these are your lips, BRENDA GREEN. There is no antidote.

Lines 'Twas in this village many years ago That little Ernest lived and died ; he was A melancholy lad, and oft would go And wander by himself midst woods and hills, And listen to the babbling of the streams, The muted echoes in the windy pines And other natural phenomena.;, And sometimes to his spirit there would steal A peace, a strange delight, as if the rocks And trees and hills had passed into his being.

In consequence of this he soon became A highly moral lad, and oft would gaze With pitying eye upon his youthful friends What time they sported on the village green With jocund shout, or blithely went their ways Regardless of those lessons grave and wise That Nature teaches to her worshippers.

Fate did not suffer Ernest to pursue His taste for solitary wanderings Beyond the age of twelve ; one autumn day He scaled a frowning crag with nimble step And gained the hoary summit ; there he sat And meditated long ; and then he rose And walked, still meditating, o'er the edge Of a steep precipice, and was promptly dashed To pieces on the rocks below.

His friends Conveyed the fragments homeward on a bier.

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His funeral was simple ; now he lies Within the little churchyard, and his name, Long since forgotten, save by one old man, An aged man, whom once I met when I Was on a walking tour, and he it was B. HENDERSON. Who told me of Ernest's simple history.

Lines Written on Seeing the Operas of Gilbert and Sullivan Ponder awhile, 0 Reader, and then say How transient are the dramas of the day !

His little piece each little scribbler writes ; It runs, perhaps, for six or seven nights, Then into Limbo it returns again, Sad fate of nearly all the works of men.

Yet some there are whose names shall ever live While Wit can charm, or Music pleasure give ; The varied works of Gilbert's nimble brain, Wedded to Sullivan's harmonious strain, Can charm the senses dull'd by gnawing Care, And rouse the heart long deaden'd by Despair.

When Pooh-Bah's pride or Yum-Yura.'s love we hear, Or over Point's sweet sorrows shed a tear, Immortal twain ! Your memory we praise.

And Life's enrich'd by those melodious lays.

B. HENDERSON.

The Bead Screen At the first swinging of the beaded screen Your hand tilecrystal bugle slowly parts ; Beyond the swaying door Lies chalked in dust the hot hill road to France.

And, like an Amber shadow thrown By some tall cyprus on the path, you go.

Swing to the beads again : Gold tubed glass fantastically turned To chink with brittle tinkle On cut chrysophrase, or jade In china delicately aped.

Long bright-strung lines they hush To silence. And the flies here in the darkened cafe Sing on plates of sweet, warm apricots.

A hidden mandoline Makes whine Some flower'd stornelli, sung by peasantry.

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Burst through the dangling door Yet you'll not come Like some old woman, Shaking, frail, The beads with china whisper.

Close behind, idiotically swaying To and fro, shut out the cafe's cool.

Outside, The sky and road dissected flash Bead-slotted ribbons blue and white ; The dust-laid path is empty, and the sun Beats quiv'ring on the foot-worn hill to France.

P.B.

Some Family Crests (From a recently discovered Bodleian MSS.)

BUCKLER. Gules, a brick cadent on a shield d'argent.

Motto : Patatras.'

COCKBURN. A canoe, on a chief wavy.

JOSEPHY. A bar cheeky sable d'or, on a shield gules, bearing two chalices argent.

Motto : Ich dien.'

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Here we are always much afraid Of seeming either stiff or staid, Too insufficiently heretic Or unprotestingly aesthetic.

So on the river Man disports Garbed in abbreviated shorts, The upper portion of his person Prepared for unforeseen immersion.

Let woman not in scorn disdain To join the glad and child-like train With sandal and the wrinkled sock, Schoolgirl complexion, simple smock.

The much-curled hair with bow upon it, The pinafore and chaste sunbonnet And other things such as belong To days when we were very young, When life was blithe and joyous, and free from strain and stress And we heeded not the rigours of Academic dress.

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Epigram on Four Ladies (ON LATELY SEEING THEM AT A BANQUET).

BY MR. E—.

Who shall assign, where all alike are fair n or M—r ?

Superior charms to H t's face, where Natural every part?

Or T y, lovely with the aid of Art. Or B The poet, wiser than the Grecian youth Not long debates, or struggles for the truth.

With rapid knife he parts the golden Ball, And shares the longed-for Apple 'mid them all.

Epitaph Here we bury all we knew Cruel in her, and untrue Here her treachery and pride Rests her frailty beside All of her that was least fair Lies forever buried there.

But for us who saw her face, Still its proud and changing grace Liveth on, and may not die In enchanted memory.

The Jod Come, let us to the Bod. And hunt the jod !

It is a creature rare and shy ; You do not see it passing by, Like other vowel or consonant, Like velar, plosive or spirant, It's a deceiver sly.

In the beginning, it's not spelt As you, as we would all have felt It ought to be ; for why ?

Instead it masquerades as i Or j, or even double 1, Which you will all agree is—wellNot squarely to have dealt.

To catch a jod, you poise your tongue Like this, just psychologically hung In intermediary position.

(This is a learned disquisition That's not intended for the lay), Can any not initiated say A jod ?

THE IMP Of all the lairs where it may rest The jod loves the hiatus best, A quiet hiatus, where it lays With e's or u's or o's or a's, Where it can just be palatal And have no business at all Nor any to molest.

The jod makes quite an ordinary word Play tricks consummately absurd And most unnecessary ; so, Although it comes in ' ratio,' Scientia,' sapientia '—yet I do not love the jod ; do not forget My friends, said she with knowing nod, Stultitia ' doth also sport a jod.

One day when I get on its trail I'll fiercely seize it by the tail, Saying, Avaunt thee, wretched jod ! ' And hide thy head within the Bod. ; Be lowly and be circumspect ; Do not contaminate, infect, Or dipthongise that unsuspecting vowel, Forsake thy cunning low and foul, Remember that in every word Jods should be seen, not heard.

M. G.

SUMMER DELIGHTS, 1931,

E.T.

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The First Year Play This successful entertainment was nicely calculated to tickle the more recondite sense of humour and at the same time to rouse the risible appreciation of the least-informed among the audience. The First Year English School have evidently wantoned with the choicer specimens of Elizabethan and Jacobean drama in the spirit of comprehensive enjoyment commonly attributed to the period. One cannot but think, with all the breathless speculation of Columbus or stout Cortez, of the sappy tutorials which must have preluded this ' Extravaganza,' at which our authors were, presumably, sitting with willing ears.

The construction of the play was its chief excellence. The revengemotif and the criminal relationship jostled together anachronistically but pleasantly enough ; the stage was finally filled with blood and thunder after the Senecan manner of Kyd. The soliloquy appeared in all its glory, overheard and interrupted by quasi sotto voce comments in the correct style. The lyrical episode before the grand climax was unmistakeably lyrical, and was followed by what was equally unmistakeably an overwhelming catastrophe. The Elizabethan Fool was managed by author and actor alike with creditable agility.

Verbally also the play smacked of the true salt. References to maws, bantlings and wenches appeared and reappeared, and were but the least picturesque expressions of the authors' well-nourished vocabulary, which was particularly strong in the expletive line. And the movement of the blank verse, excellently parodied, was a constant source of delight.

The general standard of acting promises well for next year's College Play. Practically every part was played with the intelligence and vigour characteristic of the whole achievement.

M. Ogilvy parodied her part with sustained intensity ; M. Philips' questioning and weary sadness became both her proper and her improper part ; M. MacDonald's voice has histrionic potentialities ; E. Temple combined ' foul honesty ' with instinctive charm ; and Marlowe's Machiavel underwent a successful transmigration into the sinister person of S. Goodfellow.

The three authors of this spicy unspoiled broth, M. Evans, J. Lapraik and S. Bird, together with the cast are (and were) warmly congratulated on providing an interesting and hilarious evening's entertainment. Non nos immemores.

H. M. F.

Mr. Philip Guedalla at the Charles Fox Society When the company has dispersed into the June twilight and the last candle of that glittering pyramid in the Clarendon is out, members of the delighted audience are free to consider what exactly was the undoubted fascination of a discourse which they had heard before. For Mr. Guedalla's speech on ' The Limits of Biography' was taken partly from his Union speech of last November, partly from his essay on Some Historians,' and the rest from the introduction to Gladstone and Palmerston.' The answer is, presumably, that at the Charles Fox Society the fragments were col-

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lected, expanded and set forth with Mr. Guedalla's own peculiar skill and wit. It was delightful to see him unmasking the methods of his fellowpractitioners while professing to say nothing about them. It was equally pleasant to hear several really new jokes, including a good one about historical plays. Let it be added that Mr. Guedalla has the supreme merit of never laughing at his own jokes.

In the intervals of splitting our sides while Mr. Guedalla gazed indifferently at the ceiling, we learnt a great deal as to how to set about writing the biographies expected of us. The true biographer, it seems, is a historian after the school of Velasquez, who tells us everything about the sitter and nothing about the painter. (Can we say as much of Philip Guedalla?) He is careful to remember that his subject is a man whose character changed and developed, and that it is false psychology to see the Grand Old Man of '82 in the Gladstone of '48. Motives must not be lightly attributed or thoughts guessed : if intuition is to be used, let it be the intuition of Mr. Justice Avory.

Mr. Guedalla answered a number of questions, refused to be disconcerted when someone made use of the word ' objective,' and treated with forbearance a gentleman who arose with the pretence of seeking information but with the real purpose of relating a story which he erroneously imagined to be funny. Talking of stories, paragraphs must not begin with ' An excellent story is told of the Bishop of Winchester . . .' Certainly no one knows better than Mr. Guedalla how to tell a story in passing or to suggest an epoch in a phrase. (This, one feels, is the place for the inevitable reference to long columns winding up a dusty road in Spain.)

In the next room, Mr. Winston Churchill was rousing the Chatham and Canning Clubs to all too audible fervour. However, our Chairman was perfectly right when he said how much happier were we on our side of the rather inadequate door. It is good to hear Mr. Churchill, but it is certainly better to hear Mr. Guedalla being a trifle unkind about him.

M. S. C.

Tennis College matches this term have been practically non-existent, partly owing to the weather—the less said about which the better—but at times owing to the impossibility of collecting teams. This certainly cannot be attributed to lack of players in the first year, since J. Burton, M. Lewis, M. Phillips and S. Goodfellow in particular have played regularly throughout the term, whilst seven out of the twelve players in Cuppers are from the first year.

Mention of Cuppers recalls a more cheerful aspect of the season, despite the fact that the final round was brought to a conclusion only after four attempts. The First VI was exceptionally strong this year, including three United players among its members, and it beat Somerville and, in the final, St. Hilda's with a total loss of only two matches. One disappointment there was, however—the cup, received from Somerville, was declared unfit for use.

The Second VI also have reached the final round without difficulty, and by the time this is in print will have encountered L.M.H., we hope successfully.

THE IMP I should like to thank J. Burton for her assistance as Secretary and to congratulate her on her Blue and on her play in the Cambridge match.

Teams :— FIRST VI : M. Buick, I. Josephy ; J. Burton, M. Lewis ; M. Beattie, M. Phillips.

SECOND VI : M. Hardie, H. Faure ; S. Goodfellow, I. Spurgeon ; M. Robertson, J. Lippold.

I.A.J. Miss Josephy has been elected United Tennis Captain for the year 1931-32. The Imp congratulates her and Miss Buick on winning the InterCollege Doubles Tournament.

Swimming The results of the O.U.W.S.C. matches this term have been like the episcopal egg—three successes (against Malvern Girls' College, Bedford College, London, and the Oxford Ladies) and four defeats (against Cheltenham Ladies' College, U.L.A.U., the Mermaids, and against Cambridge at the Bath Club). Miss Evans, Miss Lewis, Miss Sparks and Miss Jones have represented College in the United team, and the first three of these were awarded their Blues against Cambridge. Miss Evans has made an excellent Vice-President, and her swimming and diving have been the team's great asset. Miss Irwin has shown an unlimited capacity for hard work as Secretary. D.J.

LAUGHTER.

E.T.

CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. i.—That the Magazine shall be called '

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the officers of the Magazine shall be an Editor and a Treasurer, elected by the J.C.R., and an elected representative from each year.

2.—That

3.—Contributions shall be accepted or refused by the decision of the majority of the Committee, the Editor reserving the right of the casting vote.

4.—The Committee shall not be held responsible for any opinions expressed in the Magazine.

5.—Nothing of intrinsic merit shall be excluded on account of views expressed therein. b.—The anonymous character of contributions shall be respected when required.

7.—Contributions are eligible from the Senior and Junior Common Rooms, past and present.

8.—The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the Col. lege.