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COMMITTEE Editor: LUCILLE PARKS. Co-Editor and Treasurer: JOAN YEAXLEE. Third Year Representative: R. E. TAYLOR. Second Year Representative: M. DARWEL L.
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. I.—That the Magazine be called ' THE CYGNET.'
2.—That the officers of the Magazine shall be an Editor and a Treasurer, elected by the J.C.R., and an elected representative from each year. 3.—Contributions shall be accepted or refused by the decision of the majority of the Committee, the Editor reserving the right of the casting vote. 4.—The Committee shall not be held responsible for any opinions expressed in the Magazine. 5.—Nothing of intrinsic merit shall be excluded on account of views expressed therein. 6.—The anonymous character of contributions shall be respected when required. 7.—Contributions are eligible from the Senior and Junior Common Rooms, past and present. 8.—The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the College.
THE CYGNET MARCH, 1937 EDITORIAL HAVE long been a-weary of the world ' seems to have become the unvarying song of the Third Year as Final Schools looms larger and larger and casts its fearsome shadow over us. And the wan smiles of those even now undergoing the rack of Honour Mods. is no prop to our failing spirits. But let us be cheerful. If there are those who can only leave the sorrows of the Schools for those of Spain there are yet some among us who can laugh at the people we meet in 'buses, write a stirring ghost story, or even — we are overcome with awe — sing gallantly and incomprehensibly in Gaelic. We have a new President of the J.C.R. At least those who come after us will have a new President. After deep cogitation the editorial chair has come to the epoch-making conclusion that there are two kinds of presidents ; those who are leaders of men (or women) and those who have crawled into their place by merely having succeeded in not offending anyone — being elected mainly on a division, or expressly to keep someone else out. After no cogitation at all we congratulate our worthy Miss Mackintosh as being a member of the former class. For the rest we are silent — it would sound too like self-love to congratulate our own President. The Cygnet, allowed to show its head but twice a year, makes its second appearance no whit abashed. Like a true sportsman it went to the concert given by that very Musical Society responsible for its downfall, and enjoyed it greatly. It has also eaten its bread and cheese lunches with vigour if not with relish and is, perhaps justifiably, in very good conscience. Apropos of bread and cheese, your editor, who is a sensitive soul, agitated in the Suggestions Book for dinner one night a week in silence. The refusal was couched in the entertaining form that St. Hugh's can progress at the rate of only one improvement a term and that bread-and-cheese was enough for this. Well, well ! . . . If our Bursars improved ' us at that rate . . . but I leave the dreadful picture. The nature of an editorial, like that of a preface, is rambling. But even the most loquacious editor must stop somewhere. And even the most loquacious editor with an Old English collections hanging over her head . . . Fair ladies, I bid you adieu. LUCILLE PARKS.
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SALUTE He said that year I did not feel The coming Spring. He knew not what he said. I saw the passing of the dead, The locusts of Truth's army creep Upon the unsuspecting land, The whole world gently spanned, Spread the fierce points of green. He must have known, known to refuse To know. For all must yearly rise That, stricken they may use and prize The gift Prometheus won for man, The gift they dare not lose. So from an embryo slow uncurled, With running warmth till, face unfurled, They stand poised upon the world, They live, necessity a lure. Lift up your hearts and sing ; A breath in the face, that Spring. It was a sudden thing, And I was Sure. J.Y.
CRIME PASSIONEL Silence was very rare in that house. Berthold, sitting with a book on his knee, savoured its tranquility and coolness. To him its luxury was greater than precious perfume, more desirable than anything but the music he loved. The silence was an entity it itself, whole and absolute, although he could not tell when it had begun. He would be forced to see the line of demarcation when it ended, for the sounds of the house were harsh and positive. It was ended even now. The click of a key in the latch had broken his whole, and heavy steps were effacing its restful memory from his brain. Soon there began the shrill, vituperative scolding that was a prelude to the monologue, fixed in a lower key, but equally penetrating, that would nag, nag at his nerves from now on, until a worse evil obscured it. He was hardened to this : had forced his mind to assimilate the monologue without giving it colour or form ; he heard it as so many vibrations, expressing neither mood nor sense. Yes, this he could bear. It was the other that he could not bear, that two-fold onslaught on his spirit. From morning till night, and until early morning again, the house was shaken with the thump of meaningless chords and the raucous reiterated scream of an overworked note. Remorselessly the noise ground on, always the same, in spite of superficial differences — thump, thump in the bass and an inverted, syncopated wail in the treble. If only there had been some difference : if only there had been some meaning. But the noise which assailed his ears and maddened his brain was always the same, was always vacuous. It did not even express despair, only emotional imbecility. It had been pointed out to him that this music was very difficult, very in-
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tellectual. Difficult it certainly was. But Bach, too, was intellectual. Only he had a soul. Besides, the more one heard of him, the more meaning was revealed, the more one heard of this . . . It was not only that he could trace no meaning ; it was the sound itself. That empty core of never varied rhythm hurt his ears, hurt his head, until he felt he was caught up in the wheels of some elementary engine of physical torture which would never let him go. It was not only the soulless, senseless cacaphony, but the violation of his piano that agonised him. His piano ; his—by inheritance and by right. He remembered how, long ago, he had gazed at its gleaming rosewood flanks in awe. His piano had seemed to him a lovely lady, gracious in candlelight, chaste and beautiful. The austerity of her ivory keys was fit only to be touched by ivory, tapered fingers. She sang with her soul— glittered with the brilliance of Chopin, or quivered resonant to the chords of Beethoven. And now his lovely lady was defiled. Her rosewood case was stripped from her by the vandal, her ribs and bones exposed to the gaze of the impudent. His lovely lady no longer, the piano showed strings and wooden hammers, collecting dust, tarnishing. The ivory keys were stained now. Square, hard fingers, the nails dark with nicotine and rimmed with dirt, the pores clogged with grease, beat out a senseless rhythm from those wires which had once responded with infinite subtlety to every gradation of touch. Naphtha flared loudly where once candlelight had flickered. His piano, prostituted to the endless thud of unsubtle fingers, was losing its soul. Berthold tried to win back past reverberations, the whispering suggestions of secret overtones, hidden implications, but they would not come, stamped out of life by those square fingers. The maker of harmony was a machine to produce syncopated noise. It was not as if there were no other piano, thought Berthold savagely. But the vandal had stripped that, too, had beaten the life from its strings, and left them, exposed to the damp, to snap. Even the vandal could scarcely thump out any rhythm from the decrepit shell that was bundled into a back room, to decay in shame. And now his piano was being driven to the same fate, exposed to the dust and damp. It was no use locking it — square fingers possessed keys that would open any lock. No use nailing or glueing it, even if he could have borne to. Square fingers possessed a force against which no protection availed. If Berthold gave it away, he would get relief from the shattering noise. But he could not give away what had once been his lovely lady, gracious in candlelight. Below him the thump, thump began again. Every fibre in his body shrieked out in protest against that primitive, remorseless insistence on rhythm which dominated all things, swamped every delicate sense-perception, until life itself was no more than the regular thud of a mechanical heart. Subordinated and weak, the eternal sick melody straggled irregularly through the treble. It suggested smoke-filled air and noxious perfume, men who were women, and women who were men. And all the time the thumping of that endless unvaried rhythm beat on his tortured nerves as if it were the taskmaster of a neurotic over-civilisation, dragging on the weary, animating the lifeless, with the force of a powerful injection. They were not real, reflected Berthold, these puppets who were kept to some sort of existence by the external heart-beat that galvanised them. They were phantom figures in a nightmare vision from which all grace, harmony and intelligence had been banished. There came a pause.
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Square fingers were lighting another cigarette, and the ash would fall on to the stained keys. Once more the thudding bass ascended from the room below. Once more the sickly treble strove impotently. But this time there was something different. In spite of its conventional vapid form, Berthold seized the core of a theme which had once been Brahms. They had changed it, syncopated it out of existence, but he could hear it. More and more strongly he heard it. It seemed as if his piano was making a last pleading appeal. Two tunes were going on at once. The one was the music of the spheres, the other the syncopated pandemonium of hell. His piano was imploring him to save her from the degradation into which she had fallen, exerting all her strength to recall to him for the last time the lovely world of grace and harmony in which she had once been a joyous spirit. At last her voice faded, and he could distinguish the tune no more : only a drum beating through leagues of jungle, monotonous, timeless, insistent . . . Berthold went downstairs. He went to the kitchen and took up a carving-knife. It was large and sharp. He felt its edge as the throbbing tattoo inserted its way through the silence. He was going to deliver his piano. She, his gracious lady, would never be prostituted any more by square fingers. He walked to the music room door and opened it. As he entered the drum ceased. Still he went on, in deathly, empty silence. When he reached the piano he grasped his knife and with abnormal strength cut through , the quivering wires, until they were useless. Then, with a tender hand, he muted their last jangled reverberation, and went upstairs with a quiet heart.
SPAIN A frown : Another circular '—flicked out— A glanCe ; the staring letters seem to shout WOMEN AND CHILDREN BOMBED TO-DAY IN SPAIN. ' Only another of these things again ; The kind of ghastly rubbish that 1 hate; Melodramatic ; they exaggerate.' Under the ruinous heaps of shattered stone Lie smothered corpses. Women sit alone, A puzzled stricken silence in their eyes. Horribly twisted faces scan the skies. The white road-dust is patched and stained with red Of children's tumbled limbs, broken and dead. The vague uneasiness at distant pain Passes and, shrugging, turns to words again : Horrible propaganda. Well, I know Unpleasant things may happen ; even so They really shouldn't word it as they do.' Melodramatic horror. But it's true.
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It's sausage and mash For dinner again. I'd rather eat hash Than sausage. And mash Is for those who are rash ; Why, what's worse than cocaine But sausage? And mash? For dinner again? All this year during term I intended to labour. I've tried to be firm All this year. During term I'm a recluse, a worm ; I've been wedded to Klaeber All this year. During term I intended to labour. C. A. GAMINARA.
LOWEST COMMON FACTOR [THREE TALES.] I. THE SORROWS OF REBECCA. Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. Lo, it came to pass in those days there was in the tribe of Dian a young man and he was comely. And he looked with lust upon a daughter of one of the chiefs of the people. Rebecca was her name and she was the firstborn of Reuben, and she was exceeding fair to look upon. Her hair was of the colour of the pomegranate, and her lips were scarlet. Her eyes were as a snare unto men and her teeth were like little towers of ivory. And moreover she was exceeding proud, rejoicing in her beauty and scornful of all those that came to woo her. And the young man was of lowly estate. By day he laboured in the fields, and his loins were girt with a cloth. By the sweat of his brow did he earn his bread. And it came to pass that on a morning the damsel arose and went in the fields to walk. And she was clothed with purple and fine linen, and she had anointed her face with costly ointment and her hair was adorned with rings of gold. And she looked upon the young man and found him fair. And there was not anything hid from Reuben. And when he heard of the love that was between them he was exceeding wroth, and he rent his raiment and put ashes upon his head, and he lifted up his voice and said unto Rebecca : ' Get thee hence out of my dwelling-place, and return no more unto me. For thou hast looked upon a man of mean estate and hast brought my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. Cursed be the day that I was born and the day that ever I begat thee.' And lo, he cast her from his doors. And she sat in the street and wept. And there was no man to comfort her, for all were afraid of Reuben, and of her exceeding great pride. And she rose up and went into Aaron, who was in the fields. And she told unto him all that her father had said unto her. And Aaron's bowels were moved within him, and he was wroth, and he gnashed his teeth. Then did Aaron take unto himself
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a mighty rod, and with it he belaboured Reuben, so that there was a great outcry by night. And Reuben died from his wounds. And Aaron cast his body in a ditch. And he fled by night with Rebecca. But it came to pass that eight strong men of the tribe of Reuben bound themselves by an oath not to partake of food or drink till they had avenged the death of Reuben. And lo, they took Aaron and hanged him on a tree so that the crows did eat of him. And Rebecca cursed the day that she was born, or that ever Reuben begat her. II.
LOVE-STORY OF AN ANGLO-SAXON.
Lo, it is truth that I tell to thee. A thegn there was in the castle where I was a scop in the days of old when my beloved lord Iglaf held sway, gave armlets of gold, and was a good liege-lord. Guthlaf was the name of this thegn, and many a time at the meed-drinking did he bring round the bowls of shining liquor to the young warriors, where they sat on the benches uttering boastful speeches. Fair he was, and mighty, and in his hand he had the grip of ten men. But he was but a serf, the son of Ardlaf, the cowherd. Now our dear lord Iglaf had a daughter, Ingeborg, radiant under her diadem, gold-adorned, and of great beauty. At the feasts she too would bear the cups, she would take them to the mighty warriors for them to drink, she would bid her father be courteous and of good lineage. Well she knew the usages of the court. And there was love between the two, between the serf and the prince's daughter, her of noble lineage. And they fled by night on one of the steeds of Iglaf, a peerless courser, one that had never failed at the battle-play and time of need. And when Iglaf heard concerning this he girt himself and took his sword Frumting, splendid weapon adorned with a snake-pattern, wrought by Weyland the Smith in the days of old when the giants dwelt on the earth. Never had its point failed him. It sang a song of war. And, one of sixty warriors, he galloped forth ; the chief led the way. And by a waterfall they found the two, serf and prince's daughter together. For the horse had died beneath them, being very weary. And Iglaf smote the serf Guthlaf, son of Ardlaf the cowherd, so that his head leapt from his shoulders, and the blood mingled with the waters of the mere. The waters eddied, swirled with the current. Fate goes ever as it must. Truly Guthlaf was treacherous though his courage was good. And Ingeborg lamented, sung a song of lamentation, most wretched of women. She had no cause to thank the kindness of her father. No pleasant life was that for her afterwards in the palace yard, in the noble castle, towering to the skies, when all men knew that she had loved a serf. It was a sorrow worse than any, that she must live and weep, without the love of her thegn, without the love of her father. The woman wept. She mourned bitterly. III.
THE LOVE OF PHILIP AND MARY.
They met at the University. He would sit at lectures and idly gaze at the lobe of her ear and wonder who she was. He was not very interested, only she often happened to sit in front of him. And one day he met her at
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a sherry-party, so that after that they talked sometimes after a lecture. She was not very pretty, only restful to be with, and she did not offend the eye. He was very good-looking in an American way, with large blue eyes and a good brow. He felt he was honouring her by taking her out occasionally to the pictures, by being seen talking to her. So it came as rather a surprise to him when he discovered that she was quite unnecessarily rich, and of a quite amusingly good family, so good that it was rather effete, apt to produce either a genius or an imbecile at any moment. She was a God-send of the ordinary to such a race. Yet he would not have loved her otherwise. Frustration, of a sort, added its glamour. He could not have her. Therefore he must. And he exerted all the male arts of flirtation. When they felt they must marry or die, she decided for him he must give her father the chance to prove himself liberal, to spare himself the pain of being cruel to her. So he went to Sir Horace. Of course, there was .a scene, during which her father grew angry and imploring by turns, now bullying, now offering to come to terms. So they were married at a registrar's office. And Sir Horace, misogynist and misanthropist, hangs his head at his club, the honour of his scutcheon smirched, afraid to look his old cronies in the face. He is the most wretched among men. LUCILLE PARKS.
Pourquoi es-tu si triste, si passe? Pourquoi ne dis-tu ce qui se passe Dans ton coeur si secret, si loin de nous? Pourquoi, pourquoi? Es-tu si isolee, si imalheureuse? Es-tu accablee dans l'ombre affreuse D'un desespoir qui te rouge le courage? L'est-tu, l'est-tu? Laisse-moi te consoler, dire mon amour ; Laisse-moi t'enlever ta charge pour toujours ; Je pourrais rappeler ta gaiete perdue. Laisse-moi, laisse-moi. Veux-tu apprendre que la vie est bonne? Veux-tu connaitre tout ce que Dieu te donne? Viens, viens, it me tarde de te soulager. Veux-tu, veux-tu. A.M.W.
BUS PEOPLE Bolt upright on the bus seat, she clasped the aspidistra to her in its brown paper sheath. Somewhere, deep in a mind veiled securely from a peeping world by layers of mental Nottingham lace, there stirred a dim primordial exultation in greenness, growth, miraculous life ; such as rises in those less respectable peoples who, in the spring, leap naked and yelling before the god of green things. She did not know it. She only thought
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with precise elation of the bamboo plant-stand, where her mental eye had already installed her booty, tidily, geometrically. It was a pity one's nurse would not let one stand in buses, she thought, contemplating her feet sticking straight out from their encasing gaiters. It would be like a boat : you would feel the water pounding imperatively under the planking. It was like a boat anyway, with its rows of intense and segregated faces—like the pleasure-steamer at Bournemouth, where Nurse had been so sick. Under the memory she stole an apprehensive glance at Nurse's solid curves beside her ; but to-day the curves looked anchored and secure; like a black pillarbox, like a fat black jug. She bit her ticket comfortably and fell to wondering which of the people in the bus felt ill and which always looked like that. He pulled the green hat down truculently and looked out onto the onrushing perspective of street ; but he was convinced of eyes on the back of his neck. He glanced round suddenly, accusingly. No one was looking at him : they were remote and preoccupied ; but everywhere grey hats, bowler hats, respectable hatlessness, expressed cold and impenetrable criticism. Yet on other days the world was verdant with green hats. Something inside him screamed valiant and imbecile defiance, then fell silent. He who had felt elated,, jaunty, was suddenly submerged in a nausea of apprehension, as of one who enters a house singing and finds that all its occupants have died. MADAM, You asked for a poem in Gaelic, and, Heaven help you, .here it is. That no one will understand it is an advantage to me, for my howlers will pass unrevealed ; but I fear that, being unintelligible, it will really be a waste of your precious space. So do as you like about it. I shan't blame you for leaving it out ! AMHRAN AU CHURAICHIN. [CANOE SONG.] Ar aghaidh ! mo churaichin, 's to is breagh dluinn, Or6 mo churaichin 6 ! —Is dathamhail deas tu is modhamhail msith A chailin na h-aibhue 6 ! Sinne le cheile, is sinne 'nar n-aonar, —0r6 mo churaichin 6 !Ar an aibhinn an maidin, mor sgathan aluinn, Cho citiin re spearthaibh 6 ! ,
Lo mbruachaibh na h-aubhne na h-eola 'ng zcodhladh, —0r6 mo churaichin 6 1— Na crainn ar cromadh chim phorg su t-srotha, A chailin na h-aibhue, 6 ! Teighunis chun criche an t-sroghail, a stairiti —0r6 mo churaichin 6 !Ar lorg na greiune i dtir na maidne, Real-eolais mo gradha, 6. [And we are saved correcting the proofs.]
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[Translation. Not necessarily for publication !] Onward ever, my beautiful curragh ! Orb mo churaichin 6 1 —Lovely and fair thou art, gracious and good thou art, Maid of the waters, 6 ! Ourselves together, and we our love —0r6 mo churaichin 6 !Moon on the river, like a fair bright mirror So still 'neath the sky, oh6 ! On the banks of the river the swans are sleeping, —0r6 mo churaichin 6 !The trees stoop low to the kiss of the stream, Maid of the waters, 6 ! ' Let us go to the ends of the world, my darling ! —0r6 mo churaichin 6 !Seeking the sun in the land of the morning, Pole-star of my love art thou.'
THERE ARE MORE THINGS . . . It was quite a simple story : authentic, so Sugden said. We had been sitting in front of my fire, listening to the wind shrieking round the college buildings, and had finally given up any attempt at reading. Williams had suggested local ghost stories, and Mannering had told us, in his soft, southern drawl, of the maiden whose robes swept the grass as she walked barefooted along the churchyard in search of the knightly heretic she had unwittingly betrayed. Then came Sugden's turn. ' Mine includes a churchyard, too,' he said. His voice was in sharp contrast—broader, more energetic, with the vigour of the North. He was speaking of four Lancashire workmen. Unromantic, we thought, and hardly fit figures for a ghost story. But his voice compelled attention. " They were coming home one autumn evening "—Sugden was a good narrator—" the red sun shone full in their faces as they walked down the street, although it was ten minutes since the factory hooters had signalled six o'clock. Not specimens of the best physical attributes, you would say. They looked grimy, grey, and puny even, in the golden light. Typical, commonplace, victims of industrialism. They were discussing the fate of one of their fellows who had omitted to fix the safeguard to the machine on which he had been working, and had become involved in the belting. ' Aye, 's a good job as 'e's a single lad—no wife t'think on,' Horace Crewe was saying slowly. "N as 'e didna've t'safeguard on, A'm thinkin' 'e winna get no compensation, neither, 'n'e's crippled fer life.' ' A winna go near yon machine,' said Harold Bain with a shudder ; A'm that glad as A don't 'ave nowt t'do wi't.' ' Nay, but tha would an all, if th'y'ad ter,' broke in Horace, ' and tha'd know t'keep safeguard on. T'my mind, yon churchyard's a more fearsome place, wi t'boggarts at midnight. Y'c'n deal wi machines—but boggarts 'n such . . . 'A wouldna go near yon place, not fer twenty pound, after it's dark.' They were walking down the hill now, along the railing of the churchyard. Long desolate lines of neglected crosses straggled up and down hill.
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In the midst rose a larger monument, like a small building. It was an object of superstitious awe to the people around, and dark stories circulated as to what went on within. Actually it was the whim of a byegone Cotton to erect this shelter over the family grave. They buried th'owd mon yonder, s'afternoon,' muttered. Alf Banks, with a jerk of his head towards the monument. Reckon it'd be a brave un as'd go'n call on 'im.' The four stopped and looked round. A wouldna go t'that place, not fer twenty pound, after it's dark,' reiterated Horace solemnly. ' Why not, lad? They all three jumped at the tone of Bill Fairweather's enquiry. "Cause it's 'aunted—that's why,' replied Horace briefly. "Aunted I ' said Bill Fairweather with a short laugh. Dost mean t'tell me that all three on ye're all daft gowks? 'Fraid o' boggarts? Why, lad, there baint no such thing. When th'art dead, th'art dead. Tha dostna cum back t'aunt, an' tha dostna go t'heaven, neither. Tha'rt dead, dost see— proper dead. 'As't never seed a dead un? Dost thing as that could 'aunt? Nay lad '—Bill, who passed for a man of science, a daring free thinker, warmed to his subject—' A'm tellin' thi, tha didsna 'aunt before tha wert born, didst'a? 1N tha wastn'in heaven before tha wert born, neither? No more tha winna after th'art dead.' Aye, but that's not bible teachin',' interjected Harold Bain nervously. He was a pale little man, with grey hair and moustache. An all on ye just mind y'r Bibles,' retorted Bill contemptuously, "n y'll know all about life 'n death 'n science. Joshua stopped t'sun an' moon, didnt'a? Well—that can't be done—'n never 'as bin. Bible's all a plot, same as anythin' else, t'keep us poor uns quiet wi 'opes of 'eaven, so's rich uns c'n'ave their whacks now. What we want is—' Alf cut him short. Nay Bill, tha says these fine things, but what wouldst do? Tha dostna go to church — no more do we, but A'll reckon tha 'opes t'make thi peace wi God at th'end, same as us, 'n A'11 reckon th'art 'opin' tha winna go t'ell, just t'same.' A've told thi,' said Bill, turning on him passionately, and gripping the iron railings, there aint no 'eaven—nor 'ell neither. A'rn a man ' —he clenched his dirty fist, and straightened his undersized body — an ter be a man's a glorious thing. Y'c'n think — 's more than cows c'n do—an no one 'elps yer—ye fight. If ye believe all t'Bible tells yer, y're a worm, wi God on one side an t'devil on t'other, 'n not much between them either. But a man . . . 'n t'show ye three gowks as y'r beein"ad on wi all this Bible talk, A'll go to-night—at midnight—'n A'll open yon door, 'n go'n pay th'owd un a visit. We 'ad a grudge, 'im an me . . . but tha'lt see, Alfred Banks, if 'e gets t'chance t'aunt me. Ye c'n cum along—all on ye : stand at t' gates—All climb over .. . y'c'n wait 'n see as Ado t'job proper.' So it was arranged," murmured Sugden, stirring the coals with the poker. " I never quite understood Bill Fairweather, you chaps, because I feel he had something of Prometheus about him. On the other hand, those who know say he went to the ' Lion's Head' that night, and drank deep. After closing time they consumed more at Horace's house. Horace himself was troubled. He felt Bill was imperilling his soul, and they ought not to stand by and let him. But Bill was dangerously bright eyed. His mood had changed subtly. He leered as he challenged the occult powers. The night air sobered them all somewhat, as they started to walk to the church-
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yard. Horace was for giving up the crack-brained idea, and Harold Bain diffidently seconded him : it wasn't decent to go disturbing newly-buried folk. Bill himself seemed none too happy : there was of course the feeling of the dead man's family to be considered. . . . Four thick-set, undersized forms hesitated against the railing, and the dark seemed to envelop them. ' Of course, if th'art feared . . .' said Alf Banks . . . The forms were distinct again, suddenly alert, darker than the cold shadows around. One detached itself, and scrambled awkwardly over the railings. The others went to the gate and waited. Bill Fairweather shivered as he picked his way through the lanes of crosses, and wished the moon would show. Once he stumbled over something. He bent down to see what it was. To his horror it was soft and soggy. Only a rain-wet wreath, said his intelligence, but his knees gave, and a shudder ran through him. He had never thought it could be so dark . . . he was terrified of what he might touch if he groped with his fingers. The still blackness around was full of menace. . . . With an effort he pulled himself together and attacked the door of the monument with a tool he had brought. It soon gave way, being rotted with much rain : the wood came away from the frame, leaving nails projecting. Bill tore his hand on one and cursed. Even as he cursed the words died on the air. He was half in and half out. An overmastering terror rose in his throat. A cold numbness rivetted his limbs. He knew only one thing, that he must get away somehow . . . get away . . . Old man Cotton was there, flittering indistinctly . . . he must get away . . . away from that moving darkness. He turned and tried to go, but something held him back. A wind had risen, and ragged wild clouds were being driven across a sky of steel. The moon emerged strong and full for a moment, so that the gravestones shone hard and white. But to Bill Fairweather, struggling at the mouth of Hell to free himself from the unseen force which held him, they looked like shrouded corpses. He tried to scream for help, but no sound would come. He made one last desperate Effort, but the darkness closed around him. . . . His companions waited for some time. Harold Bain said he never realised the lad had so much pluck, but Horace Crewe was uneasy as time went by and Bill did not appear. After about half-an-hour, Alf said he was probably sleeping off the effects of the evening's booze under the shadow of a gravestone — or else that he had left the other way to trick them into thinking he had stayed longer than he really had done. There was nothing to be done but to go home." A pause ensued. Then Williams said, But is that really supposed to have happened? I mean . . . it sounds so real . . . but it's much harder to envisage than Mannering's Lady . . Did they find him at all?' I enquired. Was there really such a man? Or was it just a tale made up to invest with a spot of horror?' They found him all right,' said Sugden, somewhat heavily. Next morning the sexton noticed something queer about Cotton's monument. When he got to it, he found Bill Fairweather's body, leaning forward as if still trying to get out, and still held in position by the long nail on which his jacket had caught.' Sugden got up and knocked out his pipe. I think I'll go to bed now. The wind is quieter. Good night ! '
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THE SONG OF THE SIRENS Oh Odysseus, man of many sorrows, Over the envious sea Fate has led you, has drawn you To our magic isle, Has drawn you to hear the music, The sweet, sweet song of the Sirens That none can ever forget ; To rest on the washen stones Of the grey-haired sea, And then, with strength renewed and heart uplifted, To launch your ships again. Come then and rest. The grass is green here, Fresh are the springs that rise in the amber marshes, Sweet is the sight of land to men who have known endless Stretches of lank grey water And the barren sky ; And sweet the music of women's voices To those whose minstrels are the lone gulls, And the salt waves singing. What is life? It is the flash of spray Caught in the sun ere the wave passes. What is fame? It is the fancied sound Of surge in a hollow shell. What is death? It is the sudden night Climbing above the sea, Thoughtless, sightless, dreamless, With no stars shining. Nothing endures but Music, Music, whose bright strands Are woven in and out of the starless warp of night ; Strands that have twined and bound out of the shapeless chaos, The bubble world and all its fantasy ; One jewel in vast nothingness, One island of unearthly beauty Snatched from the jealous arms Of the unloving sea ; Whither you steer over the darkening waters, Out of the unreality of the real, Into a world of Music, where all earthly things Are flies, caught in the amber of a song. Oh Odysseus, man of many sorrows, Here is there rest at last. P.L.-S.
THE CYGNET
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We are all young together, you and you And I, bound in a stratum yoked to time. We are a generation, so our crime, The curse of individuality, is not true ; Our madness is not unallied, for through Our strife we seek ourselves—that is our prime. Separate we may be, but our paradigm The spirit of man, the imperishable clew. Seek not release, nor will the strivings cease : Difference from another is a fate's delight, Perplexity a need, truth's matrix in the night, And folly, too—all breed. Each man and you, Uncurling arabesques, spring ever new ; And with the realisation shall come grace.
MUSICAL SOCIETY The Musical Society, dead for many years, has recently come to life in a most encouraging manner. Last term we persuaded the J.C.R. to double our terminal subscription, and we began to cogitate on future activities. This term, after six weeks' hard practice, we gave a successful concert, which is reported elsewhere. The choir has not been disbanded, but, under Mr. Parrott of New College, is now practising for a concert of Warlock's music, which it is hoped will be given next term. A. talk on Sibelius, illustrated by gramophone records, was given by Miss Bosworth-Smith. This was very interesting, especially as most people knew very little about Sibelius. It is hoped to have several meetings of this kind, as many people would like to know more about music. We wish more people played instruments other than the piano, and want to know if those who already do so would care to have regular chamber music practices. We hope also, now we have more money, to have a good professional play in the summer. We would like to thank the Principal for allowing her piano to be used in the Mordan Hall, which has made it much easier to arrange practices. D. Wise. THE CONCERT. On Sunday, February 28th, a concert was given in the Mordan Hall by the College Musical Society. Purcell's Te Deum ' was sung by a mixed choir, conducted by Miss Moss. Miss Helen Moss, sister of the conductor, stepped at the last moment into the place of Mrs. Dussek, who was unable to come, and sang the solo parts very delightfully. If the bass voices in the choir preponderated a little too much over the trebles, yet the effect of the performance as a whole was excellent. Purcell is particularly popular in this year of revival of English music. This is a very beautiful work, and Miss Moss and her choir did full justice to it. Miss Finkelstein played Scriabin's ' Prelude pour la Main Gauche Seule ' (Op. 9, No. i) and Ibert's ' Little White Donkey' with her customary skill, and was roundly applauded. A small treble choir then sang a selection of motets from the first part of the Northland Singing Book, conducted by Miss Wise. The first of these was a little uncertain, but the effect of the whole was most delightful.
THE CYGNET Miss Wise also played the Study in E major (Op. io, No. 3) by Chopin, and the Sonata in D minor by Scarlatti. This was in all respects a brilliant performance, and one which was thoroughly appreciated by the audience. The singing of Hoist's setting of Psalm 148, conducted by Miss Moss, brought the concert to a close. The choir of music was good, and the rendering throughout clear and unaffected. The occasion was felt to be a most auspicious beginning for the Musical Society in its new lease of life, and the funds were swollen to the extent of by a silver collection.
LACROSSE The Lacrosse Club has enjoyed only a limited measure of prosperity this season. Bad weather and a small membership necessitated scratching a number of matches in the Hilary Term, and lack of team practice was largely the cause of defeat in the Cupper against Oxford HomeStudents. Amongst the freshers we wish to congraulate H. Turnbull, M. Gilmour and R. Howard for having played on occasion for the United First XII. D.Y.B.
HOCKEY A great many matches have been scratched this term owing to the inclement weather and the difficulty of raising a full team. We have not played our Cupper yet, but hope to play against Somerville and reach the finals. It is unfortunate that so few of the First and Second Year take an interest in hockey. A. PELLEW.
ROWING The O.U.W.B.C. has held three races during the Hilary Term :Feb. zo. v. King's College, London (home). Won by 2 lengths. „ 28. v. London University (home). Lost by length. Mar. 6. v. CAMBRIDGE (away). Won by 21 lengths. Miss Francombe, stroke and coach, has presented a cup to be rowed for annually in the race against Cambridge. St. Hugh's has provided the VIII with three new Blues and a Half-Blue this term : M. Richardson (bow), S. Harbottle (4), I. Pomphrett (cox.), and E. Jackson, who replaced one of the Home-Students at ' 2 ' in the second race. The VIII has been coached this term by G. Worth and W. J. H. Liversidge, of St. Edmund Hall, to whose very able ministrations we owe the successes of the term. The Boat Club is, however, suffering from a rather inadequate income, and although all possible cuts in expenditure have been made, the annual budget shows a considerable deficit, which could only be met satisfactorily by a larger yearly grant. At present we receive about one-tenth of the amount given to a men's College Boat Club, and that tenth has to cover all expenses. M.H.G.
610LEWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD