Editor : K. M. ABBOTT.
Committee : Third Year Representative — M. WARDELL. Second „
E. M. CHALLANS.
First
R. M.
Treasurer : P. GRAHAM.
J.
CAMPBELL.
THE IMP No. 25.
Summer Term.
1927.
EDITORIAL.
T
HE imp was a little afraid this term that the lazy atmosphere of a warm summer might overcome one half of his contributors, and the immanence of Schools put the rest to silence. So he was agreeably surprised by the number of contributions which flowed in at the last moment, some of which succeeded in proving that even the third year are not yet wholly submerged in gloom. The subject of the Competition for the Imp was purposely kept wide, to allow for individual poetic inspiration. This, unfortunately, made the task of judging an even more difficult one than usual, since there were several entries which were extremely good in entirely different ways. We hesitated especially over the rival merits of ' Hot Air ' and the verses called ' Sea,' but the deliciously casual cheerfulness of the Duchess poem finally overcame us. The prize, therefore, goes to E. Scott-Harston.
SEA. The duchess and I went down to the sea Fairly late—it may have been half past nine But I couldn't be certain, for some of the brine Got into my watch—it was slow after that. She took a plunge, I waited a bit, Not that I thought it was cold, but our plan Seemed rather mad when you come to consider it. . . . The duchess went under. She didn't appear again (Except her hat And I rescued that). So much depends on the first manoeuvre, And Life was flat . . . So I followed her down Through a skirmish of waters Falling precipitously,
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THE IMP . . . Ah, there was the Duchess Waiting already Among the anemonies. How charming she looked Fondling a salmon (She'd always liked animals). Avoiding a crab or two I hurried towards her : Quaint is it not? Just pass me that seaweed, And do sit down, Charles, The whale is quite comfortable. What about trout for tea? ' I began to be interested, The Duchess is always Most reassuring : (A pity that dress of hers Clashed with the atmosphere). . . . How amusing—an octopus ! Really the duchess should be more careful— (I've always been told that they hated visitors). Ah, yes—it had got her— How clumsy some fish are ! Poor duchess, yet her death was exotic, So like her. Of course There would be no tea now Tiresome that, Well, anyway, she wouldn't have any either . . . So I floated up again ! F, SCOTT-HARSTON.
HOT AIR. The catastrophic spread of smiles, On faces flat like dreaming tiles, Submerges in a grim intent To hear ; until absurd content [Like angels drinking cups of teal Becomes domesti-c esctasy. And in their dim, serrated rows, Half chest, half meditative nose, They brood upon the death of art, Announced in accents from the heart, And, like an infant crack of doom, The speaker's voice incites the room To disembody souls of truth By utilising rabid youth.
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The sprawling figures twist and purr ' Age is,' their breathings would infer, Ugliness animate and dumb And predisposed for Kingdom Come.' A sudden silence shrieks aloud, The gods arise in fire and cloud, Their thoughts a mazy sea of rhyme, Aware that it is question-time. They fling their clinking glass of wit, Like broken bottles, sure to hit Committees, who in coffin-chairs, Slide fingers through artistic hairs, Or speak in microcosmic tones, Shrill epigrams ; demur with groans, And when the infinite is spanned, Dismiss it all with rhythmic hand ; Till presidential punctuation Accomplishes the due inflation.
THE SCHOOLS SONATA. Written by P. HARTNOLL, M. NEILSON, E. SCOTT-HOUSTON and
I.
WILLIAMS.
Produced by B. WArrs, I. WILLIAMS, P. HARTNOLL. Clothes by E. STANBURY, J. DICK, I. OTTER-BARRY, On June 8th, in the J.C.R., the First Year presented the Schools Sonata, a medley ' so full of good singing and dancing and acting and cheerful feeling that it is impossible to do full justice to the many talented artists who delighted us. There was a captivating Charleston Chorus, led by Miss Harrison and Miss Stradling, a good deal of Community singing, in which Miss Hartnoll conducted in the most approved style. Miss Wilde and Miss Dixon did some amusing burlesque singing, and Miss Wilson sang the solo parts very charmingly. ' It,' a nocturnal episode, showed Miss Keppel-Compton as an excellent mimic, but the best scene of all was the mediaeval fantasy, The Knights of the High Table,' in which Miss Dawson (Sir Perham Valiant) , Miss Milner (the Lady Francesca), and Miss Betts 1(Brother Procter) surpassed themselves, and those with minor parts, even to the Lion without, were all admirable. The clothes, which had been good throughout, were best of all in this scene where they were strictly mediaeval and yet had a curious resemblance to the daily garb of certain dons. Lastly, a fitting climax, the Spirit of Schools, a truly ghastly figure, cheered us by announcing that there would be no failures ,
THE IMP in St. Hugh's this year, and a rousing chorus wishing good luck to the Third Year ended a very good show. The best performance of the evening was given by Miss Watts as the Aged Visitor. There was a finish and restraint about Miss Watts' acting, which is not often found in College productions. The Authors had succeeded in being very witty, the Producers are to be congratulated on having staged a revue without noise, fuss or any hitch. Our very best thanks are due to the First Year for having amused us so well.
BEAUTY. Beauty's a traitor : plain is she, A clear and kindly star, To all beyond her sundering sea Who praise her from afar, And, sheltered on their native hills, Hail her sun-piercing pinnacles. But if her lovers seek her gate Their way lies to the shore, Whence for tall cliffs and breakers great She can be seen no more— Leaving the • images behind Wherewith they called her shape to mind. Then, steering by the hand of chance Or faithful memory, They must put from them shield and lance And naked take the sea, And, battered by the sea's blind will, Turn sightless eyes toward her still. They must touch the thick grey ocean bed And the crusted wrecks of time Be smeared with fingers of the dead And ancient things of slime ; And in corruption's very place They die if they forget her face. Happy are they who in the stress Can touch another's hand, For cold with bitter loneliness Are most who come to land, And when they hold the long-sought fast They kiss a stranger's lips at last. E. M.C.
r
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An
ImiretitAertt Visitor
Ft:ve more mina-tes & avi-essa,1 to write.•
The. Imfrortanze o4 6e4t4Earrtest
Two of tke res idents
1
e lib rarti
'The
Scholar
The Proprietress .
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EPITAPH. Here lie the ashes of the Princess Nausicaa. She was lovely on earth, and proud Among the King's daughters. Fair was the raiment of the daughter of Kings. Here lie the ashes of the Princess Nausicaa. Listen, you lovers quietly passing, To my voice through the darkness ; I, too, a Prince in this fair past time Loved also this Princess. Here lie the ashes of the Princess Nausicaa. She was more fair than a fragrant garden, Awaking at night-time White was her breast in the sleeping waters When she gathered the water-flowers. As flame in a lamp, so love burnt within her, As flame in a wind, she bent before passion . • • Here lie the ashes of the Princess Nausicaa. K. A.
THE WIND BLOWETH . The wind rustling through, the trees ; the boughs soughing. The ivy covering the side of the house crackles as a weight is hoisted upon it. A clumsily-built figure slowly moves upward, grasping handfulls of ivy whose bushiness, in addition to the outjutting ornamental stone ledges, affords ample foothold. Slowly but steadily upward, making for a window. Something flaps against the man's face—a bat—quickly brushed aside with a murmured oath and the ascent is continued. The sill is at last within reach. The man draws up his body and steadies it against the sill, while the catch of the window is skilfully pushed back with a slight click. The window is slightly raised and the intruder remains poised there, listening for any noise inside or out. Scarce a sound—only the rustle of leaves in the wind. A long, straight corridor before him, white and grey, lit by moonlight streaming in through uncurtained windows on the left, a ray of lamplight coming from behind through the half-opened window, the whiteness divided into queerly-shaped patterns where the shafts of light crossed and recrossed, and were in turn cut into by shadow leaf patterns—till the whole resembled a photograph of a cubist picture. Straight ahead a long window seemed to be of steel-blue glass, so clean and evenly coloured was the night sky. On the right, near at hand, was a door, another half way
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along, and nearly at the end of the corridor a third. This was the magic portal, the door of a room which seemed from the value of its contents to be a veritable treasure chamber—those marvellously gleaming -opals, in whose blue translucent depths the fiery golden gleams lurked. The thought of the gems brought him once more to action. With a swift movement he stood in the corridor. By a hasty touch to his pocket, be assured himself that all his tools were in readiness. Half-a-minute's silence while he listened once more. Still no sound save the rustling of the leaves. Good ! He must step with extreme caution, though, for he knew that in the first room slept one who would be awakened easily by any unusual noise. As he left the window and began very slowly to move along, he felt suddenly the slightest sensation of fear, but he put it quickly from him. It was rather a rum sort of place with all that white paint. It didn't seem quite so natural to be so clean and shiny, with the moonlight coming in and the funny. blue colour of that window in front—it made you shiver. The wind coming in through the window behind, too, made you feel quite chilly-like. He wished he had shut it, but there was no use in going back now. He listened outside' the first door. The quiet even breathing could just be heard. A sharp tap made him start—only a bough tapping against the pane. But that, on the sill, an immense spider moving deliberately along, its very blackness intensified by the whiteness of the window-sill in the moonlight. That cold feeling grew a little colder. Only just an attack of nerves in that queer show. He must shake it off—he was an old hand at this sort of thing ; not for nothing had he earned the title of Cracksman Bill. Still, it was a bit creepy. He went on. The second door could be passed easily—there was nobody else sleeping in the corridor. He still felt cold. The wind seemed to be a bit more violent. In between the gusts there was a dreadful stillness. The cold sick feeling grew stronger. What was that, over there between two of the windows? A hand? Pointing at him? He seemed to be turned to stone as he gazed and gazed. No, only a sort of white china model of a hand ! It did give you a bit of a shock for a minute though. There was a draught from that window behind him. He thought he would turn round and have a look to reassure himself, but he found that do what he might, gather all his courage together, he could not turn right round. He was afraid, physically, mentally. There was something behind him, something that he dared not face. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He must go—he could not look back. He must not get panicky.
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The opals ! They would be cold in his hands when he got them out of the safe : they were cold, cold for all their golden fire. Well, it wasn't only a few steps to the door now. The door—sudden awful thought—the door was not straight level with the wall, but across the corner of another passage that ran at right angles to the corridor. The handle was at this side and as he turned it, he would have to look back down the corridor. Of course, he needn't, he would look the other way, there was nothing to make him look if he didn't want to—yet something told him that look back he must if he went to the door—and he knew that he had not the courage. He could not do it. But the opals, he could not leave them ; he thought of all they meant to him, money, enough to buy a home, a woman to look after his needs, capital to finance other and more ambitious schemes ; yet, in spite of all this, he could not face whatever it was that was there behind him, not for all the jewels in the world. He would have to pass that door as he had passed the others. He would have to go through the window in • front of him. He went forward more quickly now, knowing that in a few seconds he could be away—it was something that was in the corridor that he feared, it could not get at him outside. Ah, the window at last ! He opened it, got out on the sill and disappeared. ' The wind bloweth. He is gone. The place thereof knoweth him no more.' E.M.S.
THRENODY. FOR THE DEATH OF A CHERISHED MELANCHOLY.
A melancholy once I made, Soul-pregnancy prophetic, For grief, I said, beseems my trade, It is the touch poetic : But woe, derry, derry ! my melancholy is dead. How may I revive my little melancholy? I took it to the river's edge, I whispered of self-slaughter, But melancholy closed its eyes For sun was on the water : And woe, derry, derry, my melancholy is dead. How may I revive my little melancholy? ' Alas,' I said, ' now Love is dead My happiness has ending' : (0 hypocrite, you never loved, You knew you were pretending.) Ah, woe, derry, derry, my melancholy is dead. How may I revive my little melancholy?
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I fed it on rejected love, I gave it breath with sighing, But spite of all, before an hour, Lay melancholy dying And woe, derry, derry, my melancholy is dead. How may I revive my little melancholy ? For shame,' I said, ' lift up your head, True poets live for pining,' But then I saw that it was dead And all the skies were shining. And woe, derry, derry, my melancholy is dead. How may I revive my little melancholy? Derry, derry, melancholy ! Derry, derry, woe, alas ! M. L.
HEART'S DESIRE. Scarlet of poppies against the sky, A blue sea flecked with foam, And we peeped down between stalks of corn And watched the ships come home. Oh, I will give,, you fine-carved bracelets Wrought by a deep-sea gnome With curious stones, and quaint devices— When my Ship comes home, The strange, pale shimmer of sea-gems, The emerald green of the waves, The silver of sea-moonbeams Caught in a sea-king's 'caves, The gold at the foot of the rainbow, The opal of dawn at sea, The primrose stars of the Milky Way Shall make a gown for thee. ' And you shall hear the Song of Dreams On the wind through a mermaid's comb, And the melody called " Heart's Desire " When my Ship comes home.' Twilit poppies, weighted with dew, A gray sea flecked with foam ; Blank fogs of Reality close round the prow Of the Ship that Never Comes Home.
B.W.
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LIFE IS SO DIFFICULT. Mr. Cotton sat substantially on a green seat facing the esplanade. It was very hot, uncomfortably so, and the pages of his Daily Mail curled up in defiant exhaustion. He folded it in an uneven bulk, placed it self-consciously on the next seat, where he had found it; and lay back to watch the people. The parade was fairly empty during the luncheon hour ; but now and then some strolling beach-enthusiast would glance across the turgid receptivity of his thoughts, cutting diagonally through the persistent heat. There was the man with the black alpaca coat and spectacles, whose ecstatic expression seemed to advertise the benefits of ozone—a, nurse with a perambulator and the usual air of placid indifference. But Mr. Cotton suddenly felt tired. These people bored him. He worshipped, before everything, beauty of form, clear-cut features, well-shaped limbs. Deformity hindered the architectural perfection of existence. If he had been born in Ancient Greece, he might have filled the post of organiser of games. But he lived in twentieth-century England, and what he saw disturbed him. Take that child, playing over there with the telescope ; now its youth gave it a bewitching charm, but another ten years would emphasise the width of the mouth ; the eyes, now bright enough, would become ordinary—expressionless ; her figure, already showing a tendency towards fatness, would probably be heavy—impossible. There were so many people, thought. Mr. Cotton, who might just as well be exhibited at a horticultural show, along with leeks and tomatoes and other still life. But the authorities were complacent. They were still allowed to encumber gangways and to revolt the minds of the fastidious. Put that young man over there, with the tilted Homburg and spotty face, on the pinnacle of a barren rock. Let him stand there, buffeted by the wind and lashed by uncontrollable forces, and tell him to shout defiance. He couldn't. The wind would irritate him—the nearness of the sea would send a cold shudder down his back—but the irresistible force of it would pass him by. He would feel annoyed—simply that. Now Theseus might have been outraged—passionate, but not annoyed. For a moment Mr. Cotton closed his eyes. When he opened them, a young girl, probably a domestic servant, had sat down beside him. He looked at her appraisingly out of the corner of his eye. She was attractive enough—a small, appealing face and large brown eyes that looked friendly. But her hat annoyed him. Why did she wear that tawdry, drooping flower on the brim? It was unnecessary. Would Antigone . . . ? And then those shoes —stupid, precipitous heels, rather worn at the edge. ' Simplicity,'
THE IMP sighed Mr. Cotton. Leaning over a little to gain a better perspective of the hat, he received a sudden slap on the chest. Wot d'yer tyke me fer, heh ! ' And she was gone. Mr. Cotton sighed again. Life was so extraordinary. Some people spent years in research on the subject that most interested them—chemistry, archaeology,. pigs—entirely unquestioned. But when that subject happened to be Man himself, direct research seemed to be impossible. It was disappointing. So much might be done, even. in post-war civilisation. The glory that was Greece . • • Slowly he walked across to the pier, squeezed himself through the turnstile, and wandered idly up to one of the penny-in-the-slot machines. It was a miniature cricket match. With almost ironic amusement, he pressed the lever—the ball shot into a hole—and his penny was returned. Really, this was interesting-. Mr. Cotton's lace beamed. His penny returned—ha ! quite a lot of skill in this game. With some excitement, he inserted it again—but the ball trickled mockingly just behind the stumps. ' Stupid thing,' breathed Mr. Cotton, rattling the case violently, ' must have stuck —absolute swindle.' He walked away, feeling- grossly mis-used. ' Anyway, I've never seen such narrow shoulders for a bowler— and the batsman's faCe . . . ! ' ESME SCOTT HARSTON.
THE GREY LAND. You often look at me with eyes so far Away—so wild and stranger-like—as if The waters of an icy river rushed Between your soul and mine. I know no way Of finding once again the place where our Two spirits walked tog-ether, but I think It must have been an island in midstream. But now the island lies untenanted, Alone ; and you and I look numbly in Each other's unfamiliar eyes ; and I Plunge vaguely, uselessly, into the cold Cruel stream which flows between us now, and sweeps Me back away from you into the sad I.M. Grey land of Memory and What-Once-Has-Been.
SEA-THISTLE. The wind-shrunk sands are hard and grey, The hollow dunes shifting and wild Where salted earth and wind bring forth The blue sea-thistle, their desolate child.
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THE IMP Ragged and harsh, she crests the sands With glaucous leaves, like bitter knives, Unkempt and cold ; her dim blue hair. Tangled and tost as the long wind drives. Daughter of lonely ancient things, As the dull, pale evening swoons She whistles to her maker gods, Dark Titans, crouching hidden in the dunes. W.S.
INTERVIEWS. We are pleased to be able to announce that our correspondent has been granted interviews with some of the luminaries who have for the space of three years shot across our academic firmament, and whose approaching transit we view with profound regret. Miss R— H s was discovered in the appropriate setting of the wilder parts of the garden engaged in a search for the ideal. While waiting for her to awaken we noticed that her sole decoration was a chaste fritillary under the left ear. Raising herself on her elbow, she offered it to us together with a white bowl. Observing our misunderstanding she murmured ' C. 0. D.,' and swept her eyes and hair around the garden with an animation worthy of a king of Egypt. We were delighted to hear that her two hobbies were sunshine and food. She is frequently to be seen absorbed in both. Her chief sports are shooting epigrams (she has frequently hit big game) and running debates, but she takes a simple delight in her own and other people's rhymes. We left her somewhat hurriedly having been reduced to a couplet while we were not listening. Returning via the 1st floor catacombs, the sight of a Spanish sombrero appearing suddenly round the corner at once established a journalistic glamour. We scented an intrigue. The owner of the hat, Miss R-1, a charming girl, smiled sweetly at us and offered to demonstrate the tarentella on the spot. She completely won our heart by her picturesque attire—the flowers which drooped so effectively on either side of her hair were reminiscent of an old Japanese print, while the shawl transported us to a studio at Hollywood. Her naive remarks soon convinced us of the charm of the decorative, while her gracious offer of a doughnut at the close of the interview impressed upon us the futility of romance without the incongruous. This light conversation, however, was abruptly terminated by the caressing sound of laughter which was evicted from a neighbouring room, re-echoing in sylph-like murmuring harmony
THE IMP through the still air. It had a persistent quality about it. Fascinated, we approached the room and discovered to our surprise that it was connected with the subject of our next report. Expressing our unbounded admiration of this light-hearted abandon during silence hours,' we begged an explanation. Miss V I\4 —r, who was balanced coyly on the window-sill, inclined her head, with its darkly exuberant Hawaian crop and vainly endeavoured to articulate some connected phrase. Disarmed by that alluring silhouette against the window and temporarily infected by her gaiety, we found ourselves obliged to make a hurried exit, in order to retain some shreds of the editorial dignity.
BALLADE D'UNE JEUNE FILLE. (With apologies to G. K. Chesterton.) You shall be pardoned noise at dawn, And skirts above the knee too far, And cigarette-ends on the lawn, And Charleston in the J.C.R. These vicious things shall melt in air : But for the Virtuous Things you do, The Frantic Work, the Harassed Care,— It shall not be forgiven you. • Because you did not once protest When conversation harped on shop 'When hours of labour were assessed You never told your friends to stop. And worse—when one cried I've done eight Hours' work to-day,' aggressive, you Replied, / went to bed so late ! ' This shall not be forgiven you. C. M. H.
HOW TO BECOME FAMOUS IN OXFORD. Join a club, until 2.
You become a club in yourself and can afford To know no one.
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APHORISMS UPON WORK. The name of Stubbs,' one student cried, apart, ' Will, when I die, be found upon my Heart.' Not so,' another said, with bitter smile, Oh, not upon the Heart, but on the Bile.' Essays Are ways To employ Scholars, To annoy Tutors, To destroy Tempers, To alloy Joy.
GALATEA. You are cool as water Clearly running, Cool as a stream on a summer's day, When the daisied meadows shimmer in heat As it slips away. Yon are white as snow So softly falling, White as snow on a black-boughed tree When the branches show, by the small buds' swelling, Where the leaves will be. You are cold as ice On the mountain ridges, Cold as the ice in the tunnelled bed Where lies the glacier, clear and green, That the sun turns red. I would take you up And hold you closely, Cool and white and cold as they, Till warm life pulsed in your frozen heart, Till it melted away.
THE IMP Until I had formed From a still white statue, A living woman of love and desire, Till your marble beauty should glow and quicken With hidden fire.
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PH. H.
FINAL HONOUR SCHOOL OF COLLEGIATE KNOWLEDGE. I. Explain with reference to the context :— (a) Have a tuppenny. (b) I've ticked, but she has scratched. (c) A matter touching the constitution. 2. Compare the style and language of a games captain who cannot get anyone to play„ with someone whose gown has disappeared. 3- Contrast the views of the Bursar and the Student on the subject of (a) electric light, (b) breakfast in bed. The crisis is mightier than the 6.o race.' Do you agree? 4College Food. Discuss. 5. Going on high ' ; haddock ; gate6. What do you know of books ; library levies ; Hugh}; ' ; the N.U.S. ? M.R.F.
THE RETURN. He halted at the parting of the ways. The door was broken and the cottage dark. Against the ruined walls a phantom haze Took shape and passed within ; a phantom bark Re-echoed through the long deserted hall— Then silence. Then ' Is it too late?' he cried. I could not know ; I did not hear you call.' It is too late,' a phantom voice replied.
PUBLICATIONS LATELY RECEIVED. HOURS IN A LIBRARY. By C. P. G---11. The Spectator.—` I have never seen anything like it ! ' Daily Review.—` A comprehensive little work.'. R. PHONETIQUES VOLCANIQUES SANS PLEURS. By V. M La langue francaise.--` Speaks for itself.'
THE IMP THAT LONG-LONG WAY. By S e and B— E. Sporting and Dramatic.—` A knock out ! ' CATHEDRA. A Comprehensive A.B.C. of the Chair. By A. H. -
The Observer. ` A masterful achievement. . . . Absolutely beyond criticism.' —
How TO BACH. An Up-to-date Organical Treatise. By D and Musical World. Superb.' NEWS FROM THE DEVIL. By M. L—E. The Times.—!!! * !!! *? (Everyman Edition.) By ' Star.' Punch.--` Simplicity itself. . . Spectator. ` Most Heinish.' CIRCULAR SAUCE. By ' U— etc. (authors of Our little Band '). Daily Mail. ` And very nice, too ! ' APPLIED ART. By J N and J---Y (R.A.). The Stage. ` Quite professional.' C. W. THE COMPLETE AESTHETE. —
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GAMES REPORTS. S.H.C. L.T.C. Teams VI.—A. Brunyate, L. Stave ; A. Huxley, M. Gray ; B. Roberts, M. Owen. SECOND VI.—E. Lingard, J. Stopford ; J. Machin, M. Phelips ; D. Taylor, W. Murrell. If the results of our matches have been a little disappointing, it is not through any lack of promising players. The First Year have produced three of First VI standard, all of whom have proved themselves useful members of the team. I should like to add that we are very glad to have Miss Huxley back as an active member of the First VI, and that we are extremely fortunate in having Miss Brunyate to play for us, in spite of her many duties as United Captain. Besides the usual college fixtures, we have had two enjoyable matches with Christ Church and St. Edmund Hall, and also the great pleasure of watching the termly athletic struggle between the S.C.R. and the Third Year waged upon the courts. The S.C.R. bore themselves with their usual energy and cheerfulness in spite of the tense and tropical atmosphere. Finally, T should like to thank the Secretary for her unfailing energy and patience in arranging matches, and the teams for their enthusiasm and regularity of play. LIESA L. STAVE. FIRST
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MATCHES PLAYED. FIRST VI :-May 17. With Christ Church. „ zo. v. Oxford High School. Won, 9-0 matches. „ 23. v. Norham Gardens Club. Lost, 3-6 matches. 3o. With St. Edmund Hall. 31. v. L.M.H. Lost, 3-6 matches. SECOND VI :May 25. v. O. H.S. Lost, o-9 matches. June 2. v. Wychwood School. Won, 88-47 games. The Year Cup was won by the First Year. S. H. C. C.C.
Captain—M. R. FOOKES. Vice-Captain—M. HOBHOUSE. Secretary—F. C. WELCH. Twenty-one people joined the Club this year, but practices have not been very well attended owing to the many other attractions of the Summer Term. We have only had one of our three matches so far, and were beaten 119-42. Welch bowled very well and took five wickets. The fielding, with the exception of Hobhouse, was poor. Colours have been won by Hobhouse, Deacon. and Fookes. As no other colleges except Somerville and St. Hugh's can raise eleven players, we hope to have a cupper of Somerville v. The Rest at the end of term. S. H. C. B.C. Owing to the unprecedented magnanimity of those who control
the elements, the traffic on the river this term has been, to say the least of it, very dense. The First Year has shown itself eager to participate in this precarious form of recreation, and most of its members have gained either punting or canoeing halves. From the ranks of the Second Year, Miss Mott has been awarded her canoeing captaincy. She is now a captain in a three-fold capacity—in sculling and punting, as well as canoeing. The river has, unfortunately, one baneful influence. The fact that the water is common to all seems to lead many individuals to believe that privately-owned cushions, poles and paddles are communistic property. Psychologists might be interested to trace the connection between this tendency and the present bicycle problem. HOLYW ELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. I.—That the Magazine shall be called THE IMP.' 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. 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.