THE CYGNET .17
I 'f
COMMITTEE.
Editor:
JEAN 0. STOVIN.
Treasurer :
JOAN YEA LEE.
Second Year Representative: C. P. YOUNG. First Year Representative: S. BANNING.
THE CYGNET JUNE, 1935
Editorial
T
HE little swan hesitated before swimming to its new owners. Perhaps this was due to habitual nervousness, sorrow at having felt the ex-
Editor's hand smooth its down for the last time, or merely inability to overthrow the sluggish temper of a wet June. Yet plump and passionate, sober but not unsmiling, it arrived at last. Undoubtedly rain damps wit, for there was a lack of sparkle in verse and prose. On the other hand (perhaps this was the effect of sympathy with Schools sufferers) there was less suggestion in the contributions of the rather heavy facetiousness which is one of the minor curses lying heavily on Oxford's day to day literature. Imagination, feeling and a power of detailed analysis are the dominant qualities which Cygnet writers bring to light. It seems a pity that their overflow is not just a little curbed by reason and a second reading. Moreover, a knowledge of rhythm and metre has been known to temper without breaking even modern genius. The Cygnet would like to emphasise that it receives the expression of all opinions eagerly. It will present views on any subject with an unbiassed mind (see Constitution). Writers have seemed to need assurance on this point. After serious deliberation the Committee have decided to re-divide the prize-money. W.M.F. is awarded three shillings ; Lucille Parks, the author of ' Bungalow Irruption,' Ruth Taylor and the Treasurer half-a-crown each. The remaining two shillings awaits the more favourable conditions of the Michaelmas Term.
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Bungalow Irruption These houses, squat and red and white, Unmellowed cubes that scratch the sight, Have elbowed out a birch-tree wood Which first possessed the place, and stood With tossing boughs that flung their shade In blots and pools and cool confusions ; Birches with silver all inlaid, Supplanted by these smug intrusions. Well is it that its fauns long past Fled ; or their wrath had followed fast . . . One tree remains, survivor pale, And, caged by Kosikot's neat rail, Lifts slender fingers all dismayed To see itself so strangely neighboured. The Simpsons hope to have it felled— Lobelias don't do well in shade • So nice when all that gloom's dispelled From the new lawn by Henry laboured.
Traffic Secrets What lunatic-invented notion has set our traffic into motion? Who can have let this hideous crew of creatures issue from the Zoo? For though the monster-mounts, that prom the town and take us to and from, may cunningly pretend to be inspired by electricity, yet all the while they're just a mongrel cireus, escaping to the jungle. Of course, the clothes they wear are meant to make believe they're different. The uncourageous jaguar masquerades as a tramway car, the vast luxurious limousine that bears the rich from scene to scene, moving majestic on its way, is tiger, prowling for his prey. A sinuous, stream-line panther lurks in every racing-motor's works, while countless lesser cars you see are wolves and jackals on the spree. The transport lorry's just a silly elephant in Picadilly, the inoffensive omnibus an over-dressed rhinoceros, while lordly lion, too superior to metamorphose his exterior,
THE CYGNET watches, with monumental air, proceedings from Trafalgar Square. ' And bicycle? ' you ask. Well, there it's difficult, I must declare ; but confidentially I'll mention it's nothing but a bad — iNvENTIoN !
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W.M.F.
Sonnet Death walked just now, its powers half-sheathed, yet swift ; And youth's self-confident eternity, Stripped of its poise, blanched at the clarity Of such a glance, and felt itself adrift. So comes the strife ; desire to wrest a gift. We may achieve some splendid chastity Which shall enrich or pierce severity So still, and thus blot out or span the rift. We live each moment, safe in that we dream The future, comprehend it not ; but when Such dark shafts fall athwart we must With pained philosophy create a scheme, Or, cynical, confess that now and then This brave new world does crumble into dust.
Ichabod In the pause that followed the clapping, Mrs. Gonfroy turned to me. I do so like music,' she murmured confidentially. There's something about it so— so . . . ' Soothing? ' I suggested. Yes, that's it,' she replied, somewhat to my surprise. It takes you out of yourself.' Quite.' It gives you time . . . you have an excuse for thinking in a desultory fashion . . . life's such a rush — excuse me — yes, Irene, delightful, such a touch ; thank you, weak please, and no sugar.' John remarked, I think it's just too futile : look at the crit Valandi got yesterday . . . technique, but no interpretation Oh, Mr. Eymes,' broke in Mrs. Somers, swishing towards me. Do you know of a nice country girl who would wear uniform and be content with one night out, to whom I could really trust the making of sandwiches? You live in the country, and ' At that moment a flick of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, cut her short. In the opposite corner of the room, Miss Elton began to have hysterics, while the pianist looked nervous, and ascertained that the house possessed a lightning conductor. The thunder crashed down over our heads, and the lights went out, as they always did in my sister's house at moments of crisis. Immediately a babel of noise arose, submerged in a moment by a renewed crash of thunder. Miss Elton's hysterics were reaching magnificent proportions. My sister was begging her to be quiet, and demanding candles. John was growling about the inadequacy of civilisation. John always growls about the inadequacy of civilisation. Someone suggested that the pianist should play, but apparently his hands werc
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trembling too much, because he was highly-strung, and not used to thunderstorms. The new manservant entered with a tray of candles, which he disposed about the room. They only made the gloom thicker. My sister demanded more candles, but it appeared that there were no more. ' If only Valandi would play.' But Valandi would not play. Mrs. Somers plucked me by the sleeve. Do you think the lightning will strike us? I am so nervous.' I did not think it likely, but she was not reassured. You get scorched to death. There it goes again, talk to me, Mr. Eymes. I'm so frightened At that moment a ringing chord struck the silence, and then music followed. Tempestuous music, wild and exhilarated, music of the storm. Some of the candles had blown out, and the light was so heavy that I could not make out who was playing. An imposing, powerful figure, with fine, energetic hands. The music crashed out above the thunder, mastering it, mastering the people round, who sat in silence. Clean-cut and shapely, it tamed the thunder, until the sound of the elements grew fainter. Then it spangled the silence, like the hiss of the rain outside, and grew softer and softer as the wan daylight crept back into the room. The figure at the piano shrank. A ray of sunshine stole in, and the music ceased ; the young manservant rose from the piano, collected the candles, and left the room. Valandi clapped his hands, and informed the world that here we had genius. Mrs. Somers was ecstatic. That young man must have lessons, must be trained . . . ' My sister was saying, I thought perhaps he'd play community songs. I never expected . . . ' I got up and went to look for the performer. With obvious reluctance he followed me into the smoking-room. What are you doing — this — for? You must have had a musical training.' Yes, I've studied ; I'm doing—this—because—because . . .' His face worked ; he spread out his right hand and looked at it. I suffer from paralysis of the right hand,' he jerked. Slight, but enough to prevent me from playing. The hell of it ! To feel your fingers tingling to run up a chromatic scale—to try—and to have your fingers stop—tied—dumb.' He bit his lip, and his right hand stiffened. They trip over one another. They won't move. The specialists can do nothing. Only sometimes it goes, and then I can play : my fingers are free— they live. But I'm out of practice. I can improvise, yet I can't play a scherzo of Beethoven. What good is it?' If you improvise, why don't you write music,' I asked. Anything before this.' I don't write music,' he said dully. Write? And know that I could never play it as I hear it ringing in my ears? At night demon fingers mock me with trills and runs • the music has the sinister rhythm " You can never play like this again." When excitement unlocks my fingers—when there's a storm — I can, I must play ; then the music is too strong for the devil of ice in my finger-joints. But I have to live. They told me once that I would give concerts . . . I did give a concert once . . . I had to get away from my friends, my pitying friends.. I couldn't bear to scar my hands. I'm not trained for anything— else. I saw Mrs. Crane's advertisement . . . And now I must go. I can't bear anyone to know that I play — that I played once. You will excuse me.' Freddie, darling, you remember the man who played so marvellously on the day of the storm? ' said my sister plaintively, some weeks later
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when I was visiting her again. You can't have forgotten. him ; he's left me — wouldn't stay — and now I've got to find another man. Mrs. Somers wanted to pay for him to have lessons : she said he was genius in the raw. He went quite white when she suggested it, and when she'd gone he asked me to let him go right away. So strange. Do you think he was a criminal? ' I thought it highly unlikely. Maybe,' she said. Mill, it's an awful nuisance. I haven't got another one yet.'
Mechanical World (An Impression.)
Watch those robots that are men. Watch their metal strivings. Watch their world : A world of fools, pale laughter, and dismay. Desperate jog-trot, and fierce endeavour ; Clang and clash of a mighty hammer ; Applause and scorn and impotent despair ; Belief in gods that are and are not ; A longing for everything and nothing. A world of shrieks and sudden silences, Freshness and weariness, birth and death, Sad Joy, and Joy in Sorrow. With Noise that reaches almost to the stars, Piercing the skies with meaningless disturbance : A huge accident in space, a flaw in time— Fools upon a pebble whirling round for ever. Great steel arches, piston-like insistence, Valour of a straight line. Beauty in Ugliness. And noise, far-flung, a throbbing perseverance, And never Any LUCILLE PARKS. Peace. ,
My heart leaps up when I behold A proctor in the High. So was it in my freshman day, So now, in a maturer way, So will, be when, revered and old, I saunter by. Stat Pup is father to M.A., And early recollections stay, And I could wish I did not know That always, wheresoe'er I go, Howe'er my pastime guileless be, A proctor will inspire in me Swift stabs of guilt, unreasonable fears, Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. A Pagan, suckled in a creed out-worn, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee. There came a tyrant, and with holy glee She sat like Patience on a monument,
THE CYGNET Eating the bitter bread of banishment, For ever piping songs for ever new : At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue. When a new planet swims into his ken, England hath need of thee, she is a fen Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. The lone and level sands stretch far away Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave ; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. The little seed they laughed at in the dark, It is the star to every wandering bark, Youth at the helm, and Pleasure at the prow, So sweet, the sense faints picturing them. Thou, A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, —Was never salmon yet that shone so fair— Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night : And in some perfumes is there more delight ; While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. S.B. The reindeer, Light, leapt from his field of snows That blanched above the green-grey dark-before-dawn Of world, its lichened bergs, cold frond of its fern. Paling over the murky, dwindling steppe His hoofs drew chimelessly. In the frozen dew, Along the glazing pathway's brindled leaves, He sunk and panting couched his antlers far Among the ruins of the northern stars.
From a lino-cut. A. H. BISHOP.
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A Tidy Mind Seven o'clock. The Professor woke at 7 o'clock sharp, as he always did, and adjusted the alarm clock that had not gone off, set as it always was to alarm at 7.5, just in case he failed to wake in time. As usual, he woke suddenly and completely, lay with eyes closed for about a minute adjusting mind and body to this new day, then, fully awake, stepped deliberately out of a bed as neatly turned down as when he had slipped between the sheets at precisely i i o'clock the night before. The Professor even slept tidily. Accurately he inserted his feet into his slippers, lying side by side by the bed, and shugged himself into his dressing-gown, pulling the heavy black cord tight about his waist and tying it in a firm knot. His very mind moved in a clockwork series of thoughts, thoughts which he thought every morning, and would think at the same time for ever if destiny let him alone. His mind selected his tie, his socks for the day, while his hand closed over towel and sponge. Burdened with these, he moved unhurriedly across the landing for his daily shave and cold shower. On his return he dressed quickly, though not hastily, with his mind still stirring in a lazy rhythm which was not thought, taking his garments one by one from a chair where they had been laid out the night before. He unfolded them meticulously and donned them with a certain care, not disguised by his apparent speed. He glanced with satisfaction at his unassuming steel-blue tie and socks to match, gave the last sweep with his brush to his shining cap of hair, which was echoed in his shining shoes, and descended to breakfast. No one who had seen him at that moment would have guessed that Professor Pilbright had planned the P'erfect Murder. The Professor proceeded in orderly fashion to his breakfast. Firmly he walked to his place, pulled out his chair just so much, sat neatly down, and unfolded his napkin. Carefully he went from course to course, letting no crumb fall where it should not, then drank his coffee last of all. He pushed back his chair, crossed his knees and unfolded his paper, taking an active joy in the fresh snap and crackle of the leaves as he folded it precisely down the middle. He had read half of it, including the advertisements, when his sister came down to breakfast. She trailed into the room, a bulging, bedraggled specimen of humanity. To see the two confronting one another produced an unreasoning wish to laugh. They begged for some ribald sub-title, ' The Fat and the Thin of It,' or ' Before and After,' or the like. But the two were completely unaware of any incongruity. From his youth the Professor had always hated his sister with an intense and concentrated hatred which he never allowed to show on his calm, unlined countenance. Perhaps it was her untidiness which made him resolve to be tidy. Perhaps he was a tidy soul by nature and her slackness drove him to become a fanatic on the subject. At any rate, as the years rolled by they grew further and further apart till at last they lived in different worlds. They only met to clash, and Pilbright could never catch sight of her without a tightening of the jaw and a sudden fierce desire to blot out her existence— to tidy up his life, to clear away this troublesome being which so freqtently undid his work, and which at all events was always underfoot, cluttering up an otherwise neat and orderly existence.
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Louise came fatly into the room, giving an overpowering impression of flesh, masses of it. She had not dressed, and her huge flowery dressinggown gaped open, showing something silk and crumpled underneath. Pilbright noticed for the thousandth time that the heels of her slippers were run-down, the feathers on them broken and soiled. His gaze travelled to her face : weak and insipid. Lumpy expanse of cheek ; limp mouth, nondescript blue eyes ; lank brown hair turning up in half-hearted curls — the remains of a perm ; faint eyebrows, and—nothing else. She looked, he decided, again not for the first time, mindless. She dragged about the room before sitting down, moving things here and there, and always leaving them looking slightly awry. When she did sit down, she did so loosely and ineptly, and promptly made the table, which Pilbright had succeeded with great care in keeping so mathematically in order, as dishevelled as herself. Pilbright could hardly forbear jumping up and screaming, loudly, at the top of his voice. He wanted to do something firm and decisive. He would have liked to have put her in a waste-basket and moved her out of his life for ever. As it was, he must think of a better plan. And he had. He had decided to murder her. All his life he had wished to dispose of her, but only recently had it occurred to him that the only way he could do so was murder. The horrid thought grew and took shape. From a black and hazy existence, it swiftly flew to the forefront of his brain, until it obsessed him completely. Murdered she must be. But as the very reason for her murder was to leave Pilbright's life free for him to do with it as he liked, the murder must remain undiscovered. And so he spent hours, then days, then months, in formulating an absolutely flawless plan. And at last he thought that he had found it. Simplicity is the essence of all great things, and this was simple. He was a professor of chemistry, and poison was clearly indicated. With care he chose one that should not show its effects until twenty-four hours after being administered, and which would leave no traces. His sister had heartattacks, which made things yet easier. This morning he was not going to his work. This was Saturday morning, and he was going away for the week-end, which he took, and had taken regularly, ever since he or his neighbours could remember. It was so systematic a procedure that there was no reason to let anyone know of it. Pilbright's week-ends were as naturally-accepted a fact as the greengrocer's shop at the corner. They had the finality of doomsday. He must leave soon now, he decided, as he watched his sister warily over the top of his newspaper. For Maud was drinking her coffee. And in that coffee was the powder that would end her useless life. She finished, draining it to the dregs, straining back her head, and Pilbright rose. He bade her a cold farewell, that was no colder than usual, and left the room with small precise. steps. It is five years later. Nothing could have been more successful than Pilbright's murder. Maud had died, not too painfully, surrounded by neighbours who wept for the feelings of the absent brother. She herself left sentimental and sloppy farewell messages for him. She had tried to be a good sister, and he must never forget her. Pilbright with diffculty concealed his disgust at these emotional passages. Maud might at least have died decently. He felt an infinite relief at her death. He felt no sense of loss, because she had never been a personality to him : merely a disturbing animal body.
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He set to at once to make his life as mechanically neat as he wished it, and in a very short time lived exactly as he wanted to, and thought himself happy in that he was without any positive complaint. But even this negative happiness soon left him. He grew listless, even worried, and he did not know why. Certainly he was not stricken with remorse at having murdered his sister. He knew himself to be too intelligent, too logical for that. He was glad to be rid of her, knew that his life was better so. But still he felt that there was something wrong, and that he and he only could put it right. The same feelings that had blackened his existence while Maud lived rose again within him. Something was out of place, something was untidy in his life, and he ached to make it as it should be. His face grew haggard, and his hair grew white. He began talking to himself, and started when he was spoken to, so that his neighbours remarked on how the death of Maud had affected her poor brother. For five years this went on. Then one day, with startling clearness, it came to him, and he trembled at the thought. He had laid a trap for himself, had become Maud's avenger on himself. It was ten times worse now that he knew what was the matter. For weeks he tried to reason himself out of the awful conviction, but reason was all on the other side. His tidy mind would not permit him to allow a murder, even his own, to go unpunished. He thought of suicide. But that other self would not concede so easy an exit. Justice should take its course. The fatuous words rang in his brain, hammered there day and night. He slept no more, and made barely a pretence of eating. His pupils noticed that he was unstrung—his lectures were poor farces. It was suggested that he take a holiday, even insisted on. With an all too vivid clarity Professor Pilbright saw what was going to happen to him. No. He must make his life tidy. So he sat down and wrote a Confession. Then he spent an awful hour deliberating whether to commit suicide or not. But his stronger self won and he delivered himself up to the police. LUCILLE PARKS.
Conviction Thinking till your brain is reeling, Do you sometimes get the feeling All your thinking's void and vain? How d'you know the mad aren't sane, And the folks who think they matter Madder than the hare or hatter? On whatever thought you hit There's someone thinks the opposite. Which is wrong and which is right? What makes the parties shout and fight When Heaven only knows, and even Opinions differ as to Heaven? What is fact and what is fiction? Vanity is all conviction,
Till (0 final paradox) Even this conviction rocks !
CH. CLARK.
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Ecstacy at Dusk She danced in the dusk, And through her body surged A tide of pent up longing That would not be denied. Behind the far off hills The light shone palely gold, And poplars, still and straight, Like spirits of forgotten things, Stood waiting for the night. Slowly the dusk crept in And filled the silent room. Flung on the darkening wall Shadows madly danced ; And dim within the mirror Thronged whirling shapes, Tempestuous, eddying, magical. Without the world went by Aloof, in cold indifference. Hard, green gleamed the mirror. Before it, with a flash of silver, The pale faced image swept In ever quickening measure Till, in swift tarantella, Half insensate with the pain Of a strange creation, it flamed forth In this mad ecstasy . . . And yet it was only a girl Dancing in the dusk.
Is Constructive Revolution Possible ? Most thinking people realise that civilisation to-day is like a condemned tenement. They admit of two courses of action—either to bolster up the structure in the hope that it may outlast their own generation, or to demolish it entirely and rebuild on the same site. Is there a third alternative? That there is another course of action, which is nothing less than finding God's plan for the world, is being amply demonstrated in the lives of those individuals who have had the faith to try it out. More and more people are proving this and finding that when men listen God speaks and reveals His plan a plan upon which every individual can embark here and now, and which extends into all spheres of life — personal, social, political and international. In Denmark, for example, this conception is becoming a reality. An international team of the Oxford Group recently visited Denmark, which is an agricultural country with a Socialist government. In Copen-
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hagen the largest concert-hall, seating nearly two thousand, was packed every evening for a week. It might have been an English crowd but for the unusual white caps of the nursing sisters, the uniforms, the way the students carried their satchels slung over their shoulders, and the clogs some of the women wore. There were whole families there, and even children were interested, many of them finding that listening to God could break down all barriers between them and their parents. One small boy who heard the broadcast of the first meeting was so anxious for his father to go to the next that he gave him the twopence for his bus fare to and from the hall ! People began to discover that by listening to God they found a sense of direction and the solution to every problem, and the power to pass it on to their friends. Numbers of the Danes have been to House Parties in their own country, where the nucleus of national leadership has been raised up. Next month many of them will be in England for the Oxford House Party. They will be drawn from all sections of the nation's life — from the homes of the well-to-do and unemployed, from school, university and business. They are coming over, because as a nation Denmark is awakening to the individual and national implications of listening to and obeying God ; to the urgency of the world situation and their personal responsibility to be part of the cure and not of the disease of the world. Invitations to this House Party are available to all who want to find out for themselves what the Oxford Group is doing. It will provide them with an opportunity to meet people from some of the fifty-two countries who may be there, and to discover whether listening to God can really solve their own and the world's problems.
Written in a fit of reaction from Constitutional History When we embark on academic journey through maze of data, ratified •and filed, the air grows colder, tenser is the stillness, and iron-grey the skies. Hedges, green but sterile, fences rather, bound in the centuries, pinfold the decades. Fact cancels fact, the Evidence is various. Movements take ever predominant place . . . . Till — lost in mist though paths be seen clearly— we wander down the avenues of Time wistfully looking for Man in History and finding only an Institution.
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Talking together in groups we say very glibly : man alone is master of his fate, no puling helpless fool but comprehends the rule of his estate ; yea, sways omnipotent his days. So talking together in groups we say very glibly. but when we are alone and candle-light conceit is snuffed out wholly in the chill blast of bitter disillusion, we do not then believe it. Numbers we know give courage, so perhaps if man could always be in company, one of an indistinguishable horde flaunting abroad the hollow mask of glee, he might be happy, forgetting the sullen whine of Time's inexorable drone-pipe, the menace of the shadow of Time's hand moving upon the wall. But we do not really believe it. For in the secret essence of our being, the timid, quivering, pulsating thing that is called soul, we know man is the slow, inevitable prey of ravening Time, the Toll rendered by life to death, whose every painful breath serves but to strengthen . the sullen whine of Time's inexorable drone-pipe, to deepen the menace of the shadow of Time's hand moving upon the wall. W.M.F.
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Comus On the evenings of May 3ist and June 1st the Dramatic Society gave two performances of Milton's Comus ' in the College garden. To say so much is to admit at once that the initial difficulty of production had been overcome. Comus ' ceased to be a poem and became a performance. Unity of dramatic, poetical and musical effect was gained, largely through the excellence of the verse-speaking and singing and through the very carefully considered grouping and movement of the figures within the outline of the formal terrace-setting. Colour also played its part in contributing to the atmosphere of the masque (mask), with flaming torches, dark trees and crimson and blue and scarlet costumes, set off by effective lighting. The utmost action was brought to the genuinely dramatic scenes by the vigorous performance of Miss Gaminara as Comm, and this was well contrasted with the perfect serenity of the Attendant Spirit (Miss Sherwood) and the maiden gentleness ' of Miss Yeaxlee's Sabrina. As spirits they showed nothing of the ' mortal moisture of Earth's mould,' which revealed itself in the passionate anger of the lady (Miss Burgess) and in the fearful uneasiness of the Younger Brother (Miss Jones). These qualities, combined with the more sober and reflective but none the less human attributes of the Elder Brother (Miss Banning), served to link the material world of country song and dance with the spiritual abstractions who represented the idea of the play. The lady was convincingly beautiful and ingenious in her righteousness, and if we could have wished the Brothers more human it is to Milton primarily that we should complain. The half-brute, half-human rout did not succeed in terrifying us as it terrified the Lady, but in its pictorial function it served admirably as a background for Comus. It was upon the unity of production that the success of the performance depended, and although actors and musicians and dressmakers are to. be congratulated individually, it is to Miss Stephenson, the producer, that we accord the final triumph.
Cricket Several keen Freshers have increased the numbers of the Club this term. We congratulate N. Shaw, M. Stinton and M. Cane on playing for Oxford against Cambridge. P. Brentnall and J. Field have also played for the University. All College matches have had to be scratched. B.G.
Tennis It has been an uneventful tennis season. The First VI was beaten by St. Hilda's College in the first round of the Cuppers. The Second VI has been playing Lady Margaret Hall in the intervals between rainstorms for the last fortnight, and the match is not yet finished. All other College fixtures have been scratched.
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First VI. J. Theobald and C. Peters, F. Scurfield and J. Field, M. Barrett and M. Gaminara. Second VI.—C. Young and D. Sherwood, B. Gibbons and I. Manger, M. Stinton and B. Llewellyn. J.T.
Swimming In spite of the disconcerting weather, this season has been a good one from the point of view of general keenness. The College experienced a great loss when Miss Wallbank and Miss Doveton went down last summer, but there are several promising Freshers, among whom we congratulate Miss Bleasby on gaining her Blue. The College also possesses two Old Blues, Miss Clark (United Secretary) and Miss Wilson. We are sorry to have to report the transference, after three successive years, of the Inter-College Cup to St. Hilda's. We were, however, successful in gaining two first places out of six events, although the average was unfortunately not sufficiently high. C. M. CLARK.
HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD
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. S.--The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the College.