K I W I ANNUAL MAGAZINE OF THE STUDENTS' ASSOCIATION

A U C K L A N D U N I V E R S I T Y COLLEGE

M C M X L V

Oh how comely it is and how reviving To the Spirits of just men long opprest! When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour The brute and boist'rous force of violent men Hardy and industrious to support

i .. Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour Truth.

—Milton

Printed by T H E G R I F F I N P R E S S Auckland

Contents PROSE Page

EDITORIAL .... .... .... .... . l ALIEN SUN—J.R.C .... .. 4 A MORNING FOG—R.I.F.P. .... .... .... . 8 HAPPY LITTLE AMOEBA—P.H. .... .... 10 WALT DISNEY AND "FANTASIA"—W.R.H. .... 12 THE REBIRTH OF MAN—D.C. .... .... 14 MASTERPIECE—D. McC. .... 17 IN SUBURBIA—I.M.P. ,. .... 20 THE FRIDG—W.D. r... .... .... .... .... .... .... 22 ESSAY—ON A SUBJECT NOT PRESCRIBED—J.A.N. .... . _ .25

POETRY TO AN UNDERGRAD—Clement .... .... .... .... .... 3 GIRL WITH A VIOLIN—Candide .... .... .... .... .... 7 TO A DAHLIA—E.M.M .... .... .... .... .... . . . 9 "Weep not that we must part"—Candide .... .... .... .... 13 LAST FAREWELL—P.H.N. .... .... .... .... .... 16 HOMO SAPIENS—M.J.L. .. . .... .. . .... .... . .. 21 THE GULL—"Rana" .... .... 24 TO THE BLIND—"Rana" .... .... .... .... 30 TO — —E.M.M. ... . . . .... .... .... .... .... 30 DELIGHT—D. McC. .... .... .... .... .... „_ .... 31 SONNET—R.I.F.P. .... .... .... .... .... .... 31 THE WIDOW—D. .... .... .... .... - - . - - - 32 ADMIRATION FROM A DISTANCE—Clement . . . .... .... 41

FEATURES ROLL OF HONOUR .... .... .... . .. .... . .. 33 GRADUATES OF THE YEAR .... .... .... .... ..:. 34 RESULT OF COMPETITIONS . ..... .... .... .... .... 42

ILLUSTRATIONS FRONTISPIECE—G. I. Hole HAPPY LITLE AMOEBA—P.H. .... .... .... pages 10 & 11 THE OLIVE GROVE—B. R. Tills ... .... .... .... - . 16 STILL LIFE—W R. Haresnape .... .... .... .... 2 4 DESTINY—R. O. Stanley .... .... .... .... 32 GRADUATES OF THE YEAR . . .... .. 34 STUDENTS' EXECUTIVE, 1945 .... ... .... _ 40

Material for Kiwi was selected by the following committee:—Judith Child (Editor), Judith de la Mare, Darry McCarthy, R. M. Miller, J . A. Nathan, Kath-leen Olds, June Savage, R. A. Snow.

Mr. A. P. Postlewaite was business manager, and Margaret Brand was in charge of circulation.

The Editor wishes to thank those responsible for quotations, also Travis Wilson and R. I. F. Pattison for their valuable guidance in practical directions.

Arrangement and typography are by the Griffin Press, Auckland.

Edi to r ia l

BATIONS, like individuals, through all their lives ascend a steep slope, flanked by precipices, on which they are never permitted to rest. Each pinute is a departure, each day a battle. Life is a game from which no one can withdraw with his winnings at any time." So writes Andre Maurois in his autobiography "Call No Man Happy." The application of this to

the present state of the world is obvious, and we are not likely to underestimate its importance. The public voice is reassuringly insistent that although the war is over we have still to win the peace. The peoples of the world have ceased to fight one another, but they cannot rest in peace and remain alive. They must fight again every minute, and the peace they win must change from day to day. Other-wise there will be another war.

This statement is accepted so generally that it may seem unnecessary to repeat it here. But many things which are recognised as true when they refer to nations are ignored or discounted by individuals. Every one of us must apply to his own life the principle of continued effort and continual growth which he advocates in the life of the nation. There can be no nation without the members of it, and the health of a democratic state cannot be better than the prosperity of its citizens taken individually. This again is a trite observation, but it deserves the notice of University students. If our education is worth anything it should help us to be in some sense leaders, so that the vigour of the world state depends upon us in a special way. We are now fitting ourselves to take that responsibility when it comes.

Of the criticisms levelled against us as members of a University the one that hits us hardest is the taunt that we are not students, but degree-hunters. However loudly we proclaim our belief that the purpose of University studies is not the passing of examinations but the making of a full man, our critics cannot be con-vinced that in the hectic struggle for units we are not killing the spirit of free enquiry. Perhaps we are ourselves in need of reassurance.

It is only fair to take into account the conditions which make it imperative for most of us to finish some kind of course in the shortest possible time. It would be ungracious to decry the motives which have led so many people to make the

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sacrifice involved in that task. But having admitted so much, we must in all honesty point out to our critics that the consequence of these motives and these conditions is even more dangerous than they believe, because it lasts longer and is more far-reaching.

So long as we are in pursuit of units the slope is so steep that we could not flag in our efforts if we would. We must keep our eyes strictly on the road, and we have no leisure to admire the view, but at least we are not stationary. Our final winnings are not to be despised. If there is a danger it lies in a tendency to regard graduation as the first prize in the game (edible), from which we can withdraw entitled to a lifetime of mental rumination.

Perhaps it is perverse to attribute to our enlightened youth the complacency everywhere asserted to be the prerogative of middle-age, or worse, but that asser-tion damns us. Consciousness of our own superior gifts, both intellectual and moral, is implied in most of what we write. It is the only recognisable emotion animating our attempts at verse composition. We are superior to idealism and to bourgeois nobility, superior to the common emotions of mankind. The sentiments which I have quoted in the beginning of this magazine are to us so old-fashioned as to be almost indecent. We are the clear-sighted ones; we have seen through all mysteries and all knowledge. After a rational examination of things in general we conclude that "All friendship is feigning, All loving mere folly" What more in this wide world can there be for us to know?

Cynicism is just now particularly inappropriate. We have not had the vileness of war thrust before our eyes. We are not forced to live in its barren places. The cynic cannot help men and women who have suffered these things, or those who must suffer them still. We cannot mend shattered lives if life for us is empty of meaning.

Young people have always the privilege of breaking down the idols that their parents worshipped so that the bounds of knowledge may be widened. But this destruction is justified only if the old idols are replaced by an idea of the world which is living and fruitful. The mind which contains no images, but those of filth and futility is as narrow and poverty-stricken as the one which sees only beauty. The function of all education is surely to open the doors of the mind, not to close it up and contract all its force into pitiful sterility. The only knowledge worth the name of wisdom is that which induces growth and development in the human spirit.

If this is true, to assess the value of our University studies, our critics must examine us not now but as we shall be in twenty years' time. By then we who have been so apt to condemn our elders in their conduct of affairs will ourselves be in positions of authority. We shall have the responsibility of upholding the decisions of to-day's peace-makers. At the end of that twenty years, if we have still found nothing to believe in except our self-sufficiency, our education will scarcely have

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begun. If then we are as confident of our unusual efficiency in managing the world as we are now in stripping it of its illusions, we shall know that our years of study were wasted. Others will think they see the justice of the criticism that Universities are divorced from life. If we are fair we will point out that the blame is ours because we have made reason wither our faculties instead of helping them to grow. Perhaps we have still enough humility to learn a little from this unintel-lectual and early-Victorian anecdote, related by John Brown. "Who made you?" was asked of a small girl.

She replied: "God made me this size," indicating with her two hands the ordinary size of a new-born child, "and I growed the rest myself."

TO AN UNDERGRAD

YOU, the slave to fashions' every trick, Who slang your speech with gentle cuss Quite meaningless to one "not one of us," You tell me you are turned a Bolshevik? Come march, my friend. Unbend. Embrace the hick Who jostles at your side. What's all the fuss? What! Call him brother on an omnibus? You must have noticed that his voice was thick. Last week new orchids were the passing craze And all the ton exclusiveness achieves. I'ld vastly more contented be, to gaze, It's true, on Daphne lost in laurel leaves ("He grasped at love and filled his arms with bays") Than metamorphosis which undeceives.

—Clement

3

Alien Sun

HE clamour of the crowd around the bar in the New Zealand Forces' Club was still ringing in the sergeant pilot's ears when he passed the boarded up memorial in the Circus, where the figure of Eros once stood, and turned

into Piccadilly. After the smoke-laden atmosphere of the Club, the fresh air was soothing. He slackened his pace and let himself drift with the flowing crowd.

Shop windows glinted in the hazy spring sunshine as he passed. Women were wearing light, brightly coloured dresses; men took off their hats and squinted up at the sun. Attracted by children's cries, he edged through a group of people standing around' a one-armed man, who had strapped from his shoulders a tray of miniature woolly dogs. Some children laughed and others clutched at their mother's skirts when one of the toy dogs held by almost invisible threads moved weirdly at the man's feet.

As the pilot moved on, he heard the man say, "Buy one for the kids, ladies, and 'elp an old soldier."

There were gaps between some of the buildings like crude black scars. He paused where a whole block had been blasted out and peered through a chink in the board fence that had been built around it. In the heaps of blackened rubble tufts of grass, vivid spring green, were sprouting; on a fire-warped girder a bird perched with a straw in its mouth.

He caught something of the exhilaration, the regeneration of the crowd around him as he walked along in the sun. He longed to be able to loosen his uniform jacket and let the warmth strike closer to his skin. Out of the corner of his eye he became aware of a pair of shapely, silk-clad legs, and he realised that for several blocks a woman had been following him.

He sauntered until she was almost level with him. He could see that she was wearing a hip-length fur coat, and that she was still very young. For an instant he hesitated uncertainly, then he felt again the sun's fresh warmth on his face, and suddenly he stepped off the kerb and made his way swiftly through the traffic to the other side of the street.

He was still walking when the air-raid siren went. It began with a gurgling murmur, rising steadily to a high-pitched scream. He stopped. There was nothing visible in the sky. The sun still shone. But he felt suddenly chilled. There was something strange in the silent, purposefulness of the crowd as they dispersed towards the shelters and the mouth of the nearby underground. Few ran; but children sobbed as they searched, wide-eyed for the source of the terrifying noise.

Then he saw it. At first it was a black speck, rapidly growing larger. In the distance appeared two smaller dots, moving with incredible speed, and he knew why the anti-aircraft guns hadn't opened fire.

"Spitfires!" he excitedly shouted, unaware that those still in the street were

4

rushing frantically. The larger aircraft had dived and was roaring closer almost at roof-top level. He could make out the long engine nacelles of the Junkers 88, and felt a sharp thrill of pride and confidence at having identified his first enemy aircraft. He was thinking that if all of his pilot's training he had received back home was as thorough he should have little to worry about.

The fighters were closing in; there was a crackle of machine guns. Petrified he watched the Junkers desperately weave. Then he was shouting; shouting as he used to shout during the last few minutes of an exciting Rugby match at Athletic Park. His cap was pushed back and his eyes were shining.

He gasped! The Junkers turned so tightly it appeared to stand on one wing. The manoeuvre threw off the fighters. Now they were circling widely to come in again. But there was something amiss with the Junkers. Almost overhead, its clean lines had become distorted. Too late he realised its bomb doors were opening. The objects that fell away from its belly glinted for an instant like minnows in the sun.

The terrible wind that had torn at his uniform had gone, when he recovered consciousness. He felt curiously numb. He saw that the top floors of the depart-mental store opposite were no longer there. A column of smoke poured through the roof, which looked as if it had been crushed in with a mighty hammer.

His cap was missing. He began to search for it among the shattered glass. In his stupor its importance became tremendous. He must find it. It would be warm and familiar. Unlike everything around him that had suddenly become unreal. The smoke-darkened street, the burst building, the uniformed figures dragging long, grey hoses didn't belong to his world. But his cap would be different. It had become almost part of his personality. It had grease stains on the inside band, and his official number, which he had come to know as well as his name . . . N.Z.4. . . . N.Z. . . . But now he couldn't remember even that. His limbs began to tremble violently and he had to sit down on the kerb.

Another ambulance skidded to a standstill, and as he moved across the street, still dazed, two ambulance men lifted a crumpled form from the footpath. He noticed dark rivulets running from where the body had lain. But it was not until he recognised the brief fur coat that he vomited.

Inside the building a group of men were struggling with a heavy timber. One of the men shouted to him; he knew he was shouting because his lips vere moving and he was waving his arms. He knew by the gestures and the moving lips that he must lend a hand; for he was deaf from the explosion.

The smoke had gone and the pale sunlight of late afternoon was falling through the broken roof when they removed the last victim. The pilot's lungs were aching from the acrid vapours left by the H.E., but above the ringing in his ears he could hear again. The rescue workers began to wipe the dust and filth from their faces and clothes.

5

"Thank God!" said a member of the A.F.S. "Most of them got into the shelters in time."

"Even so the bloody Jerry got enough," a sharp-faced man cut in, "'E's noth-ing but a murderer . . . women and kids is 'is meat. One of the kids I dug out was still 'olding a kind of woolly dog."

The pilot began to brush his uniform vigorously, fighting against the sickness mounting sharply in him again.

"They're getting it back themselves now," said a fat man with a white A.R.P. armlet. "It's the only way to end it. They ain't human." His small eyes lit on the pilot, putting on his uniform jacket.

"Had a go at them, son?" "Er . . . No, not yet. I've not been over here long," the pilot replied. "I hope

to be posted to a bomber squadron when this leave is up." "When you are," the fat man continued, "drop them a few extra for me. I

lost the missus in the Blitz." A man sitting on a fallen beam apart from the group raised his white face.

He had removed his shirt earlier and trickles of sweat were still rolling off his body.

"Do you think it makes any difference whether you murder German or Eng-lish women and children?" he asked.

"What are ya getting at, mate?" the fat man demanded.

"Do German women and children suffer any less than ours when they are mangled by bombs?" questioned the white-faced man.

"Who the bleeding hell started it?" some one demanded. "Was it German women and children?" the seated man argued.

"Who the hell bombs women and kids except the Jerrys?" the man ex-postulated.

"We do." The man replied, his face even whiter. "We cannot avoid it any more than they can."

No one answered that directly. The crowd began to mutter ominously. The fat man*s voice rose louder than the rest. He was saying what he would like to do to Pacifists and conscientious objectors. The men began to drift towards the street, arguing among themselves.

The pilot glanced back at the seated figure. His shoulders were slumped and his head was in his hands. He seemed unaware of the fat man who stood several paces away looking down on him. His trousers were still coated in white dust. That was from the Wall that had fallen on him before the fire was under control. He had plunged into the dangerous spots and had not lacked physical courage, any-how, the pilot reflected. The fat man stood very still, opening and closing his big hands at his sides. Then he cleared his throat and, rolling the saliva around

6

in his mouth, spat in front of the seated figure, and turned and followed the others.

Outside the police had a cordon across the street. The pilot moved into the crowd of onlookers beyond the rope and looked back at the building. Dusk was coming swiftly. He stood for a long time in the silent, awed crowd. As he watched, the broken outline of the walls was tinged for an instant by the last rays of the dead sun.

Suddenly melancholy, he turned to walk away, when a voice behind him said:

"Care to join me in a drink, Sergeant?"

He wheeled to face an Air Force officer. He noticed with surprise the two and a half rings of a squadron leader, and beneath his D.S.O. and D.F.C. rib-bons, the small gold eagle that designated the officer as a pilot on Pathfinders and a crack veteran in the R.A.F. Bomber Command. Then he looked up into the white face and the tired eyes of the man who had sat and argued in the building.

"Yes . . . thanks . . . er, sir," he stammered. But as they walked along he wasn't conscious for a long time of what he was saying or doing. He was thinking so deeply.

—J.R.C.

GIRL WITH A VIOLIN

NOW are we caught by the hour, yet timeless, beyond all time. Now are we caught in the music-mesh, but wind-free, delivered from space. Softly and softly melody comes a shy and tremulous thing. as the fluttering moth to the candle-flame, as the fawn to the pool to drink. This is living—all-golden, sweet— Ah, no. Comes the note of pain. This is all loneliness, death-despairing, the ariel-spirit mortality-seared, man in his isolation. No hope then . . . but hope comes stealing, throbbing and swelling and all-enfolding, tearing crescendo of ultimate knowing, of power transcending the limiting flesh. The slim girl, life-young, lowers the bow. Even the exquisite hour has ending.

—Candide

7

A Morning Fog

BRE you awake? It's a quarter past six."

Mac opened his eyes on a bloodshot world, crawled out of bed, had a wash, and hurriedly dressed. When he went into the kitchen he noticed for

the first time the fog that lay round Havelock. He shivered and cursed the Royal Navy, because he hadn't been able to join its ranks as soon as he had wanted.

Brushing his fair hair back off his forehead, he began a hasty, though sub-stantial, breakfast. He had promised to be at Court's by seven o'clock to harvest lettuce for the I.M.D.

His watch had stopped and, not trusting any of the house clocks, he went out to the side porch to check up from the village clock, which was only a hundred yards away. He saw the fog again: just beyond the gate it covered the road, the border of plane trees, the houses, the few shops, and the clock. He uttered some strong good-natured oaths. A few minutes later he pedalled along the footpath and turned past the barn-like cream hotel to the main road stretching to Hastings. On either side were plane trees, bedewed, with their fresh foliage not moved by any wind. The road sloped towards the river that flowed on the old Ngararoro bed. The fog was now thicker half-way down the incline and the asphalt road, be-coming less and less visible, completely vanished a few yards further on. The bridge, too, had gone from sight, and a stranger would have found it in surprise as he approached.

As Mac passed the clock, he glanced at it. Twenty to seven. He had enough time since it was barely a mile and a-half to Court's.

The air was cool and tiny water-drops fell on him unnoticed. At the bridge he looked to the right: the river, low and weedy at the banks, curved round a few hundred yards downstream. Willows and poplars stretched back in mingled green shades which grew more and more indistinct in the distance. There was an unbelievable fineness about the colour and form of the quiet trees. The morn-ing because of this too, seemed finer than evening: through the wraithy atmosphere light was not departing, as at the approach of night, but was slowly spreading in radiance. Along the roadside telegraph poles were less harsh than usual, and when the sun shone through for a moment they almost assumed a grandeur. Mac turned down a road on the left and saw Te Mata Peak and the Havelock Hills as mere outlines, suggestive of repose and dignity, under the fog. He half expected to find himself still dozing; if he shut his eyes he might turn over in bed and go to sleep again.

It was early when he arrived at Court's. As the lettuce patch was near the gate and the house (distinct enough because it stood on a rise), was about ten chains away, he waited for old Court to wander down. It was better to wait, any-way, because the old fool might have changed his mind about the cutting.

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The fields stretched back to the river which turned in an arc around the pro-perty. The field where he stood was brown, and on the downward slope and on the willows by the river lay the fog. Strangely, it gave him a feeling of warmth although the air was damp enough, he felt warm and secure. All except this sm.., area was hidden. It was satisfying to gaze at the unmoving mist and the fine out-lines. There was present that sense of security he had seldom known since child-hood.

He turned as he heard the light padding of feet. "Oo, isn't the fog funny?" He suddenly saw Mary, chasing a black kitten over the rye-grass. She was

only ten. Her hair fell in a dark fringe across her forehead as she picked up the soft purring thing.

"Isn't the fog funny? When you walk into it, it isn't there. It goes away." Mac sneezed. "You're telling me," he said. "But it's over by the river now," she said. "Got a new kitten?" "The other one died? He wasn't very strong. Arthur's one is still alive." "What have you done to your finger?" "A splinter's in it," she said. She displayed an antiphlogistine poultice.

"Mummy put some concrete on it yesterday." "I bet it was an effort for you to get up early this morning," twitted Mac. "Yes," she answered, and holding the kitten tightly, she ran back to the

house. A moment later Court came down, with his one blind eye and his customary,

"I trust I see you well, Mac?" They put out the cases and began cutting the lettuces. Then, at some time,

while they worked, the fog lifted and put them in full view of the outer world. Animal sounds and the noise of occasional traffic on shingle roads were no longer muffled. Other activity, other lives, crowded in upon them; and the sun shone through, thrusting rays of light, willy-nilly, wherever it could.

—R.I.F.P.

TO A DAHLIA

BLOOD-BLACK, mysterious hue, If sight were sound, then you Would swell to fill your little universe With perfect chord, transcendant harmony, While mortal ear, suspecting, agonise; Even as human eye, too base to see The colour that beats there, Abandons in despair.

—E.M.M.

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Happy Little Amoeba T was exactly a year ago to-day that I met the hermit philosopher.

I I I was in India at the time filling a temporary post in the civil service. My work often took me into outlandish places among the hills, and it was on

one of these occasions that I decided to take a long, solitary walk. Possibly the peace and loneliness of the place would help me to forget some of the hard things Audrey had said during our last meeting. "Unspeakable presumption. . . . Impos-sible young upstart. . . . No man has ever before dared. . . ." And so on.

So engrossed was I in these gloomy meditations that I started violently when a voice sounded almost at my elbow.

"The path you are on has been undermined by the re-cent rains and is far from safe. However, if you are in no hurry to turn back you are welcome to the poor hospitality of my cave." He was little and frail and although his hair was quite white and his skin reminded me of an old college song about a prune, he was as nimble as a boy in scrambling over the rocks. And the "poor hospitality" ofhis cave! This was no austere hermit sleeping on ashes. The walls were lined ivith books, a beautiful carpet covered the floor, the furniture was well chosen am* expensive. There was even a wireless set How on earth had he persuaded the coolies to carry all this stuff up from the station? For a little while I was quite speechless.

"So," he said, when we were comfortably seated and he had poured me out a drink, "the fair lady has turned you down and set you about your business."

I gasped. "Oh, man is always at some stage in the game of love," he explained, "and

his entire bearing invariably gives him away. He is either looking for love, has found or lost love and occasionally is thoroughly sick of love."

We were both silent for a little while. "You know," he mused, at length, "the Creator that you worship is very

wonderful, but I cannot help thinking that He made one mistake. He created men and women. No, I did not say humans (a rational being is a triumph of creation), but men and women. Every species, if it is to endure, must replenish itself from time to time. Now what could be more simple or convenient than the way in which the lower forms of life reproduce themselves? Compare their method with ours. Let us take as our example the people you know, the western races.

"Take your adolescent youth. What a monstrosity he is! Have you ever observed his almost insane desire to attract atten-tion with his idi otic pranks, his violent neckties and so on?"

I thought of my college companions and sighed deeply. "Now couple all this with his extreme self-consciousness and

awkwardness, and you behold a figure at once revolting and path-etic.

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"Take your adolescent girl. Think how she renders herself hideous in order to attract the monstrosity. You must be only too well aware how she dangles her-self before him in inadequate and showy clothing, ridiculous shoes and lip-

I thought of my handkerchiefs and sighed again. "What is the outcome of all this? The lipstick and shoes do their

work; sooner or later the monstrosity is captured. The girl—what a life is hers! Foregoing whatever natural talents she may have she must spend the remainder of her days in the endless drudgery

of rearing a family. See what our system of reproduction does—it places one half of humanity in virtual slavery.

"And the man. There is no need for me to elaborate on the ago-nies of him who has loved and lost. But he who has loved and won is in an equally unenviable position. What disillusionment is his!

Love has proved nothing but a snare and a delusion; now he is faced with an ever-increasing number of mouths to feed and all his finer instincts become subordinate to this one pressing need. One of your great men once said 'A married man will do anything for money.' How truly did he speak.

"Oh, how much better it would be if the world were peopled with self-suffici-ent, rational beings who would periodically split down the middle—and lo and behold, two self-sufficient, rational beings would walk away! What a saving of time, worry and effort. When you consider how much human activity is concerned, both directly and indirectly, with reproduction, and how it overshadows the greater part of our lives, I am sure my argument will appeal to you very strongly."

Yes, this all happened exactly one year ago. I cannot think why the details should have come back to me so vividly. Perhaps it is because Valerie slammed down the receiver in my ear last night as soon as she recognised my voice, or per-haps it is just the sight of this still, green pond. Somewhere down there in the murky depths you are swimming contentedly. Your life's happiness does not de-pend on the uncertain whims of some tempermental female; nobody slams down a receiver in your ear.

Ah, happy little Amoeba, would that I were you! —P.H.

Walt Disney and "Fantasia" cartoon, or humorous drawing, is not new. It has existed in much the

L I , same form with which we are familiar ever since man first learned to scratch upon a hard surface. Ever since the beginning it has been a normal, if not

essential, outlet for emotion. To-day, this form of expression, with its prototype of rock-scratchings, has

reached a stage of both development and beauty, which was undreamed of even thirty years ago. This sudden improvement has been brought about by the adaptation of the cartoon idiom to the movie camera.

This development, in my opinion, reached a magnificent climax with Walt Disney's "Fantasia."

This film enriches the emotional experience of the audience through an addi-tional appeal to the imagination. The music, as a result, has deeper meaning and seems more understandable. At the same time the imagery on the screen inspires flights of fancy beyond those which the music alone can evoke.

Somehow or other, those scribbly little black and white drawings we used to laugh at have changed. We have allowed what is perhaps the most potent form of artistic expression ever devised to evolve beneath our eyes. For with "Fantasia," Walt Disney ceased to produce cartoons. Instead he produced the greatest form of art in the world to-day.

Walt Disney's world of imagination is perfectly portrayed in this film; for "Fantasia" is the collected images which are formed in his mind by the various compositions which form the foundation of the film.

How much more exciting is the world of the imagination, where the unpre^ dictable occurs in the ordinary course of events, where time can be made to move backwards or forwards, where one can surrender one's identity without any loss of self-respect. Here at last, one may achieve that kinship with nature which all of us feel inside ourselves, but which we rarely acknowledge. No longer are we de-pendent upon our sense of perceptions to interpret the basic impulses of flowery and trees, nor need we have recourse to reason to interpret the behaviour of birds and animals. We can share life with them directly. No longer is a leaf a fragment of tree; it is a sentient being, a ballerina, leaping and pirouetting with all the freedom that we know comes only from training. How easily recognisable are the individual types when seen with the perspective of the child! How every flower becomes an actor, a whimsical personality ready and eager to enter into the spirit of the game.

Once we surrender to the spirit of the film we are carried along without con-scious effort. Sights and sounds convey new meaning, and we respond. What, for instance, is to an enlightened soul more obvious than an insect orchestra? It is

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merely a matter of getting all those little noises under control. And for instru-ments? Well, why were flowers shaped like trumpets? We must admit, however, that it takes the rarefied imagination of a worker in the Disney Studio to visualise completely the problems of a beetle trying to attain mastery of his art.

Disney does not hesitate to endow animate and inanimate forms with a vitality of their own, suggested by their shape and behaviour. The anthropomorphic tendency is inherent in our make-up, and like no other mode of expression in our history, the animated sound picture lends itself to this form of make-believe.

This then, is the Disney world—a timeless, spacially unlimited, realm where all is one continuous adventure for those who have retained their youth, one in which whatever laws may be are in a constant state of transition; a world where one is baffled by his inability to decide what is real and what is only imaginary.

As the spirits sweep around the base of Bald Mountain, lured upward by the beckoning gesture of the devil incarnate, the visually dynamic pattern responds to the music in such a way that pattern and music become fused together. Then we, too, are caught up in the vortex and whirled into a new-dimensional universe where time disintegrates and space is immeasurable.

In the "Nutcracker Suite" the Arab dance has a languorous quality, evoking a dreamy, mystical mood, and one in extreme contrast to that of the Russian dance that precedes it. The Chinese dance is represented by Chinese toadstool dancers. They are small, stocky and precisely contoured, with a basic simplicity of form which discourages modification. The little mandarin hats and the angled eyebrows indicative of the radical structure of the plant itself are ail that is necessary to suggest human beings. Nothing remains but to indicate with extreme subtlety a body structure that will allow trotting around with quick little footsteps and from time to time a perverse wriggle to break any possible monotony.

When Stravinsky composed "The Rite of Spring," he had in mind, perhaps, some pagan festival in which man surrendered himself temporarily to the earth-mother. Disney Studios have given this piece a different interpretation, for they have portrayed the earth coming into being. The audience shares in the origin of life and watches itself evolve from something akin to an amoeba.

I believe that Walt. Disney has produced an artistic masterpiece, and my desire is that there may be many more films like "Fantasia."

—W.R.H.

Weep not that we must part, And all our love-time done: I'll not die of a broken heart But live with one.

—Candide

13

The Rebirth of Man A Philosophical View of Religious Conversion

Y religious conversion we will signify for the purposes of this article all sudden changes in a man's mode of life, due not to external circumstances, but to a change in his deepest beliefs. This, I hope, will provide a sufficiently

broad basis to include all men of all religions, and is not dependent on any ex-ternal circumstances, but solely on the existence of a man capable of holding beliefs.

The philosophical viewpoint with which I am acquainted, considers that the evidence is sufficient for us to hold that conversion has its roots in what is called the subconscious. As all our knowledge of the sub-conscious must pass through our outer consciousness, it follows that its investigation is beset with many diffi-culties. It is not suggested that this "explains away" religious conversion, but only that it places it on a firm philosophical footing. Indeed, it is considered as the first step in any true understanding which we may seek to achieve of the full meaning of religious conversion.

Now that we have established ourselves on such foundations, it is time for us to consider the distinguishing features which characterise the higher levels of religious conversion, of which we are yet aware. Some of these are—First,

A belief that the person concerned possesses the truth, an intuitive feeling of justification.

Secondly, an overwhelming confidence in his capacity to live up to what he believes to be true.

It is these two phases that Christians are taught to recognise and accept as the Gift of the Holy Spirit.

.Lastly, there is a transference of that basic certainty of which one is pos-sessed to the varying creeds of religious life. In other words, a transference of one's convictions to such matters possibly as form one single "orthodox" religious view point.

Let us consider the nature of the last phase in a critical light, and not bound by the conventionalities of any orthodox Christian view point. The conclusion which will be reached is that it is the basis of all religious dissension, and should be debunked.

Is it a logical explanation to say "I know I have the Truth, and so I know anybody who disagrees with me must be wrong"? I think not. The most enlight-ened men with whom we are acquainted have never presented to us that Unifor-mity of Thought, which would enable us to say, "Yes, I believe in all, equally, in all the ramifications of their thought."

Did Christ ever place the stamp of his approval on a form of salvation, de-pendent necessarily on doctrinal belief? Matthew vii. 21-22 would seem to indicate

14

not. "Not everyone who says to me, Lord, Lord, will enter in the Kingdom of Heaven, but only those who are obedient to my Father who is in Heaven." Further, Mark ix. 38-41, is a striking testimonial on behalf of religious tolerance.

Augustine, that classic example of conversion, had a firm belief in slavery as ordained by God to punish man's sinfulness, even while he laid the founda-tions on which we were later to reject the whole theory. All men have their think-ing determined in some measure by their environment. Or consider the great Pro-testant Reformers. Both Luther and Calvin rejected Freewill as impossible in any way at all, as regards the relation of man to God. They set up the idea of the right of the individual to choose his own beliefs, and then sought to thrust their own on those who followed them. Nor were they aware even of their own in-consistency, as they did not think anybody could possibly in a free world of thought ever think differently from themselves. Here is the explanation of that multiplicity of beliefs which characterises Protestant thought. For it is evident that the prophet who evolves a new religious idea is right in his own mind when he presents it to the world. But, too often, his followers lack that positive inspiration from which their sect evolved. Consequently, in their ignorance, they seek to deny its validity when it reappears in possibly a higher form; regardless that their

•leader may not have claimed to have had the last word in Truth.

A feasible conclusion would seem to be, then, that we can never in advance claim any final standard, but only that we "feel" certain things to be true, and that our final belief will incorporate these. Also, we must concede the right of others to have their individual standards, equally worthy of being considered as in large measure true.

This state of affairs is stable as long as all are prepared to permit the indivi-dual to be the sole judge of what he himself believes, This is the only Tolerance worthy of the name. Insofar as it is threatened by any person, thought, or creed, it would be well for us to stand together to defend our individual rights.

As a conversion is usually accompanied by what the critic at any rate discerns to be patent absurdities, little importance can be attached to the idea that the critic's conversion should follow a similar pattern. Similarly, the typical Christian confirmation during adolescence cannot rightly be termed a conversion, but only the conforming to a pattern set by others. For a conversion is a pouring out of ideas from within, which a man is impelled to recognise as his own. To each man his conversion would be to a fuller knowledge of himself in relation to Reality, or as Christians would say, in relation to God.

But never can it be said that the convert feels the need of defence. He is truly self-sufficient. The depth of his conversion is the extent to which he sees himself—his desires, his potentialities, and his highest aspirations.

His desire is to achieve what he feels to be right and true. Knowing his desires, he is in the position to fulfil them. Knowing that his potentiality can be

15

dominated by his desires, he declares himself invincible in his determination. Knowing his aspirations, he finds keen enjoyment in the world about him, in which he can seek to achieve his aspirations. Wrong cannot trouble him as long as his aim is solely to do what he thinks right or even best. To seek to do good is to do good. To know the Highest is to accept Him. And in that knowledge will come such serenity of mind, such satisfaction in the smallest, most insignificant achieve-ment of one's aspirations that he who possesses it may well be termed blessed.

—D.C.

LAST FAREWELL

MELANCHOLIC presence of the night, ghostlike, infiltrates the work-worn world of man and beast home-seeking; stealthy creeps the dusty skirt-hem of her pelfy hemisphere; fire-eyes devour the east and lust after the west and probe the deepest nook, even of my lowly dwelling; off-shutting me from foe, and friend, death-darkness makes of me a willy-nilly recluse, and binds me to my bed to wait slow sleep's oblivion. Whose blankets only yesternight close-gloved a brother form, across the room the other bed a last harsh glow defiles and brands it vacant bed . . . blinding symbol of consuming solitude I flee that sadist monster's gloating pleasure bulging from the exercise of emphasising pain; alone, and hideously lonely*, I sleep, and dream, and wake again, to find that corner empty . . . still . . .

—P.H.N.

16

Masterpiece

OW old was she? The man in the car could not tell. Perhaps she was l l ^ j thirty, perhaps eighteen. He was shrewd enough and versed enough in the

^ wiles of womankind to realise that if the girl were decently dressed, she would pass muster in any company, and attract the attention of all the men. Now, though, she was incredibly dowdy, in an old filthy pair of dungarees and a faded blue shirt that did less than justice to her flecked green eyes. She leaned upon the switch she had been carrying as if she were glad of temporary respite. He liked her voice as she told him, tiredly, which route to take to get out of this quiet valley. The driver did not know why he had come down from the main road; the sun on the short grass and the ripe corn had tempted him here, and now he must leave, because there was nothing, nothing at all, except this young-old tired girl, with wrinkles at the corners of her steady eyes, and light in the waves of her thick fair hair.

There was no more to ask. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he dare pretend an interest in the history of the locality, with a view to detaining her; but the girl was too honest to be deceived by such a trick. The cows she had been driving straggled down the lane and into the road, and he sensed her anxiety for them. He knew that there was no hotel in the neighbourhood, and that he would never see her again, but propriety forced him to start the car and leave her stand-ing in a cloud of dust until she was hardly identifiable as a silhouette against a cliff of sheer papa.

Joan watched the car pass along the flat, and up the hill, then she saw the puff of dust forming and settling along the crest of the hill until it dwindled and disappeared. She was alone again, and wearily bunched the cows before she con-tinued her journey to the river.

All her life seemed to have been bounded and hemmed in by animal figures which demanded all her energy. Once she had dreamed, and planned escape from the valley into the world of her choice. Now she barely hoped. The stranger in the car had been a symbol of her of civilisation, but the reality had never paused before her as he did. Nobody achieved anything without God-given oppor-tunity, and for Joan there were no opportunities at all, and never would be any, now.

The thick boots hurt her as she stumbled once or twice into the ruts in the lane. That morning she had been too sleepy to put on socks. Occasionally the socks disgusted her, she resented having to wear trousers and a masculine shirt. Her being ached for frills and silks, dainty china and the security of routine drawing-room teas in a locality where the weather was ornamental and animals were pets.

The cows lumbered down to the river. While they drank, Joan drew her knees

17

up to her chin and sat watching them with the slow resentment which had never yet flared to the surface. Other girls from the district had quarrelled with their parents and left for the companionship of town, but Joan's circumstances were different—her father would have had to sell if she left, and she did not know what he would do then. He hardly realised what she wanted, urgently and always —an opportunity to write, away from here, of people and places and the inter-relation of time and eventuality. She imagined and thought deeply, and with free-dom from responsibilities and a change of environment she was sure she could write, and write well. If she could produce one piece that satisfied her, she would be content to retire to the valley with the plaudits of qualified critics as her only recompense. But here, there would never be rcognition, and she doubted if there could be full self-expression in this atmosphere of turmoil and struggle with elementary irrational forces.

Rising from the bank, the girl strolled down to collect the cows. One had to be driven out from the shallows, and by the time she had finished Joan was wet to the knees. The heavy boots squelched in the silt and became coated with mud as she trekked behind the herd back home to the sheds.

Marshall, in an extraordinary tartan shirt, was waiting for her. He sat on a rail swinging his bare legs; his hair was slicked back and his teeth flashed vividly in his shining, dark face. Partly for his unusual punctuality, but mainly for his volubility, Joan employed Marshall to help with the milking. He rarely stopped talking, and though there was no substance to his remarks, while his monologues lasted they were amusing.

The last cow had been driven out to the paddocks, and the first dusk was mixing with purple the rich sunlight in the hollows of the valley. Always, Joan loved this elastic melancholy hour, when the pastels spread through the sky and dark moved slowly upwards from the fields, whose aridity was shielded by the softer light.

Inside, she removed her old clothing, bathed in a meagre tub of water, and changed into a light frock. Her hair was brushed and she touched her mouth with lipstick. Until recently, her father had liked her this way. To-night she did not expect that he would care how she looked.

In a smooth bed by the window, her father lay peacefully. He must have heard her come in but did not turn. For weeks he had hardly moved, to the doc-tor's amazement, because there was little wrong with him physically. Perhaps the doctor was too polite to say what Joan believed—that her father, tired of the endless struggle against too heavy odds, had collapsed suddenly and could see no reason for getting well. The meaning had gone from his life, and unless he could be persuaded to take an interest in things again, he would wither like a plant that had been uprooted.

Joan placed the kerosene lamp in the far end of the room and went to him,

18

talking softly all the time. When she bent over him she perceived the flicker of a smile on his face. She had worked for weeks to see it, and was filled with a deep joy now that it had come.

When he first went to bed and after the usual remedies had been prescribed, Joan set herself the task of curing his sick spirit. She made a trip to the nearest small town to buy him books, carefully choosing those she thought would interest him. For days they lay unopened beside his bed, so she had begun to read to him. He remained motionless and speechless.

The things which interested him were rarely enclosed in books because they were hard to describe and so simple that they were scorned as obvious and senti-mental. The remedy was desperate, but it was the only one she could conceive to bring her father back from his lethargy.

Diffidently, she had begun her story a fortnight ago. During that time her father had been gradually regaining his appetite, and there was peace instead of tenseness in his inert form. To-night she would know whether or not she could be assured of contentment in the long same years to come.

Softly she began to summarise what she had told him previously, the story of the young man who had gone to the war to fight for his future, come back to find that he must make his own niche with his hands, married, and lovingly de-veloped his farm. Over the simple facts of her father's life, the story-teller shed a glow, making nobility shine from him and from the neighbours who were deftly woven into the tale. The meaningless past was injected with a theme, the constant struggle of man against a few acres which he finally subdued to his will, until at the end of his life he could look back with pride from the pinnacle of his epic achievement. When her words trailed gracefully to a closfe, Joan sat with her hands folded, her eyes upon the friendly hills which were hers now, because she had described them, upon the corn which she had woven into a lyric, the gathering dusk which had been her inspiration throughout, the placid animals which could now be interpreted as a symbol of the eternal wholesomeness of the sustaining countryside. And in the story-teller's heart there was the glad weariness of the artist who has succeeded.

Her father turned and put out his hand.

"My dear—" he said.

—D.McC.

ft

In Suburbia OMINION ROAD is about four miles long and almost straight. It runs from Eden Terrace, which is a slum, to the White Swan Road, where the small town supply milkmen and strawberry growers have their holdings, and

in all its length I can think of only three houses which are pleasant to look at through being handsome and well-kept. It is a working-class road and its houses and shops are utilities erected grudgingly with an economy in design and material that is tempered only by the desire to produce the best impression possible.

In general, it can be said that the ages of the houses indicate the ages of the people living in them—in any case, from looking at the houses one can read the history of the road and discern the limits of each of the separate phases of its spasmodic push over the rolling country out from town and see the three places where the tramlines halted for a generation and collected a shopping-centre called The Terminus, while the new housing estates were parcelled out in the surround-ing fields. Now it is all suburban, from the little houses near the Railway Bridge, with verandahs close to the road and centre passages, that are "Grannie's Place" now, through the shopping centres with their perambulators and slippers and hair-curlers, to the new State houses where the lawnmowers are loud on Saturday after-noons and the window-sills are infested with wedding-present clay dogs. All the way it speaks of small lives, restricted by mediocrity, lack of money, of education, of ambition, and tied by domestic responsibility.

Between Valley Road and Balmoral, the first and second terminals, there are three churches, built by the last of the God-fearing generations, when the dis-trict began to "go ahead," and it was recognised that the city churches were too far away. The people for whom the churches were built live pleasantly in the side streets and their spinster daughters are about thirty-six now. The main road has been taken over by the small businessman, and theatres (three of them also), small cabinetmakers and home-cookeries are squeezing out the houses.

Balmoral Community Business Centre is squalid on a Sunday afternoon. De-serted, except for a few young men and strolling couples, its doors locked, with all its wares taken inside and its upstairs population invisible in Sabbath privacy, it is ugly in the afternoon sun.

But Balmoral's buildings, though dingy, are solid. You appreciate that when you come to the newer, cruder parts that follow. Shackleton Road corner is the climax. The main road rises steeply here and the corner is just below the skyline, where westerly clouds are rolling over in strong blue and white. There are green, open spaces about here, too. They are the sections that are still too poor to find a buyer after twenty years and are in the undisputed possession of fennel and inkweed. The three small blocks of shops stand in bold relief, with their cement sides and backs and their shameless plumbing exposed to view. About them you

20

can see the denizens of the neighbourhood with their milk-jugs and evening papers, but these have not the slightly Bohemian charm the same articles would have in the hands of the dwellers of Grafton and Lower Symonds Street.

There they have behind them the implication of lives that are not static, irrevocably settled by the demands of a family. About the dweller in one room you can argue that there is a prospect of some change ahead of him, and that this one-room family cannot be an impossible millstone. At Shackleton Road it is likely that the same milk-jug will be coming to the corner every evening as long as it endures, and if you look at the overcoat that goes with the newspaper you will see that it will never be discarded on grounds of style—it will come out every winter until it is threadbare. I think this place is the climax of all the dreariness of the road, because it is the last considerable hill. Coming up to the corner you are perhaps led to imagine that that hint of nature, rank as it is, in the vacant sections, and the splendid unassailable sky, herald the country—that perhaps there is a rolling plain over the hill, with wide fields and chasing cloud shadows. When you go over the crest you will find Koala, Garden Court and Ascotville Flats, of yellow and pink stucco, the Excelsior Dairy, and tramlines without end.

—I.M.P.

HOMO SAPIENS

IT IS NOT POSSIBLE to reconcile ideal theories And the positive laws of the science, With the heart's clamour— There is a set place for knowledge imbibed under constraint, A dry as dust nook—a selected logically appointed corner, Its location set in the foremost area of the temple. Now make the attempt—having this in mind— To relegate in like manner the emotions of a man. Reduce them by physical formulae, reasoned argument And a nice analysis of what eminent philosophy Found concerning the ape. There will be much there that, being conceived, Sets what is felt in bondage to what is known. It was a nicely bound book—the intellectuals Thought highly of it— The clinical psychologist even claimed that there would be Unprecedented changes in the basic fundamentals of education. Strange to say none thought it disconcerting When the author was found dead in the garage— The verdict—suicide. If it had been possible no doubt he would Have added a note To this effect—momentary over-action of the right adrenal.

—M.J.L.

21

The Fridg.

^Jto'HE Anglican clergyman had appeared on the first day while Jess was trying 1 1 to get the stove going. It was unfortunate that she greeted him with a hearty

"Damn" through the smoke. He was so apologetic that she was sorry to have to tell him that they would

be of no good for his congregation. You are not hm—hm, he had stammered. Oh, no. We just don't go to church. He had hovered around and tried to help with the stove, while she told him

the story of their misfortune. Yes, it had been such a nice shop and beautifully fitted up. They had even

invested in a fridg—one of those with a glass door that you could see through to the inside. After the shop burnt down, Ron, that was her husband, had been ill. And that was why he had to take this job at the village store.

The parson looked sympathetic and worried and offered her the loan of some crockery, and said his wife would love to come and help her with the flues.

It was six before Ron came home. He had taken a wrong turning on the de-livery run. He had brought some big boxes from the store. He would fix them up nicely one day. But after tea he chopped wood and then it was too dark to do any-thing. So for now they piled their things on top of the boxes.

The next visitor knocked at the front door. Jess called out from the kitchen to come round. The visitor was holding a paper in his hand, and smiling brightly as he greeted her.

I was just passing by, he said. Perhaps you would like to have the plan of the Presbyterian services.

He looked curiously at the boxes and the things on them and at the torn wallpaper and the patched floor.

He must excuse it all, Jess said, they had not had the time to arrange things. She explained about the shop and all their troubles.

He said he was most willing to help in any way and assured her that every-thing would turn out well.

I suppose the boy will come to Sunday School. All the kids came. His bright continuous smile seemed menacing.

But Jess was brave and said they did not go in for that sort of thing. He smiled knowingly as if he was sure she would yield.

You might change your mind. We shall always welcome him. If any more parsons come, tell them we're Jews or Mohammedans, Ron said,

when he came home. Everybody was so helpful. The parson's wife came and helped with the flues

and brought some silverbeet. The Presbyterian left a dozen ggs and half a sack of

22

potatoes at the door. But don't tell anybody I did, he said. The store manager looked in while they were papering the living room and

the other assistant, Doug, came in with his wife, who brought jam and plum sauce.

Jess was quite overwhelmed, but Ron said, it was like that in the country, people were so kind-hearted.

But still Jess couldn't get used to the life. Her whole day was spent in put-ting things away, in case visitors came, or rescuing food from the blowflies. Of course, the meat got blown and the milk had little grubs in it.

She would lament. If only—only—we had our fridg! Ron said, Nonsense! Everyone else was managing without. She had to be

careful. But the nice things she used to make! Cold jellies, ice creams, cool salads, and

Billy wouldn't take his milk unless it came out of the fridg. Jess began to ask advice from the neighbours. Mrs. Jones, where they got

the milk, said, Our things get blown, too. The smoked fish is the worst. The last we had we could hardly eat any of it.

Jess sprayed Flit and boiled vinegar, but still the flies came in and filled the house with their buzzing. Only the pussy liked them. She ate them by the dozen.

On a black day when the beetroot that had been left to cool was honey-combed by maggots, and the rest of the yeast that was kept in a glass jar was alive with busy grubs wriggling in and out, over and under, Jess broke down.

You can't keep anything! Nothing to eat! She shouted hysterically at Ron when he came in.

I'm going away. This beastly place. These flies. These beastly people. Ron was upset. Damn it. Let's get the fridg. There's that seventy pounds we

have left from the insurance. No. Let's go away. I'm starved. I hate the place. Ron said he liked his job and would a fridg make it better for her? He was

prepared to invest some money. They could always take it with them if they had a new shop some day.

At last she consented. They were just able to fit the beautiful white monster between the kitchen

entrance and the door of the sitting room. Of course, it made the kitchen very small.

Jess was happy. They lived for a week on cold things and hot tea. Every-thing went into the fridg as soon as it arrived: the meat, the bread, the eggs, the vegetables. And now she felt quite capable of coping with her visitors.

The parsons and the neighbours came again bringing things, just out of habit, Jess thought. The hens were not laying so well, so they brought plums which were plentiful, or green apples or silverbeet. The silverbeet was never missing.

23

When they came into the kitchen they would scream out: Fancy a fridg.! What a beauty. Then they would open it and watch the light go on.

But there was something sour in their admiration. Why should she have a fridg? Our parents managed without, so have we.

Fancy a fridg! Bill used to come home from school complaining that the kids teased him:

You and your fridg! Brian Cole had said his father reckoned a hole dug in the ground, a tin put at the bottom, and some moist sacks on top, would be just as good.

Jess laughed. Then Ron came home with a conversation he had overhead between two

women at the store: They haven't got a Chesterfield yet, or a decent table cloth, and now they have a fridg.

Doug, his mate, seemed to ask him too frequently, Fridg. all right? It made him feel rather foolish.

It's these mean women, Jess said. They'd rather have a dusty Chesterfield and a lot of pots and pans and cake and biscuit tins than some decent arrangement to keep the food healthy.

The visitors kept away. When Jess met one or the other of them in the town-ship she imagined she could read their thoughts: There, we have given her all the jams and the eggs and now she has a fridg.

She kept more to herself. To hell with them all. But sometimes after a long day alone, she wondered: Which would have been

better—the visitors or the fridg? Only Mrs. Jones, from whom they got the milk, continued to come. I like to see that fridg of yours, she said. It looks so white and clean.

—W.D.

THE GULL

WHEELING, reeling, Floating, gloating Over the glorious freedom That is yours. Upward soaring Over the roaring Wave; diving As a silver arrow Into dark depths.

Winging your way Out of a flaming West, Or a bright East, As light personified.

—"Rana "

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\

Essay — On a Subject Not Prescribed

"What are the Virtues? Nature. M. Renan tells us, cares little about chastity, and it may be that it is to the shame of the Magdalen, and not to their own purity, that the Lucretias of modern life owe their freedom from stain. Charity, as even those of zvhose religion it makes a formal part have been compelled to acknozuledge, creates a multitude of evils. The mere existence of conscience, that faculty of which people prate so much nozvadays, and are so ignorantly proud, is a sign of an imperfect development. It must be merged in instinct before we become fine. Self-denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress, and self-sacrifice a surznval of the mutilation of the savage, part of the old wor-ship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of the world, and which even nozv makes its victims day by day, and has its altars in the land,. . . . "

It has been, suggested that to eliminate from children of the working-classes any desire for the luxuries of the privileged, they should be surrounded with facsimile articles lightly charged with electricity. The shocks they would receive would stifle all striving for the pleasanter things of life, and leave them contented helots, satisfied to attend to the requirements of their superiors. Such a scheme is likely to revolt humane persons. It appears so callous and foreign to the ideals which the world likes to pin on its heart. Our society seems, however, to have submitted for many centuries to a discipline of this sort. England, of which New Zealand is the intellectual and moral child, situate in what geography books call the cool-temperate zone, has long adhered to an equally cool and temperate system of morals. In this year of grace we are, of course, enlightened. Our chil-dren are no longer bound by the restrictions which their parents remember. Edu-cation, once abhorred, is now a variegated pasture where our lambs can crop the flowery food unrepressed. Their parents, mindful of the dismal barracks where they absorbed the elements of knowledge, have arranged that their little ones shall be at liberty to pipe and play under the tender tutelage of happy-looking persons exuding child psychology and group games. It would seem that to-day the only thing parents refuse to do for children is have them. Wise or unwise, this conduct marks a break with the past. That past reached its peak in Victorian England. This was a Christian period in one respect at least. The comforting lesson of eternal bliss for the unfortunate appears to have become so well learnt as to have become an instinct. By a simple transposition of ideas, that which was unpleasant became pleasant, the pleasant unpleasant. It is melancholy to con-template the elation of the leprous victim of human ignorance, glad in the prospect of a seat at the right hand of the Lord, confident in the divine justice that con-demned Dives to the burning pit. It is easy to understand how, after a thousand years of teaching, the mindful felt that what was enjoyable must be detrimental. It is sometimes hard to remember that the Inquisition inflicted unspeakable tor-

25

tures in benevolent attempts to spare its victims from the agonies of hellfire. Is it surprising that in Victorian days it was considered a salutary exercise to swallow brimstone and treacle?

During this era, a deep distrust of the senses had been bred. The very ap-pearance of luxurious richness concealed of necessity the seeds of self-destruction, and the pang of pleasure was the stab of sin. Beauty was cold and chaste; Art a series of moral lessons or pretty fantasies. The disobedience of Adam, the homi-cide of Cain, all the gamut of biblical sin cast a shadow over the factory worker, for in the sweat of his face did he eat his bread, till he should return to the ground out of which he was taken. An academician painted "Love and Death."

Around and after 1860, different ideas began to influence the intellectual circles of England. Art was profoundly affected by Whistler, an American trained in France. A disconcerting and revolutionary figure appeared in literature, Swin-burne. The laureate Tennyson was a master of poetical music; he had applied his genius to legends and prettily persuasive lyrics, and also to a rather regrettable piece about "The Lotus Eaters," who did not work for their living. Tennyson was a moral poet. But Swinburne seemed carried away by the intoxication of sound. The Victorians were hardly habituated to exchanging the lilies and languors of virtue for the roses and raptures of vice, or so they pretended. A disciple of Pater influenced by Whistler and Swinburne made an overwhelming impression in Lon-don. His name was Wilde. His first succcss is in itself curious, for the pagan hedonism which formed his intellectual background, his aesthetic theories of sim-plicity in clothing and colour in furnishing were none of them calculated to appeal to the Victorians more than orthodoxy, the frock-coat, and the aspidistra. It is well-known that Wilde's conversation was universally acknowledged by his con-temporaries to be superb. He became celebrated for his wit and intellectual orig-inality. His paradoxes, usually constructed by inversion, made astoundingly good sense. "The happiness of a married man depends on the woman he has not mar-ried." "Even things that are true can be proved." " 'What is the difference be-tween literature and journalism?' {Oh! journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.' " Such phrases doubtless perturbed his contemporaries, even the journ-alists. The Victorians were placated by his brilliance and the charm of his written works. But even these latter were disquieting. For the words and images, the style and spirit, were of a florid, luxurious, evocative and sensuous richness. For some time, "Patience" had enabled refuge to be taken in ridicule. But even then, there must have been poison in these symptoms which all respectable persons had been taught to distrust; especially as they emanated from this affected person who found that so much was tedious, and who said that to live was the rarest thing in the world; most people existed, that was all. Suspicion was necessarily evoked by a man who claimed that "What is called Sin is an essential element of Progress," and that "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the

26

curious attractiveness of others." The Encyclopedia Britannica informs us that in much of his writings and in his personal attitude there was to most people an undertone of rather nasty suggestion which created prejudice against Wilde. This came to a head when, in 1891, appeared "The Picture of Dorian Gray"—MR. OSCAR WILDE'S LATEST ADVERTISEMENT—A BAD CASE. This "A Rebours" in English was cited as an example of Wilde's wickedness. But to-day the impartial reader can hardly fail to admit the truth of the author's claim that

"Alas! they (critics) zvill find that it is a story with a moral. And the moral is this: All excess, as zvell as all renunciation, brings its own punish-ment.

"The painter, Basil Hallward, worshipping physical beauty far too much, as most painters do, dies by the hand of one in whose soul he has created a monstrous and absurd vanity. Dorian Gray, having led a life of mere sensa-tion and pleasure, tries to kill conscience, and at that moment kills himself. Lord Henry Wotton seeks to be merely the spectator of life. He finds that those who reject the battle are more deeply wounded than those who take part in it. "Yes, there is a terrible moral in Dorian Gray—a moral which the prurient will not be able to find in it, but it will be revealed to all whose minds are healthy." This seems clear enough fifty years later.

But the Victorians were right. The instinctive distrust was vindicated, and all the latent spleen of ignorant prejudice was vented on the vain and nauseous pro-duct of immoral foreign cultures, the man who in attaining the pinnacle of cele-brity had trampled on the cherished tenets of orthodoxy. As Wilde himself wrote in "De Profundis":

"Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went- to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. . . . I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and. that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace." Wilde died three years after he was released from prison. One of the most

surprising features about his work is the radical differences of opinion in its critics. For Wilde, critics appear to reserve either rhapsodic eulogy or complete condemnation. To the latter, Mr. James Agate has lately seen fit to add a sub-mission from his pompous, feline pen. His outburst is typical. These extreme differences appear to be rooted in the conflict of the Victorian and modern ways of thought. In spite of Wilde's frequent assertion that it is the spectator and not life that art really mirrors, by reason of the fact that his views were held by a minority, they have been styled "decadent." Wilde had the not unusual misfor-

27

tune to be judged by the standard he most repudiated—the criticism of art from an ethical standpoint.

"Good people," he wrote, "belonging as they d,o to the normal, and so, commonplace, type, are artistically uninteresting. Bad people are, from the point of view of art, fascinating studies. They represent colour, variety, and strangeness. Good people exasperate one's reason; bad people stir one's imagination Now it is not intended to show that Wilde was a paragon of virtue, but merely

to suggest that the justice of the epithet cast at his views is questionable. Wilde was stigmatised as "decadent." His theory of art and life was held to represent a re-trogression, not in literature, but in morals. The sole reason for such a judgment may be found in the fact that Wilde was in a substantial minority. For in matters of morals it is always the majority which sets the standard. That which is retro-gression in the field of morals must always be a matter of conjecture. But it is hardly a matter of conjecture that by modern standards the theories of Wilde are not necessarily decadent, whatever else they may be. They share with "The Martyrdom of Man" adaptability to the intellectual needs of a later age. They also share a fine literary style, by which also their future is assured. For few to-day attempt to depreciate the beauty of Wilde's style. Whether Wilde was a lord of language is a matter of opinion; but it is due to Mr. Agate to note that he prefers to consider Wilde as the fine lady of the purple passage. Wilde succeeded in expressing in the English language the inspiration which he drew from Greek and French culture. Those who say that Wilde knew nothing of art can know nothing of Wilde. His tales alone, mosaics of rich and colourful 'magerv combined with biblical simplicity of expression, bear the stamp of genius. Few children cannot be familiar with "The Happy Prince." As a prim voice per-uses this tale in the children's hour, the soothing tones of the "aunt"—that subtle s* mbol of chastity—contrast with the life of the author who had made his name a low by-word among low people and given it to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly: the incongruity of this situation tempts a smile. For, after all, one must not forget Frank Harris' trenchant conclusion to his "Oscar Wilde."

"It must not be thought that Oscar Wilde •Was punished solely or even chiefly for the evil he wrought-: he was punished for his popularity and his pre-eminence', for the superiority of his mind and wit; he was punished by the envy of journalists, and by the malignant pedantry of half-civilised judges. Envy in his case overleaped itself; the hate of his justicers was so diabolic that they have given him to the pity of mankind forever; they, it is who have made him eternally interesting to humanity, a tragic figure of im-perishable renown." Not through pity, however, but rather by reason of his merits, Wilde de-

serves attention; his protest against narrow intellectual orthodoxy, his attempts to stimulate thought and reform in art, his sounding prose and sparkling wit, his revival of the comedy of manners. Above all, Wilde was a hedonist, and his be-

28

liefs and life are vindicated by the beauty of his work.

"Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fall away like sand, creeds follow one anotherbut what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons, a possession for all eternity." The syllabus of the new education is not altogether the same as the old. In

the choice of works for the young to study, there is occasion for improvement. A preference for Wilde, or even Swinburne, has seldom if ever, been a characteristic of pedagogues.

One is tempted to suppose that this, too, is a legacy of the Victorian ethical approach to literature and art. It is to be hoped that the modern intellect has out-grown this. If the old school is tied by a desire to preserve the young from the pleasures of corruption, always let this be remembered: The false may be refuted by the true, but no man should be permitted to protect the "truth" by suppressing the false. At this stage of his development, man cannot know ultimate truth; he can only believe. Let him abstain therefore from passing narrow judgments. Edu-cation can lead to progress only if it is broad and ruthless. It is hard enough to strip from the mind the influences of childhood. The task must nevertheless be confronted. If nothing else, this survey of Wilde shows how easy it is to be blindly antagonistic to the unorthodox, regardless of its merits. Unprejudiced thought will mark an advance in human progress. Such should be the end of modern education. When it is remembered how long the scientific postulates of Aristotle were be-lieved before they were exploded, the dangers of dogmatism become apparent. It must be admitted that doubt, not certainty, is the offspring of knowledge.

"Hozv easy it would be to endure without repining the toils and. troubles of this miserable life—if, indeed, zve could believe that when its brief period were past, zve should be united to those whom zve have loved, to those whom death has snatched azvay, or zvhom fate has parted from us by barriers cold and deep and. hopeless as the grave. . . . But we do not believe it, and so we cling to our tortured lives, dreading the dispersal of our elements into cold, unconscious space. As drops in the ocean of water, as atoms in the ocean of air, as sparks in the ocean of fire zvithin the earth, our minds do their ap-pointed work and serve to build up the strength and beauty of the one great human mind which grows century to century and. from age to age, and is per-haps itself a mere molecule zvithin some higher mind." This must be faced. It must be recognised that all thought, orthodox or not,

is a contribution towards the building of the one human mind, and that the sword can no longer silence the tongue and extinguish the mind of the thinker. Now is no time for the comforting anodynes of childhood. The pain of disillusionment must be born, for out of that pain will come both progress and the joy of dis-covering new El Doradoes, even though to approach them prove in the end but a short step forward.

Let the children of to-day ask the teacher who says that virtue is its own re-

29

1 to tell them first what virtue is. Let him weigh his answer; for in death the are cold, but in death alone is the secret disclosed.

" . . . . Virtues! Who knouts zvhat virtues are? Not you. Not I. Not any one. It is well for our vanity that zve slay the criminal, for if we suffered him to live he might show us zvhat he had gained by his crime. It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his martyrdom. He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest."—Wilde.

—J.A.N.

TO THE BLIND

DO you remember Sun on sea-water Shimmering, dimpling, Merging its colours like Dabs from an artist's palette? —The canvas of God. Recollect spray on A gull's wing that shone Brightly, darkly, Like fresh blood, In the sunset's flood of light. —Fleeting loveliness. See the blackness Of night. The darkness Thickened, quickened, By invisible life. Sea and sky-one. O, the yearning to see, But one ray From the faintest star.

—"Rana "

TO—

0 AND I THOUGHT that magic had fled from my soul, The fullness of rapture when, carried aloft on a song, 1 saw my existence and marvelled and gloried and wept. I snatched at the present and tried to believe it the past; I followed a shadow and caught it, and found it was grey, And then I surrendered to boredom and hate and despair.

But now in the darkness a fountain of glory has leapt, For I glimpsed in the eyes of another an echo of you, And the dream in between is as dust on the wind of the years.

—E.M.M.

DELIGHT

WHY made He, then, this world so fair, if men Should pass as birds in flight, more swift than air From grace to grace through halls of gloom? Why bade The God we cannot know this earth to blaze With light and laughter from the moment when We open infant eyes on visions rare Renewed each day, from bloom to bloom, and made A richer joy in memory? In ways The human heart can comprehend and love The beauty of a moment's world may turn The leaping soul to thoughts of timeless years, Arrest the hurrying hour, until above Our songs is heard the music angels learn In realms beyond the reach of pain and tears.

—D.McC.

SONNET

THE OLD GOD in his shadow-temple waits And from thick lips allows to creep a slow Half-smile, as bursts a bubble on the flow Of lava, sinks back, and soon dilates Before it grows beyond suggestion; states Of men, aroused by subtle lures that show His gilded hand outstretched in welcome, go To grasp it, seek the ever-opening gates—

To-morrow! rise the frantic hymns, and fall In vain around the gates that ever close Upon the ageing worshippers. Behold! To-morrow, great redeemer! call Their voices—Ourselves and all our woes, And hopes we bring. To-day is always cold.

—R.I.F.P.

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THE WIDOW

THE BELLS of peace are silent now, and still The war remains, in countless hearts that hide Their secrets yet. Alone, no arm to guide My solitary way, no strength of will But feeble mine to urge me forth to fill My empty days, I mourn a life denied. I cannot hope, but must—the world believes That anguished souls in time recover calm. It is not so. No sunless hour relieves Despair, no years bring back the ancient charm To hill and valley, bird and child, or give The strengthless spirit new desire to live.

—D.

Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried, Asking"What lamp had Destiny to guide

"Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?" And—"A blind Understanding" Heav 'n replied.

—Rubaiydt of Omar Khayyam

IRoll of "Ifoonour 1939 - 1 9 4 5 Anderson, H. R. Jones, C. G. Adams, R. W. Mason, O. J. C. Andrews, B. W. Mayhead, J. W. Asmuss, A. Medhurst, P. T. Ball, H. D. Mellsop, G. J. D Barnett, J. T. L. Melville, J. D. Bell, R. J. McL. Milliken, T. Brandon, G. M. Mills, G. Buchanan, J. G. Moodie, J. E, Clarke, E. S. Moodie, W. A. Colbeck, R. Morrison, L. B. Coldham, G. T. Morrison, W. Cornes, E. J. Mulgan, J. Cottrell, R. F. Munro, P. S. Craig, L. L. A. Newcomb, J. S. Crossman, T. A. O'Carroll, P. S. Crump, D. R. Parker, W. G. Cummins, I. F. Peart, J . N. Dean, W. H. F. Perk, T. E. Dil, W. R. Plant, W. J. Drummond, F. A. V. M. Reid, I. L. Duncan, P. M. Reynolds, E. S. Dunlevy, W. J. Robinson, D. L. Edwards, J. W. Roper, G. S. Evans, W. H. Roseveare, M. T. Ferguson, R. D. Ryalls, G. Finlayson, T. S. Shroff, O. M. Gover, C. W. Smith, G. A. Gray, J. R. Speight, M. W. Grierson, J. A. Steele, G. B. Hardcastle, J. B. Stephenson, F Herrold, J. D. Stuart, A. C. Hesketh, G. L. Taylor, J. B. Hislop, S. Taylor, M. J. Horrocks, D. R. Tuck, W. R. Horrocks, R. E. Watts-Warner, N. W. Jackson, G. R. Wright, T. B. Jenkin, R. F. Ziman, A. M.

NOTE: The Editor apologises for the absence of any names which may not have been notified to the office in time for inclusion, and requests the co-operation of relatives and friends so that all may be included in next year's issue.

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(Srabuatee of tbe lj)ear Arts and sciences are not cast in a mould, but are formed and perfected by degrees, by often handling and polishing, as bears leisurely lick their cubs into form.

—Montaigne

MASTERS OF ARTS

All wise people ought to consult and• confabulate together. —Plautus

He that will not be flogged will never be educated . —Menander

Judith Mary Child "Her wit was more than maji: her in-nocence a child."

—Drydcn "I see it's written by a lady, a'nd I want a book that my daughters may read. Give me something else."

•—Punch

Betty Florence Odell "'Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. 'Ez'erything's got a moral, if only you can find it.'"

—Leivis Carroll

Marie Draga Pasalich "Fine woman, sound in wind and limb."

—Gilbert

-Wilde

Jeanette Lidie Wells "History is merely gossip."

Carlien E»telle Cox "The knowledge of the ancient languages is mainly a luxury."

—John Bright

Jean Day "A woman's preaching is like a' dog walk-ing on his hind legs. It is not done well; but we are surprised to find it done at all." —Dr. Johnson

Eva Catherine Foulkes "People who make no noise are danger-ous." La Fontaine

Pamela Mary Elaine Key-Jones "Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest. Home-keeping hearts are happiest."

—Longfellow

Arthur Lowe "For who dees nothing with a better grace?" —Young

Kathleen Marian Grant "Tunggyvoo, my boys, twiggy-voo ?"

—M ontaii

Audrey Concordia Luckens "The female woman is one of the great-est institutions of which this land can boast."

—Byron

Maurice Victor Hutchinson "There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence."

—Wilde

William George Miller "Your knowledge is of no account unless they know that you know."

—Persius Flaccus

Maharaia Winiata "Delightful task! to rear the tender

thought, To teach the young idea to shoot."

—Thomson

34

GRADUATES OF THE YEAR

BACHELORS OF ARTS

"It is clever,

Frances Rosemary Yeomans Adams

"There's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long."

—Shakespeare

Dorothy Margaret Elizabeth Allen

"The Almighty has His own purposes." —Lincoln

Muriel Kathleen Blott

"We rise with the sun and we tramp With the sun or the moon for a lamp."

—Flecker "Curiouser and curiouser!"

—Lewis Carroll

Eileen Constance Annie Bourchier "The 'Oman that deliberates is lost."

—Addison

Elizabeth Pendrell Campbell

"But then ail women are more or less eccentric." —P°e

Faith Rosemary Collins

"Faults had she, child of Adam's stem "But only Heaven knew of them."

—Patmore

Yolande Cadness Cross

"The mildest manners and the gentlest heart." —Pope

Brenda Dobree De Butts

"Secret and self-contained and solitary as an oyster."

—Dickens

Nola Bertha Worringham Harte

"And what's her history? A blank, my lord."

—Shakespeare

but is it art?" —Kipling

Violet Patricia Hastings

"It is one method to practise szuimming zvith bladders."

—Bacon

Margaret Whyte Hipkins

"Life is earnest, Art is cheerful." —Schiller

Elva Florence Jenkin

"She is so circumspect and right; "She has her soul to keep."

—Alioe Meynell

Rita Hermia Lukeis

"With a smile that was childlike and bland."

—Bret Harte "Have you any aim in view, and at what do you point your bozv?"

—Flaccus

Shirley Mary Morton

"Love, szveetness, goodness in her person shitted.'' —Milton

Hilda Merran McCulloch

"Much study is a' weariness of the flesh." —Ecclesiastes

Kathleen Anne Olds

"Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child . . ."

—Blake

"There is a pleasure sure In being ma'd which none but madmen

know." —Dryden

Patricia Mary Seymour Pemberton

"I'm playing; for I always like a change from work." —Euripides

35

Barbara Joan Frances Ross

"A light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove."

—Wordsworth

June Rosabel Savage

"I ctgree with no man's opinion's, I have some of my ozvn."

—Turgeniev

Mary Lillian Davis Sutherland

"It is a' gain to find a beautiful human soul." "That art and harmony of shape express, Fine by degrees, and beautifully less."

—Prior

Dorothy Mary Louise White

"Explain the woman? Zounds! Let him who can."

—Congreve

Travis Catherine Wilson

"There is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady's head-dress."

—Addison "Careless she is with artful care affecting to seem unaffected."

—Congreve

Kenneth Ross Bain

"Keep thy breath to cool thy porridge." —Cervantes

William Johnson Hamilton Clark

"Look out, gentlemen, the schoolmaster is abroa'd."

—Lord Brougham

Atholl James Watt Dobson "The hat is the ultimum moriens of re-spectability."

—O. W. Holmes

Ralph Burns Fisher "Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving in words evidence of the fact.''

—Georae Eliot

Stanley Loraine Edgar

"Alone I did it."

—Shakespeare

Edward Archibald Forsman "Archibald—certainly not!"

—St. John

Wilfred Henry Fortune

"I have done the state some service, and they know it."

—Shakespeare

Robert Arthur Butler Hunter

"To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance."

—Ovid

Terence Joseph Loney

"A man who zvould make so vile a pun zvould not scruple to pick a pocket."

—Dennis "And force them, though it were in spite Of nature and their stars, to write."

—Butler

Ruddock Finlay Mackay

"He takes the strangest liberties, but never takes his leave."

—J. G. Saxe

Kenneth Jonston Mackie

"I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff."

—Sir Henry Wotton

Gordon Lavelle Mangan

"He'ld make a' lovely corpse." -Dickens

Roderick Macalister Miller

"It zwre better to perish than to continue schoolmastering."

—Carlyle

Terence Victor Nelson

"Captain or Colonel or Knight in arms." —Milton

36

Richard Vaughan Nicholls

"I own with shame that discontinuance long

Makes me ivell nigh forget the Latin tongue."

—Ovid

Bruce Hamilton Reid

"No great men are original." —Emerson

Vernon Horace Herbert Scurrah

"Bezvare the fury of a patient man." —Dryden

Ronald Warner Riddolls

"No man is the wiser for his learning— wit and wisdom are born ivith a man."

—Selden

Robert Ivan Frederic Pattison

"The most powerful weapon of ignorance —the diffusion of printed matter."

—Tolstax "Publish and be damned."

—Duke of Wellington

George Melville Simpson

"A bold, bad man." —Spenser

Ralph Stephen Wallis Skinner

"Achilles absent was Achilles still." —Pope

Leslie George Thompson

"To find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his owti eye nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a' very hard task."

—Congreve

MASTERS OF

"This strange disease

Barbara Joan Levien "A great devotee of the gospel of getting on." —Shaw

Norman Jack Rumsey

"The zi'ise thru excess of wisdom is made a fool."

—Emerson

SCIENCE

of modern life." —Arnold

Agnes Frances Littlejohn

"It is very difficult to get up resentment towards persons whom one has never seen." —Newman

BACHELORS OF SCIENCE

"They are so knowing that they know nothing at all." —Terence

Janet Carlyle McCosh Beryl Edith Salt

"O woman! lovely woman! nature made "Soft is the music that would charm for thee, ever;

To temper man; we had been brutes The flower of sweetest smell is shy and zvithout you." —Otzva'y lowly."

37

Philip Maxwell Allingham

"An expression of no encouragement." —Bram ah

Margaret Stokes

"Wom>en never look so well as when one comes in zvet and dirty from hunting."

—Surtees

"I'm no angel." —Thackeray

Clive Charles Allpress

"I am always of the opinion with the learned, if they speak first."

—Congreve Owen John Baker

"I wouldn't boast about it; it's a nasty bit of work."

—The Bolshy

Rudolf Ernst Belin

"By the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder and dazzles to

blind." —Beattie

John Carlyle Burns "Than proud man, drest in a' little brief authority."

—Shakespeare

Derek Erie Hislop Clarke

"An experienced, industrious, ambitious and often quite picturesque liar."

—Mark Twain

John Matheson Climo

"He zvas afraid of the dark. He was afraid of Hell. He was afraid of girls."

—Leacock

Clifford Francis Coleman

"This little body lodged a mighty head." —Pope

Raymond Cuthbert Davison

"Free from serious vice." —Gilbert

Royce Ormond Farrelly

"For God's sake give me the young man who has brains enough to make a fool of himself."

—SteV'Cnson

Philip James Gallaher

"Lean, hungry, saz'age, anti-everything." —O. IV. Holmes

Robert Burns Glassey

"In the full tide of successful experi-ment."

—Jefferson

William Edward Harvey

"The windy satisfaction of the tongue." —Pope

Graham Lambert Holland

"The youth is wholly experimental" —Stevenson

Warren Hastings Mason

"His faults' are not particularly shady." —Gilbert

Karl Marx Miller

"The litle student here should note. The name Karl Marx and try to quote Some portion of the books in zvhich He proves that poor men should be rich."

—E. V. Knox

William Arthur Mclndoe "Billy is in reality hopelessly unbal-anced."

—Leacock

Warren Pattison McLean

"He that hath patience may compass any-thing." —Rabelais

Graham Aubrey Peters

"My pretty boy, trust not too much to your rosy looks."

—Virgil

38

Dougald Stewart Moreland Phillips

"He had been eight years upon a project for •extracting sunbeams out of cucum-bers, which were to be put into phials, hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the air in razv inclement summers."

—Swift

James Edward Powell

"Better be da'mncd than mentioned not at all." —Pope

Thomas James Sprott

"He is one of the many zvho have ma'de themselves public without making them-selves known."

—Johnson

Nils Carl Thielman

"One that would peep and botanise, Upon his mother's grave."

—Wordsworth "He scratched his ear, the infallible re-

source, To which embarrassed people have re-

course." —Byron

Frederick Harman Brown

"Give me religion every time." —Archbishop of Canterbury

Arthur Lockwood Keall

"Poof! The smell of sulphur!" —J. C. Reid

BACHELORS OF HOME SCIENCE

'Heaven sends us good meat, but the devil sends cooks!" —Garrick

Elisabeth Bowling

"But when the sun in all its state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed about the kitchen grate, And zvent to making pies."

Elizabeth Pendrell Campbell

"Home-made dishes that drive one from home." —Hood

Noeline Ruby Carrie Davies

"A dinner lubricates business.'

Margaret June Kirker

—Stozvcll

"For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,

Nor take her tea without a stratagem." —Young

BACHELORS OF LAW

Mrs. Bertram: "That sounds like nonsense, my dear." Mr. Bertram: "Maybe so, my dear, but it may be very good lazv for all that."

—Scott

Charles Frederick Jenkins

"Old father antic, the law.'

John Albert Pyatt

"The law is the true embodiment Of everything that's excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my lords, embody the Law.'

Ronald Graham Quayle Kermode'

"The charge is prepared, the lawyers are met,

—Shakespeare The judges all ranged; a terrible show." —Gay

War&rick Nesbit Luke Snedden

"The law is a kind of hocus-pocus science that smiles in yer face while it picks yer pocket; and the glorious uncertainty of it is of mair use to the professors than the justice of it."

—Gilbert —Macklin

39

MASTER OF COMMERCE

"These heroes of finance are like bea'ds on a string—when one slips off all the rest follow." —Ibsen

Margaret Loudon Fastier

"Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark." —Wordsworth

BACHELORS OF COMMERCE

"Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust." —O. W. Holmes

Sheila Mary Hogben Jack Horrocks "The beginning of commerce is the end

"The average woman is even for business Qj reason." too crooked." —Chaucer

—Leacock Eruera Rewiti "Nature never lends

James Philip Neesham The smallest scruple of her excellence, But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

"Six days shalt thou labour and do all Herself the glory of a creditor." thou art able, _ -Shakespeare

—And on the seventh—holystone the decks Garland Clifford Henry St. Paul and scrape the cable." • "Whose merchants are princes. . . "

—Dana —Book of Isaiah

BACHELORS OF MUSIC

"O music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid."

—Collins

Ursula Fenton Wilkie Allan Ramsay Howie "Where music dwells, "Over the piano zva's printed a notice, Lingering and zvandcring on as loth to 'Please do not shoot the pianist, he is

die." —Wordswortl doing his best."' —Wilde

BACHELORS OF ARCHITECTURE

"Architecture is frozen music." —Sc helling.

Mary Clemens Hay "Like a stately ship. . . • With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails filled and streamers waving."

—Milton Milton Spurdle Annabel

"To talk of architecture is a joke, Till you can build a chinmcy that won't smoke." —Blanche

Anthony Henry Curtis "Oft on the dappled turf at ease, I sit and play with similes, Loose types of things through all

degrees."

—Words-worth

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STUDENTS' EXECUTIVE, 1945

Back Row: W. R. Haresnape, R. I. F. Pattison, B.A., J. E. Blennerhassett, J. E. Morton, J. W. Wilkins, D. T. Grace. Front Row: J. C. Burns, B.Sc., Miss Gabrielle Garland, K. J. Mackie, B.A., Men's Vice-President, Secretary,

L- PiPer> President, Miss Patricia Keane, Women's Vice-President, D. H. Jones, Miss Aileen Stanton.

SENIOR SCHOLARSHIPS

"There mark what ills the scholar's life assail— Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail."

—Dr. Johnson

Richard Vaughan Nicholis

"He speaks the three or four languages word for word without the book, and hath all the good gifts of luiturc."

—Shakespeare

Roderick Macalister Miller

"It very rarely happens that we satisfy ourselves, and therefore, it is all the more consoling to feel that we have satisfied others."

—Goethe

"To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune,

but to zvrite and read comes by nature.'' —Shakespeare

Gordon Lavelle Mangan

"As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low."

—Wordsworth "'Tis education forms the common mind."

—Pope

Nils Carl Thielman

"A primrose by the river's brim, A yellow primrose wa's to him, And it was nothing more."

—Wordszvorth

John Carlyle Burns

"Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtile; natural philo-sophy, deep; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend."

—Bacon

ADMIRATION FROM A DISTANCE

MOVE slowly, mannequin, across the stage Of my delight. Though frequent shapes reveal The audience, no presence can assuage This mood of isolation. You, too, must feel The immaculate, the incorruptible light Burst like a silent cry within your brain And settling there, await our conjoined sight For path on which to seek its like demesne.

Then why from me so keep your eyes withdrawn, Your lips from fond contrivance for my ear; Must I through further days remain forlorn Most lovely fate, most faraway, most dear?

Most faraway—a small and cold wind blows; Alas, my lovely mannequin—she goes.

—Clement

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RESULT OF COMPETITIONS

Professor Ardern judged the literary entries

and made the fol lowing awards :

PROSE ALIEN SUN—J.R.C.

POETRY GIRL WITH A VIOLIN—Candide

M r A . J . C. F i sher was unab le to make any

recommendat ion in the art section, as each entry fe l l into a different class.

The Edi tor thanks the judges for the i r w o r k .

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