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Minor edits made in pencil throughout text. Note contributions of Robert Gordon Menzies in editorial [pp. 73 – 75]; in poem [p. 84] “”From the French” [/] When springtime smiled upon a world new-blown, [/] I got for thee the flowers of May so fair, [/] And with their blooms for thee I wove a crown [/] To gild the golden glory of thy hair. [/] Now with its tears the autumn sad has come, [/] And on thy grave I place the flowers apart; [/] For the last time in anguish fierce but dumb [/] I crown the golden vision of my heart!”; and in account [pp. 97 – 98] “”Night Skies”
It is fine and clear to-night, and the stars, and the stars are out. The houses slumber in deep shadow, and the faint murmur of the river comes to me among the trees. A few steps, and I might stand on its bank, and, so standing, see above me the wonders of the gem-studded night,” at my feet the trembling reflection of the glories of the sky. [/] But I do not stir; just a glimpse can I get of the stream, winding its silver way amid the floom, and I am satisfied. There is the smell of new-cut grass in the air, and the faintest of all faint winds comes up over the hill. Far to the left, long trails of light carry the eye on to the blazing illuminations of the city, and above, keeping their eternal watch over the world and its struggles, there are the stars. [/] Where there is darkness, there is mystery and enchantment. Pleasant indeed it was to feel the warm sun wrapping you as a garment; pleasant to look across the great [p. 98] gold-splashed spaces fading so quickly into the blue haze of the hills; but far pleasanter to gaze as I do now – when the sun no longer shows the red brick so stark and insistent, and when, beneath the pale lustre of the stars, the world has become a place, not of bustle and garish reality, but a place to dream over in passionless delight. [/] It was on such a night as this, no doubt, that Lorenzo bade his lovely Jessica sit and “see how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold” – a conception of the nature of the skies which has been real enough to many thousands of people in all ages. In these things we are all children. Astronomers, with their ponderous periods, and armed cap-à-pie with the fair chain-mail on scientific discovery, may give battle to our fancies, and, in the full light of the noonday sun, put them to flight. But the sun has long since gone to its rest; and there come stealing back to me, out of the cool night air, out of the whispering trees the century-old rippling of the river, those phantom creatures of the mind over whom the midday warrior had vaunted himself in victory. “Here in Faery,” in very sooth; here may I recline in indolent ease, the while my mind, freed of its shackles, wanders up and up and from star to star, until it is lost in the infinite glories of worlds beyond world and wondrous heavens gleaming in silver and pure gold. [/] In this, methinks, I could be almost a Pagan. For when the stars are bright then does my spirit go out with infinite yearning to their calm majesty, and my ears forget all other sounds if haply they may catch some faint echo of their music. Two thousand years ago I might have come, and, bowing before these very stars, accorded to them the quaking homage of an old-world votary. I cannot do this now; but my fancy is prone to wander-[/] “Out on the far-gleaming stardust, that marks where the angels have trod”- [/] And, there wandering, comes a thought to me, that here, where men of old set up their shrines and worshipped the glittering symbols of mysteries that baffled and perplexed, is God indeed. [/] And, with the thought, lo! a cool wind that steals through tree and shadow, and touches me on the brow as if in benediction. And with the touch there falls a sudden hush, and my spirit bows down and worships in silence and alone. [/] R.G.M.”; and [p. 109] “De Nobis. [/] To be an entirely successful editor one must be capable of writing leading articles characterised by dignity and weight, short essays in the manner of Hazlitt or Gissing, poems grave and gay, obituary notices, reports (accurate and inaccurate) of student functions, and on occasion “witty” sketches of originality and charm. [/] In these circumstances, failure is inevitable. The only true discimen is the heroism of the attempt. I do not linger, therefore, to try the patience of readers (already sorely tested many times) by futile apologies; but would merely retire as gracefully as may be. [/] To please everybody is manifestly impossible; to reach even a self-imposed stan is too often impracticable. But, with the enthusiastic assistance of a few sympathetic souls, a certain amount may be achieved. It is with the simple hope that the M.U.M. for 1916 has found its place in University life that I bow myself out. The student existence has its broad comedy, its poetry if one but seeks for it, and, of late, tragedy enough. These pages have had no “faultless fruits” to offer, but they have represented an honest and very real devotion to the task of saying some things that are worth the saying; recording some echoes of the life we have all prized, and will doubtless treasure the more in days to come. [/] – R. G. Menzies.”