No one was too impressed last spring by the first tentative stirrings of renaissance in Winthrop House: a film society, an art exhibit, some seminars, and a small newspaper (the Griffin), the last ambitious, with some good work in it. Essentially the outburst came from a handful of sophomore draftees, determined and enthusiastic. And able.

Now real fruit is borne--the Lion Rampant, 32 pages of literary magazine. Which is not to say that publishers will come running excitedly to Winthrop to sign up the freshly-discovered talents of these seven contributors (yet). Two, though, show distinct traces of genuine ability. Two more are good. Three are puzzling.

Carter Wilson has a gory short tale, in the John Collier tradition, which is delicate (yes, gory and delicate, read it) and funny. It is called "Emergency Use Only", and a discerning editor placed it in the back to climax the first issue. The piece is easily the best in the magazine, showing the same mature style which characterized the author's "Love Children" in last spring's Advocate. The latter was a serious effort; Wilson's apparent versatility is encouraging.

Augie Zemo's play is also excellent. Marred in places (see Scene III) by the intrusion of prosaic words, it maintains for the most part a pleasing tone of poetic enthusiasm. The writing shows careful attention to style and rhythm.

Susan Ryerson and Phyllis Sogg (Winthrop here exploits its Comstock affiliation to good profit) contribute two pieces of humor which should be well received. Miss Ryerson has a short story parodying we won't spoil it by telling what--deftly handled, neatly avoiding the dangerous pitfalls of overloaded farce. Miss Sogg's satire of new criticism, in an exploration of "Roses Are Red", is adept. One more panagraph would have brought it to the edge of boredom; one less would have been an improvement.

Judith Beach is disconcerting. Her story is overwritten, but traces of sensitivity shine through the clouded style. Much the same is true of her poetry. To Death is the best, combining good imagery with a skillful interweaving of rhymes and rhythms. She Gives is a little less successful, partly because of some imprecisely selected words (see lines 6 and 11), partly because it is incompletely developed. Quince Tree misses, we suspect because of an intended device which failed.

Robert Klein's essay on Keats is another near miss. Able and incisive, it suffers from too much compression and occasional turgidity. In parts it seems that the critic was carried away by a desire to imitate the subject's poetry in his own prose. The content definitely suffers from lack of writing style.

David Ransom's poetry reads as if it had been written by a jazz muscian (it was). Jazz musicians ought not to write poetry.

Don Bahr's artwork is skillfully employed. The cover could stand improvement, but the two cuts add to the attractiveness of an extremely well laid-out magazine (work of editor George Pring). The editing and production are likewise able.