AUSTRALIAN TOPICS

Evening Star, Issue 20993, 6 January 1932, Page 5

AUSTRALIAN TOPICS

CHAMPAGNE PALATE-GINGER BEER FARE [From Ocb Corbbspondeht.] SYDNEY, January 1. Dumas somewhere has a yam about a party of old men privileged to drink a magic elixir that works wonders. Their wrinkles disappear and cheeks again glow roundly with youthful fire. Alas, the remedy is transient. The glorious hour passes, leaving tho company back again in their old rheumatic rut. Australia is feeling the force of that story. It has just had a double dose of exciting elixir—a General Election that dished the loud Red-raggers and a Christmas holiday season that, if more modest than usual in tho way of gay outings, was at least spurred by high hopes of better times for the near future. And now these two excitants over, the Commonwealth returns to the prosaic job of toiling, economising, learning with ns few sighs as possible to adapt its champagne palate to its ginger beer circumstances. And it must be admitted that Australia is doing all this with commendable philosophy and fortitude. In its heart it knows right well that the new necessity means Wealthier and happier living than did the recent borrow-and-bust programme. Yet some richly privileged sections of the populace are making rather a to do about their hardships. Such sleek growlers recall the grudging answer the heavy father got when lie flatly told his wastrel son that he would have “to give up some of this wine, woman, and song business”: “All right, dad, I’ll give up the song.” Almost everyone saw tho old 1931 year out without much of a pang. There is an old reflection that “ we spend our years as a tale that is told.” And if that graphic Scriptural simile seems to lose some of its force, because the Oriental story-spinners to whom it alludes are no longer with us. their modern the “ talkies,’ still give it certain aptness. For, like the ancient Eastern camp raconteurs, they add tale upon tale, each eclipsing more or less tho memory of the one that went before. And so each year, with its glad thrills and poignant jolts, winds out from the spool of_ time to put its predecessor out of sight and largely out of mind. And nobody seems very sorry that 1931 has thus been dropped into the discard. It was in many ways an ominous year—redeemed by the fine fact that its tragedies taught a petted populace some timely home-truths about selfreliance and self-respect. PAT FOR THE PENNY DREADFUL. Professor Osborne, of Melbourne University, who also does official film censoring for the Commonwealth, has ridden rough-shod over another fond fancy. After visiting the Western States of America, Tie flatly declares that the so-called “Wild West” is a miserable myth. No somhreroed heroes, apparently, ride mustangs across its cactus-dotted deserts; no rustlers are at long last rounded up by husky sheriffs; no lonely and lovely ranch damsels are saved by casual cowboys from a fate said to be worse than death' But,' even while this dark denial is being spun out with such professorial relish, strange ■ news comes from America itself. The New York Public Library has collected a lurid cluster of old “penny dreadfuls”— “ dime novels ” they call them over there—and 'is displaying them, not bashfully in the basement, but in the great library’s Rare Book Room! Many a New Zealand'daddy will doubtless remember how once he thrilled to the dare-devilry of Deadwood Dick. For the peace of mind of such reminiscent parents, let it be added that no less a literary light than the English Joseph Shearing gives the considered opinion that those old “ penny dreadfuls ” were never harmful at al|. Indeed, they maintain -a remarkable standard of “clean” morality. At last their had man always bites the dust. And while vice may swagger across the first fifty pages, it, too, invariably conies a soul-satisfying cropper at the close. There is plenty of bloodshed, of course. But look how Shakespeare himself packs his dramas with stahbings, poisonings, shootings, and hold-ups. The Australian Professor Osborne may be right about the unreality of the “ Wild West ” heroics in some imported films, but the “ penny dreadfuls ” now enshrined in the New York Public Library do strongly suggest that their gaudily covered and exquisitely exaggerated y.arns once had a foundation of fact. “ Deadwood Dick Clark was a real coach-racer, bandit-foiler, and redskin slayer. He did wear a buckskin suit, with a broad hat slouched down over his eagle eyes. “ Buffalo Bill ” Cody was another real “ Wild Wester,” who slew in single combat the Indian chief, Yellow Hand. In fact, as though in polite retort to the Australian professor’s “ knock ” at the “ Wild West,” the New York Library publishes a bulletin in connection with its “ penny dreadful ” display—a bulletin containing this arresting sentence: “ . . . These books (penny dreadfuls) present a more accurate and vivid picture of the appearance, manners, speech, habits, and methods of the pioneer Western characters than do many formal historians.” THE BURNS BIRTHDAY. Australia is taking up with vim the growing custom of making pilgrimages to some Burns statue or shrine on the birthday of that peasant poet, January 27. Not only Scots, but Britishers all, have a fine admiration for Burns. They do not deify him. That would spoil the picture. Jt is the healthy, if ruthless fashion of the day, to strip from tho national heroes, such traditional trappings as once made them appear too good to be true. Washington is no longer the serene, white soul, incapable of telling a tarradiddle. Nor is King Bruce, of Scotland, the sober, philisophic man that popular poetry long ago limned him. Gone for ever are the American’s little “ cherry tree,” and the mythical spider that was supposed to have stiffened the heroic determination of the kingly Scot. But in Burns’s case, there is no need for such striking iconoclasin, for the simple reason that Bobbie lias always been a very human figure, without any pretensions to unco’ giiidness. That 'is—and always has bpen—part of his charm. It needs no pundit at this time of day to rake up tho wild oats that Burns long ago so vimfully sowed. Those oats have been on public view for more than a century. Everyone knows he loved too well—and too widely. From Jean Armour he jogged amorously to Mary Campbell, and on to Mrs M'Lehose and Anne Park. To each he poured out his poetic heart—in enduring rhyme but unenduring constancy. No attempt has boon made to gloss or condone his conduct, indeed, the movie folk have planned .a screen drama entitled ‘ The Loves of Robert Burns,’ with that “ great lover,” of course, as the boro of the piece. That may be over-colouring the situation. But the fact remains that the very humanness of Bobbie Burns makes him kin with the common crowd,

and so gives added point and pitch to hi? poetry. He speaks as one of _ us, not as some super-man. But the things ho speaks of, and the way he views them, make him a man to bo loved. It was an Ayrshire lass that hit this nail on the head; “ Open your eyes, and shut your ears wi’ Rob Burns, and there’s no fear o’ your heart; but close your eyes and open your ears, and you’ll lose it.” Because Burns appears no longer to our eyes, but appeals continually to our ears, most people admit that they have lost their hearts to his homely, lilting rhymes.