BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 21992, 30 March 1935, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.]

“ The time ha« come,” the Walrus said, “ To talk of many things.” One of our conclusions for the week is that there is very little to worry about in all the Old World unrest which is being so persistently reported in the newspapers—this bickering and cross-talk over the European borders. At least, the European situation seems to Jose much of its importance when one contemplates for a moment the portentous year that is in store for .Dunedin and the dominion as a whole. Looming up near at hand is another mayoral contest which threatens to develop into a triangular battle, with no quarter asked for or given. Then there are the general elections. Still les.-i quarter will be asked for or given when the politicians and the “ hope-to-be’s ” launch their campaigns. At the same time the All Blacks will bo on the war path. On top of all this we heard an alarming rumour the other day that the Harbour Board wrangles may eventually be put on the air; if, as is prophesied, television is made perfect, the prospect is actually terrifying. It is with a certain amount of reluctance that we have touched on this last subject, for it is not our policy to he morbid. Our only excuse for doing so is that wo wish to draw attention, to the peril, in order that the Radio Listeners’ League or some similar body may be given an opportunity to take precautionary action before it is too late.

A traveller from England, interviewed in Christchurch, stated that the reason why fewer tourists visit the South Island was the bad reputation of Cook Strait. On his voyage from Homo he was continually warned that it was worse than the Pent-land Firth.

He stepped upon the ship, All resolute and brave, Resolved to make a trip Across the heaving wave. His friends all wept upon the quay, For oh! it gave them pain To think that they might never see Their daring friend again.

“ The Bay of Biscay’s bad, For monstrous waves are there; And you will feel, poor lad, The grip of ‘ raal-de-mer.’ The ship will pitch, and roll, and toss In each and every way; It’s simply misery to cross That devil of a hay. “ The Indian Ocean’s vile As nothing else on earth. There’s not a level mile From Aden out to Perth; And if you luckily survive An Indian Ocean gale. Just thank your stars you’re still alive To tell the fearful tale.

“When Sydney’s reached at last (Which needs both luck and skill) The Tasman must be passed, And that is rougher still. The steamer spins, and loops the loop, And stands upon her head Before she sights that shaky group Of islands —called N.Z.

“ And then, just when you feel You’re settled in a town, The pavement heaves, the chimneys , reel, The buildings tumble down. You wrap a hasty blanket round . You’re settled in a town, To camp upon the naked ground, Which shakes like Billy-o 1 “But be content and stay; For fearful doom awaits The folk who seek a way Across those cursed Straits, . Where wild tornadoes rip the sky, And fearsome hurricanes Will cast on billows, mountain-high, Your mangled-up remains.” . That’s why (’twixt me and you, It seems preposterous) Comparatively few Globe-trotters visit us. The rest of them, it will be found, Indubitably are Just terrified, or squashed, or drowned, Before they come thus far! • * # * There is no bore like a political bore. And there is no political bore like a New Zealand political bore. That is why we are glad the present Parliamentary session is a short one. Even as it is, it has doddered on too long. _ The cabled reports of international dissensions make light reading in comparison with the news emanating from oui House of Representatives, At this late stage of the session the very sight of the words “mortgage’’ or “farmers’ rehabilitation ” is sufficient to send us off on a feverish seardh for another cheerful quip from Signor Mussolini oi Herr Hitler, and some breezy comment from Sir John Simon or Mr Baldwin, Pity the poor newspaper men in the Press gallery at Parliament House! To be closeted, even for a matter of weeks, within the same four walls as some of Now Zealand’s dullards is a fate wc should not wisii upon our worst enemy. In Australia, apparently, the standard of debating is little better. We recall with sympathy the heart-felt remark of a Victorian Parliamentary reporter, who, wearied to distraction and possibl.v fortified by something stronger than he usually took while on duty, suddenly downed pencil and shouted; “ I move that this House do now adjourn foi 40,000 (favourite Australian adjective) years!” * * * m A. friend who knows the dark secret of our identity has suggested that wc write a satirical paragraph on the activities, aims, and ambitions of the Transport Licensing Authorities. He considers that these bodies owe their existence to the Government’s determination to protect the railways at all costs. The railways, he says, arc an obsolete form of transport. He infers that they are not worth'protecting, and continues by urging us to hark back to the early settlement days 1 and write an account of a mock, but allegedly typical, meeting of early settlers who waxed indignant over the fact that the construction of railroads was having an adverse competitive effect on their newly-formed ■roads. » » » » Well, we dutifully considered the matter, but it did not take long for the Muse (or i whatever the infernal thing is that makes ns work so hard) to arrive at the jibbing stage. The ideas of friend and self do not com cide. If ho prefers to travel long distances in a service car rather than in a railway train be had better write the paragraph hiniself and submit it to a motor journal. It should be welcome enoimli there. Mind you, we have no objection to gadding about in a pri-vately-owned ;car. but there is something about lengthy journeys in service cars that we find disconcerting. There may ibe too much company or too little company. Usually there m too much. The smoker cannot get at his pipe and tobacco; if by any chance he is able to; reach them, he may not cure to lightiup in close proximity to

ladies. Nobody can read, as in a railway train. Nor can anybody stretch the limbs or wriggle into a half-reclin-ing position for a nap. in fact, we can think of so many objections to service cars and buses that we feel inclined not to say any more until wo have some guarantee that the Railway Department will grant us a free, firstclass ticket enabling tis to tour New Zealand for a month

Then again—perhaps our imagination is at fault—we cannot visualise an indignation meeting of early settlers whose chief complaint was that the railways were competing unfairly with their roads. In many cases, proper roads were not laid down until the railways opened up the country'. History does not record that the farmers in most parts of Central Otago were unduly distressed when politicians—and others—made the necessary arrangements for laying down that expensive line through the Taicri Gorge. The echoes of an agitation for the completion of the South Island Main Trunk line can, on occasions, still be heard. We cannot recall that any resolutions of thanksgiving were passed when certain branch railway lines were closed down during the depression. No. it seems to us that no farmer worth his salt would refuse any' amenity, transport or otherwise, as long as he didn’t have to pay too much for it.

In any case, the Transport Licensing Authorities do not exist altogether for the protection of the railways. One of their main functions, as most of ua see the position, is to keep in check the ardour of the many' who fancy they can make a living out of a business proposition which a smattering of horse-sense should indicate can provide bread and butter for only a few r . We have very little faith in human nature where the making of money is concerned. Callings that were once lucrative are now overcrowded. Nobody wants the welter of irksome laws and regulations for which New Zealand is becoming noted. But really, they appear to be following in the wako of an increasing abuse of freedom. A funny thing this freedom. If transport licenses were issued ad lib, and all those who fancied themselves as caterers for the restless public were given the freedom of the roads, we think we would retire to the hush till the war was over. Whether we like them or not, the licensing authorities must remain in our midst. Indeed, if our eyes do not play us false, the dominion may soon have need of some organisation or other whose aim it will be to curb the ambitions of the hordes who are setting up as home-made cake manufacturers, fashion specialists, and the like. Competition is becoming so fierce that in a very short time nobody will make anything out of anything.

“ Modern dramas, particularly, are characterised by high and noble seriousness,” said the Rev. D. J. Davies, when speaking to the Palmerston North Rotary Club the other day. “ I have seen men coming out of the theatre as sober and thoughtful as from church ”

Maybe so. But perhaps they were only thinking of how they would get a seat on that homeward-hound tram.

From an advertisement announcing the holding of the annual meeting of of the Victoria League:— the meeting will be hold in the Chamber of Commerce rooms, Dowling street (lift entrance and take life) on ■ We always did believe that persons attending the annual meeting of the Victoria League took their lives in their hands. * * *' # If Ireland were united, And North and South were one, If all her wrongs were righted, And all she wished were done; If Erin rose resplendent, Serenely _ independent, Republican and free, From Donegal to Kerry, From Galway to Dun Saoghaire, How happy they would be! So muses De Valera, And does his level best To usher in an era Of quietude and rest. I know he’s scarcely smitten With love for poor old Britain, But, putting that aside, He’s honest m his trying To stop old Eireann’s crying, And get her pacified. He deprecates the treaty, He execrates the Oath; Concerning Downing Street, ho Is sour and savage, both. In every act and notion He manifests devotion, With fervid rhetoric; Yet, spite of all his striving, And plotting and contriving, He doesn’t seem to “ dick.” There’s always someone willing To start another fight, Illicit armies drilling, And sudden raids by night; Orating and disputing, And homicidal shooting By peevish patriots; Nocturnal visitations, And stent incarcerations Of hatchers-out of plots. For Eamon, though he’s burning To serve his native land, Yet, being undiscerning. He doesn’t understand That Paddy loves a riotFar more than peace or quiet, And, when he gets his rights, He yawns and looks around him Till somebody has found him A chance for further fights,