BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22542, 9 January 1937, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[B, X.Y.] 11 flic (irr.c has come,” the Walrus said* “ To talk of many things.” An English bishop has come to the conclusion that our modern novelists must bear the blame for many road accidents. He argues that their heroes, especially in detective stories, are nothing of heroes unless they go round corners on two wheels at 80 miles an hour. The bishop is right. Modern novel writing has woven round road hogs an aura of all that is brave and good which is not discernible to Police Court magistrates and countless other human beings who happen to be concerned with real life. Headers reclining safely in an armchair indulging in the literary a’nresthesia called fiction do not all pause to think of the malign influence that the faultless heroes of these detective writers may be having on the rising generation. Most young people, at some time or other, create as a pattern for their own conduct the deeds of some character of a novelist’s imagination, and usually do not stop to think of the incompatibility of these antics with life as it is. Nor is detective fiction the only offender. Ingenious romance can also add to the toll of the road through its tendency to paint as the model of modern young womanhood the kind of girl who, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette the while, can do her 70 br 80 m.p.h. without changing complexion. Actually," of course, the fast-moving heroine of the story hooks would in this sober world be regarded as being composed of ivory from the neck up. Or wood. She would interest traffic inspectors and police more strongly than the sensible young man in search of his ideal. Speed hogs may be the darlings of the fictionmonger, but, after all, they are only a pain in the neck and perchance other places to flesh-and-blood humanity. Mr Semple, please note. »

Mention above of the conclusions of a bishop on the motoring question reminds me that I read somewhere or other lately about a parson who, acting on,his principle; “ Never condemn something you have not tried,” arrived at the conclusion that horse racing is not really as bad as some people would have us believe.

As far as I remember, this enterprising cleric did not decide to sample racing as a means of augmenting a very limited stipend, but indulged in the sport in the spirit of “ I want to know what it is all about.” He now knows how fascinating the pastime can be; how it might easily become the one absorbing interest in life; how tempting it is to put more and more money on likely winners, even down to depriving others of their rights or of vising money which is not your own. He knows how futile it is for the ordinary punter to make large- sums out of backing the “ gee-gees,” and how utterly silly it is for him to think he can make a living out of it. He also knows that it is impossible to say that a racing tipster is always right. However, he, does not condemn the sport willy-nilly. He sees nothing very wrong about putting money on horses if it is money which can be lost without causing distress to others and which in any case would be used for the punter’s personal amusement. “ I have_ as much right to buy a packet of excitement as I have to buy a packet of chocolate,” ho declares. The real peril, he finds, is that one is tempted to risk money that had been earmarked for other things. He himself does not intend to continue his experiment, but he cannot find it in his heart to condemn out of hand a form of relaxation that has such a strong hold on people of all classes. * * • * We men are rank Conservatives, Because We scorn to regulate our lives By Fashion’s laws. For Man, sartorially sedate, Just' loathes To let a season’s whim dictate His choice of clothes. Of course, I’m not implying that Our rig Includes the ancient tricorne hat And powdered wig, Knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and lace Jabot. I mean that our sartorial pace Is rather slow.

Our good old waistcoat, coat, and brocks Remain Assailed each year by Fashion’s freaks, But all in vain. And man his noble symmetry Arrays In raiment which recalls to me Victoria’s days.

At Christmas, or New Year, again We send Some'token, sacred or profane, To greet a friend. The ordinary Christmas card. To wit, Although we sometimes labour hard When choosing it.

But when one comes to women’s things To-day, “ La donna,” as Joe Verdi sings, “ E mobile.” ' Though Christmas cards still hold their ground, * I fear That Woman’s fickleness has found A new idea.

A female “ wipe” is not too wide, I hope, Or long to be contained inside An envelope; , And therefore south and east and west And north These “ hankies,” suitably addressed, Go posting forth.

My wife need never steal or buy A ” hank,” And, for this same economy She has to thank Her friends, who send these scraps of stuff. I’m sure Her handkerchiefs are quite enough For three or four.

Poor me! I lay no claim to such Supplies., My handkerchiefs, alas! are much Too big a size To send in envelopes by post. , It’s sad That I’ve been forced to purchase most Of those I’ve had. * * * *

The State Council in Nanking has pardoned Marshal Chang Hsueh-liang for his incitement of rebellion and capture of General Chiang Kai-shek_ (if you will only realise how difficult it is to spell these names you will bear with me in what follows). The court martial sentence has therefore been remitted.

A little resarch into Chinese history and tradition reveals that there is nothing unusual in this leniency or in the conciliatory dialogue that preceded the sitting of the court. You may remember that, in apologising for his intemperate action, Chang Hsueh-liang labelled himself “ a surly, unpolished rustic , and an impudent law-breaker,” and. that Chiang Kai-shek replied in self-denunciatory fashion: “ I must hold myself responsible for the incident, which makes my heart ache.” Well, it appears that the gallant pair were only acting iti accordance with the principles laid down by their ancestors, and were simply indulging in the recognised form of verbal etiquette, which incorporates much of the spirit of a genial quid pro quo. We have only to recall what happened after the military revolt in Japan to realise how different in their essential characteristics are the Chinese and the grim little men of Nippon. Not for Chiang Kai-shek the desire for personal revenge or for punishment of the wrong-doer; not for Chang Hsuehliang the urge to dash off and commit hari-kiri. The ability to effect a happy ending to such an episode is, one of the things that must endear the Chinese to European observers.

A student of Chinese life relates in an Auckland paper an incident which further illustrates the ramifications of Chinese ancestral worship. Kabul, he says, was the first Mongol sovereign to visit a Chinese Emperor. Upon their meeting he disgraced himself. After his nomadic life and uncouth manner of living, Kabul was awed by the magnificence of the Emperor’s palace. However, when faced with a meal, he reverted to the primitive savage. It is said that he ate a whole lamb, tearing the meat apart with his fingers. What really mattered, though, was the fact that he got very drunk. In the hilarious stage of intoxication he laughed immoderately at the Emperor’s beard. In the provocative stage .he pulled the Emperor’s beard.

When Kabul sobered up and realised what he had done he immediately apologised and demanded that the Emperor should have him executed. However, the Emperor refused to do this, and, instead, presented Kabul with a gown of golden cloth as a farewell present. * * * * Steps are being taken to recover King John’s baggage and treasures, which were lost in the Wash. —Cable. He started as a dentist, ,too, For lack of something else to do (I wish I’d seen his instruments) ; But, oven so, he gave offence. The Jews complained about his touch, And said he charged them far too much, Then ran about the place and told How John had tortured them for gold. Unlucky man! One fatal day His royal baggage went astray (Now, Gracie Fields would call it “posh ”), And vanished, somehow, in the Wash— It wasn’t just a vagrant stud. This Wash, it seems, was mostly mud, And swallowed everything he wore—■ And, doubtless, owed his tailor for. Quite possibly it may be found By digging up the solid ground. Apparently it’s buried in Some paddocks near the town of Lynn. But what on earth can be the fun Of excavating ton on ton To find—when everything is dug—- “ J.R.” upon a mouldy rug? When people talk about King John - I naturally think upon' A chap in mediaeval years Who set his country by the ears Until the Barons made him sign That Charter on the dotted line. No doubt he swore; but, all the same, That paper had to bear his name. This tiresome, tactless monarch died From complicated pains inside. New ale and peaches caused his doom— He overtaxed his stomach-room, Which could not quite accommodate The frightful quantity he ate; For even kings will sometimes groan With stomach-ache upon the throne. Well, well, a mediaeval king Might perpetrate this sort of thing Through lack of tact (see ‘ Runnymede ’) Or sheer, unmitigated greed. So John, although in other ways His character might merit praise, Secured a name for more than less Of concentrated naughtiness. His shirts will doubtless be in pieces. His trousers will have lost their creases, The remnants of his dinner suit Would make a seedy scarecrow hoot. And, as for all the gems and gold. I’ll wager they were pawned or sold To buy the peaches and the ale— The rest is Johnny’s artful tale!