ABSTRACTS AND BRIEF CHRONICLES

New Zealand Times, Volume XLIII, Issue 9998, 15 June 1918, Page 4

ABSTRACTS AND BRIEF CHRONICLES

(BY THE STAFF.)

"They are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the times.”—Hamlet.

The power of. the Press is being actively canvassed in these days. , There are not wanting signs that the Press has fallen from its high estate. The Press embassy leaving these shores, however (not without heartburnings and criticisms) is a sign at least that the Press has not become impotent. The opinions of two great loaders of thought, one himself a journalist of world-wide fame, show what the Press was at one time, and might become again. This is what W. E. Gladstone thought of the British Press of his day: “I believe that the free, unfettered Press of this country has done more to reform its government and purify its administration than all the Parliaments, reformed or unreformed, that have ever existed. Whenever you shut off any department from the supervision of the Press, there you find abuses that would speedily perish in the light of "day.”

TV’. T, Stead put the journalist on a still higher plane—on a level with the prophets of the past. “A journalist sometimes must be both missionary and apostle, although, to my thinking, his vocation is more analogous to that of those ancient prophets whose leaders on the current politics of Judea and Samaria three millenniums ago ar e still appointed to be read in churches—it is to be feared too often to little purpose, We have to write afresh from day to day the only Bible which millions read.”

Man is the only laughing animal. This fact has been observed before. The Foolosop. ■;(!!' has been often forestalled in sage remarks by writers who had the advantage of living before him, and got in first. But he can claim originality for the proposition that man is not only the only laughing animal, but the only animal that gives cause for laughter. Bike the immortal Falstaff, fat, laughing Jack, he is not only _ witty in himself, but the cause of wit in others. Tho cable man informs us that a Turkish university has selected Lenin to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. Other candidates were the Kaiser and von Hindenburgl A strange want of reason is, shown in the choice of. Lenin and the rejection of tho Potsdam, Nora. Bill loves peace so well that he is fighting for it —a thing Lenin failed to do. lie says so himself, and there -is *llO donbt about’ itl?.; IJesidea, he is the prime i cause' of millions of his fellow-men being now at peace—at peace within tho tomb I They will quarrel no more, because tho Kerman War Lords created a desolation—and called it peace! This peace, while very unlike the peace of God, resembles it to this extent—it passes all understanding, just like the choice of the Turkish professors.

' Pertinacious Mr Page! &i Totally l ignoring the hordes of newspaper correspondents and thoir complaints against him, he still plays the same super-classical compositions at- his recitals. In vain have citizens begged that he might relax the strain ot music of the “intellectual order.’’ They have heggod for relief from the fagging complexity of the -ingenious concoctions of . fugue, counterpoint, inversion. canon, or rugged ■ rhythms. Unmindful of all their pleadings, -Ur Page still rolls out the ponderous worker Ivarg-Elert or the heavy -fugues of Bach, or'again- ascends to- the lofty heights of Cesar ITanck (incidentally leaving his ’ attenuated audience groping - ’midst a rumble ■of sounds in a draughty Town Hall). • Once it Was suggested that the’ CSty Council should select the items on the programmes of the weekly recitals. After this-, the controversy has been regarded as, a. hit of a joke. • However, correspondents gifted with more than the usual perseverance have voiced their sporadic complaints, but aro -unheoded. This- week ; a correspondent has writ-, ten to the “Times” with musical suggestions of a patriotic flavour. Evidently ho considers that if' all arguments -have failed the patriotic nrguihont should ho in sonic way effective. This correspondent has gone ’ so far as to draft out possible programmes. “Will the City Organist ■ give it a. trial?” he asks timidly.. . The • confusing dissonance of rumblings from the city organ is the only reply of Mr Page.

■ The Handy Man dares to differ from the Foolosophor in his condemnation last week of the .“Ballotin' 1 Now, the Handy Man is some twenty years younger than the “Foolosophor, but, burning with an honest cqnviction that ho is right,. ho ruslios heedlessly into print in his endeavour to- prove that the remarks made as to the “gibberish” in the “Bulletin” are not justified ■ and 1 that “Bullotinese” is not so “detestable” after all. He writes as follows;—“Hoar old Foolosopher, were not your remarks as.to the unique stylo of the' “Bulletin” a trifle narrow-minded and altogether unjustified? Would you hfive'ua all eating porridge at every meal and abhor such dishes as trifle? Surely not. You will not condemn tho Scotsman for raving over his haggis, tho Irishman over his potatoes? . Then, surely, you will not begrudge the person with the delicate palate longing for a wellhung pheasant. So wi ( th tho literary appetite. You can have your Hnglish pure and plain; cannot I have it dished up to me spiced with originalities? If a dog wags his tail is it not more picturesque to say that it “disturbed the rigidity of the short hairy thing at tho conclusion of him,” than to say simply that “ho wagged his tail”? Again, docs it not relievo tho tedious monotony of saying a man has dipd by describing it in the language of tho “Bulletin” that “ho has run his last lap”? To my young mind there is. more delight in tho deliciously refreshing originality of the “Bulletin” paragraph than in columns from the very few journals who travel along tho even path of tho “puro and undofiled British language.”

• • • Tho Handy Man is an ingenuous soul, and tho Foolosophcr loves him as a brother. Our young friend i« of Hibernian origin and his imagination is warm and lively, like that of most Kelts. The Gaofio or Brso langllrtga is required to give it full, free and unfettered expression. In tho more matter-of-fact tongue of the Sassenach, it is cribbed, cabined and confined. The Foolosophcr does not object to originality. On tho contrary, ho seeks

for it more than for hid treasure, and gives it his patronage at all times. But second-hand verbal atrocities are not original, nor unique. There is nothing brilliant in calling a nose an “olfactory organ” or a moustache a “hirsute adornment.” or a harmless Presbyterian a “Scotchbyterian,” or a valiant Australian an “Horaetralian” or an “Ossie” or “Biljim.” Girr! This kind of thing is cheap and easy, like the Handy Man’s picturesque phrase for a tail, otherwise “caudal appendage,” which is enough to make a man of taste shed tears. it should ho made a penal offence, that kind of thing. Originality, is a splendid thing when it is original and shows wit and sense—but when it is the repetition of a silly conglomeration of words it i s merely damnable iteration, and offends all the canons of style and good taste. It makes the penman who takes a pride in his art echo the words of George Bernard Pshaw': “Why was I born with such contemporaries?”

“In connection with musical matters the question has been raised why should not the host artists available be procured for the production for the proper performance of works endeared to the people. There is no question that the success of the performance' of ‘The Bohemian Girl’ by the Wellington Choral Union on Thursday night was considerably endangered by the Use of principals whoso places could have been much better filled. If tho Wellington Choral Union is to maintain its prestige it can ill afford to pass competent artists who are available for others who are ill-equipped, simply because their terms of engagement mean the saving of a little money. When works of importance are put forward, surely tho host talent available should he engaged. In some respects tho performance of ‘The Bohemian Girl’ at tho Town Hall on Thursday night was a sad disappointment. So say many people who took the trouble to attend, fancying that they would hear Balfo’s work given with something of - the ‘eclat’-. distinguishing stage performances in the past. Tho Wellington Choral Union has fixed a standard which should be maintained. A few guineas, surely, should not stand in the way of engaging' the most competent artists for representing prominent parts. Tho war -ci on. Thero are many people away whom we would like to seo hero in the interests, of art. But, for goodness’ sake, let us lay hold of what talent is available. Lt tho Wellington Choral Union is going to place parsimony before utility, its fate is surely doomed. Hissolution will bo imminent, notwithstanding the recent combination of two musical organisations on account of the wax. This, is the communication which, has been received from a correspondent who wants to know whether the present policy of the committee of the Choral Union is to bo continued.,,; He rpakes some, remarks about infernal workings which- it is as well .not to reproduce. • Ho suggests that there were capable artists available for a really good performance of Balfo’s work-—one which has made his memory enduring in English musical history, but it was a question of guineas, which certainly did not appeal to the conductor. The'subject is worth considering by the committee. When Gounod’s “Faust” is put forward, let uS haVo' sbmethirig worthy: bf the- composer within, geographical: limita» Let New Zealand give of its best in tho artistic sense. ’ Ho not let us have artists running to waste when there is work to be done.

. Th° Kaiser’s heart has been bleeding again. _ln company with the square-headed von, Hiudenburg he has been looking over the ruin made by .his Blares in Franco—and blaming the r renoh. fordt.- He offered them peace about Christmas u timo *in 1916, -and they would not take it. Tho older of the offco bards celebrates the occasion : “'i’hn hkno has coma,” the Kaiser said. Tb balk of many things: Of (boiling lead—land 'poison, gas And death with all its stings. And whether Franc© should die because She dares to taunt our kings/*

“But hold a while,” the French replied ‘ wo ihave our chat; For all of ua are flesh mid blood You cannot question that.” ‘•Be patient!" said the Hoyal One, "I am a diplomat."

Tho Dove of Peace," the Kaiser said, •Is chiefly what wo need; To civilise this wicked world Would be divine indeed. So if you’re ready for the game. My comrades, let’s proceed.’’ “We crave no blood," the Frenchmen cried, The Kaiser said, "Quito so, ■ But let me rule your fairest land 1 know Gott meant it so." And all tfoe tim© li© \v©r>t aloud • To. see the red Wood flow.

‘ Ach! how it pains,” the Kaiser said, “'My aching heart to see A sight so sad and pitiful; Xa Franco, beloved by me.” Olhe Crown .Prince stood beside his Dad, And nodded, '■’l a {free."

f'We like your words/’ the others said, “But don’t you think -it queer It at you should kill to show your Jove. And at our suff’rings jeer?” Bud little Willie to his Dad, “Dot’s have a lager beer.’’

•'O Frenchmen," said tho Kaiser thon, "Throw down till© loathsome gun. And Jet us all bo. friends again!” But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd. because He'd .slaughtered every one. , * • •

Ihe Befcnce Minister has announced that Maoriland is to have a history of the war. This is a good idea, worthy of all praise and encouragement. To help the good work the Staff, from time.to time,.will pass on good stories founded upon fact, of deeds that aro making history. Ono or "two ar© givon now to ho going on with. According to a breezy narrative tpld by a private of the Scots Fusiliers, when they were ordered to take the first and second line of trenches held by the Gormans at Givenchy, tho Scots wont mad and sprang on the enemy like wild beasts. But the Germans were not taken aback. As a proof of their good faith, and evidence of genuine culture., they shouted to tho Caledonians, "Como you on Macduff 1" a German reading of Shakespeare. Tho Scot who told tho story said they gave tho Gormans plenty of Macduff, and added: "They won’t call us funny names any more.” This hardy Scot had a bayonet duel with a fat German for half an hour. Then the bayonets dropped from their hands, and they took to their naked fist*. Finally tlie German Was downed. He asked tho Scot to take: him prisoner, which tho victor did, recognising tho German as a “sport." It appears that tho Gorman knew hi* Shakespeare bettor , than the Boot. B'lfc the Jatter, although askcd by tho Gorman to “chuck it" when neither could get his havonct home, replied, “I’m damned it I will," which,

while not true to text, showed the same spirit as Macbeth, and proved the Scot to bo a true descendant of the fighting Macs of old time.

Carlyle believed that every man was a potential hero. And not without reason. It is wonderful how the soul of man will rise to heroic heights when duty calls him. During the Dardanelles campaign a cable message recorded the “unprecedented pluck” of a man from these Islands. Ho was ono of the many nameless heroes of the war. He might have been a. West Coast collier, a city clerk, a bushfeller from the backblocks, or a wharf lumper. , During an advance ho found himself isolated on a high promontory. His body was wounded, but' his soul was intact, and steeled to a high resolve. Ho rose up and signalled news of the enemy’s strength. The Turkish bullets whizzed around him. Twice they struck him, hut ho stuck to his work. Then a third shot put his arm out of action, and he fell. But his soul was still in action. Nerved by immortal valour, he rose up once again, finished his work —and fell dead. It was the death of a hero. Many such heroes died, at the Dardanelles. Their names will not bo known to fame, but their deeds will he the perennial glory of their country and their race. The soldier leaving these shores should resolve to lead the heroic life—whether he lives pr dies. Det him hearken to Carlyle: “Brother, thou hast within thee the possibility of writing on the eternal sky the record of an heroic life,” even as did this nameless hero of Maoriland.

A cup which the Kaiser gave to an American yachting club, supposed to bo of gold, turns out to be a base and worthless imitation of pewter. The Cadet improves the occasion: “All that flitters is not gold/’ Be it brighter than the sun. Gleaming with barbaric lustre, In the eyes of everyone.

A golden cup did Willie give. To Uncle .Sam across the sea,. Said ■’twas- 'worth a million marks; Time revealed its value—three.

Moral. Value not the gifts of kings As goods blown by Damn Fortune hither; The valne rests not in the things. But only in the royal giver. A “Sorrowful Citizen," writing to the “Times” makes a wonderful revelation. It is that because this journal has suggested the Town Hall organ recitals might possibly be made more popular by the introduction of music more easily understood by the people, or by means of modern composite entertainments, it has absolutely fallen from grace. “Sorrowful Citizen” Las gone the length of designating the “Times” a “money grabber” on the assumption that it has dared to suggest that organ recitals might be made paying ■ propositions. Tho "Timef” has actually descended to commercialism and is anathematized accordingly. Horrid thought! That such a thing as an. organ recital should bo made to pay! Other musical entertainments must bo made remunerative, but organ recitals must bo free of the eternal proposition. As a matter of fact tho “Times” did not say organ recitals absolutely should bo made to pay,..hut the question was inferontially raised that tho ratepayers who'are' “paying tho piper” for an expensive organ, an organist with a. fair salary, _ and electric lighting, should get a little more of what they want in tho shape of entertainment. The idea of tho Bishop of Christchurch that municipal authorities might take in hand the exhibition of educational pictures for tho benefit of the rising generation was also touched upon. That was all. ' But supposing we go the length of trying to make municipal entertainments pay. Why not? The millennium has not yet arrived, and manna is not raining from heaven with an assortment of locusts and wild honey as delicacies. Wo are placed in this world mainly to find bread and butter. That is tho experience of most people. Our little hobbies wo have to keep in tho background. There are many persons who object to pay on principle. There are others who would adopt Micawbcrism df the world’s philosophy had not taught them that sooner, or lifter on such a basis they must inevitably come to grief. There is a commercial basis to everything. Even the churches which point the way to idealism and heaven have to acknowledge, that money must bo forthcoming to carry on. Possibly if “Sorrowful Citizen” had his way—ho seems to bo an idealist on the very highest plane—tho world would soon ho in a hopeless state of bankruptcy, and what then?

But his extravagant criticism is quite bosido the case. In the ordinary affairs of life things must be made to pay oi* they must “go out or go under.” To art and science a certain amount of assistance may reasonably bo given, apart from regular commercial considerations. • But there is a limit defined by efficiency. If organ recitals on the old and ancient plan, at which one performer i a called upon to absorb attention during an evening’s entertainment, fail, why not try some other plan? The “Times” is not afflicted with conservative notions, and is ready to receive any now idea for the benefit of the community at largo. It is one of the functions of democratic journalism to consider the welfare of the mass of the people os against that of the individual. The labourer is worthy of his hire, but is bo worthy to ho hired? It depends upon what ho does. In view of current opinion, apart from a special coterie who profess to be sent into the seventh heaven of delight by ultraclassical music, the time surely has arrived when the experiment of performing truly popular music might bo tried. The Town Clerk could a tale unfold of how ho was the means of filling the Town Hall in Sydney to the number of 3000 persons by giving a little sound advice to M. Wiegando some years ago. That was when Mr Palmer was Acting-Town Clerk in Sydney. The talented Belgian organist at first tore up the music that was offered him to play. Afterwards ho tried it with seme clovor improvisation on the themes presented,, and ho had to acknowledge that the Town Clerk was right and ho was wrong. Thermal titude was drawn to the Town IT all, and in course of time the organist was able to do something in the way of educating his largo audiences. It is ns well to begin at the right end. “hirst catch your hare; then cook it.”

This is a very dead season tot the papers. Except the war, of course, there is nothing doing. The politicians have ceased from spouting, for n season. Not because they have all gone to the front. That ia not their way. Many of them have talked about

it and Mr Holman Rot there—as a visitor—and got Back again. Mr Willie Watt Bas not been to tho front yet. About three years ago ho iras challenged to go there by Mr Frank Brennan, a man of peace. Willie had called Frank pigeon-livered, and Frank proved thaFho did not lack gall by getting the following quaint mixture of epithets off chest; “Let Mr Watt, who has the voice of a bull and tho soul of a protoplasm, come out from his sanctuary under the skirts of the Political Women’s League and go to the front with me. Now is the accepted time. (Cheers.) Nothing came of this—nothing over does come of political sham fighting. After all it is as well that both these square-jawed and leathern-lunged orators should hold themselves in reserve for the defence of Australia. Eloquence like theirs would melt tho most callous of Huns. No doubt both would make good fighters at tho front, hut their country would miss them sadly.