PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19198, 14 June 1924, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

Tho general approval given to Mr Snowden’s Budget—his maiden effort—is based on tbe consideration that it might have been waur.” The Scottish' moralist whoso wont it was (as the old story runs) to round off every untoward event with this aphorism, usually evaded without difficulty schemes laid to trip him up ; as thus:—‘l had a bad dream last “ Yes? ” “ I dreamt that I was in hell. “It might have been waur.” “How so.' “It might no ha’ been a dream.” This is what we must say anent the Snowden Budget. We dreamed dismally of vindictive class taxation, of a capital levy ruinous to industries, of other Socialist mischiefs dark and deep,—and it might no ha’ been a dream.” But these things arc not there. Mr Snowdon s palo ascetic features and look of great physical suffering” as he entered the House, “ leaning heavily upon his stick,” and advanced to the table (I am quoting from a London newspaper’s pen picture) ; and his “ exhaustion ” when, the Budget speech ended, “he was supported back to his seat bv the Prime Minister and Mr William Graham,” may in some degree have conciliated opponents. But what has conciliated them most is the fact that this Budget—tho creation of a hidebound doctrinaire —“ might have been waur. .It is a pity that we have no single English word for “ a pedantic theorist who applies principles without allowance for circumstances,” which is the dictionary account of “doctrinaire.” The word is French, and our chief historical example is French, Maximilien Robespierre to wit, that tragic product of the Revolution who ended on the guillotine to which he had sent scores. During his brief hour of ascendancy Robespierre wanted to extend liberty, equality, and fraternity to the French West Indies, -where blacks were many and whites were few. There will be a massacre) ” he was warned. “ Y r ou will ruin tho colonies!” To which came the immortal reply: “ Pqrish the colonics rather than a principle! ” The sacred principle of the Snowden Budget is Tree Trade, and to this fetish it has sacrificed the British motor car industry, at the risk of throwing factories out of function and workmen into the street; next, the modest “ preference ” the dominions had in the British market for certain of their products. Canada, the Cape, Australia, New Zealand, in Mr Snowden’s view are just “ the colonies ” : and—Perish the colonies rather than a principle ! ■ Tho American pressman whose luck it was to chance on and report “ the most eloquent prayer ever addressed to a Boston audience” might have found to his taste the Bishop of London’s prayer at the opening of the Wembley Exhibition ;—up to a point. Eloquent mention of “ideals” and “aspirations” would seem to him little below the Boston level; but when the bishop prayed for help “ to see ourselves as others see us” his American “ listener-in ” would fall away. For here was a plain lapse into Robert Burns. O wad some power the eiftie pie us To se" oursel ns ithers see us! It wad fme nio.iv s blunder free us, An’ foolish notion; What airs in dross and gait would lea'e’ us, An’ e’en devotion! According to the “own correspondent” of the Daily Times the bishop ’’ recited a collect specially written for the occasion,” presumably not by himself. To see ourselves as others see us would never have occurred to him as worth praying for. "What is it that “ others ” see? The outside only. The best and the worst of us they cannot see. But the words were there and the bishop read them, —with a wry smile, if endowed with a sense qf humour, as most bishops are. For it would flash upon him that he was quoting from a piece headed by Burns: “To a Louse, on seeing one on a lady’s bonnet at church.” Fancy it, —echoes from an ‘‘Address to a Louse” getting into the public prayer of a Bishop of London at a State function ! From “ Down South ” Dear “ Civis,”—You seem good at answers. Well, answer this for me: There are two brothers—one married, ouc single. The married one's son marries an English girl. She has three children; her husband dies, and now his uncle marries her. What sort of relationship is there among them all? The father of the dead man is father-in-law to the woman; also he is now her brother-in-law. What relationship arc the children to their grandparents? The relation of children to their grandparents is easily seen; they are their grandchildren, —what else? But the domestic tangle resulting when an uncie-in-law marries a niece-in-law I make no attempt to unravel. Of course there arc. precedents, illustrious precedents if \en go far enough back. The Roman. Emperor Claudius married his niece Agrippina,— niece, not niece-in-law, who soon after murdered him, as ho had murdered her predecessor, Mesealina. The domestic morality of the Cajsars was the morality of the fowl yard, with an occasional murder thrown in. In this country Church and State are agreed that “a man may not marry his grandmother ” ; but, his grandmother excluded, together with some other obvious impossibles, the law of the land permits him to marry any woman who may be willing to have him. From Geraldine; Dear “Civis,” —Can you explain why, when sometimes counting the strokes of a striking clock, one counts a stroke more than was actually given? This w:!l generally happen when one is absorbed in a book, or otherwise closely engaged, or when dozing? I have done it many times myself, and I know that I am not singular in that, respect. I have seen a medical man’s explanation of the query, but it was quite incorrect. The answer is simple. Gan you pick it? Not believing in psychoanalysis, which seems wanted here, I was at a loss; til 1 — happy thought I —l remembered Robbie Burns: “ 0 Willie brewed a peck o’ inant, and Rob and Allan cam to see”; their chorus, as the night drew on— We are na ton, we're nao that foil, But just a drappie in our e’e; The epek mav craw, the day may daw, And ay we’ll taste the bftrley bree. In proof that they were na fou, one of them is able to identify the moon : It is the moon, I ken her horn, That’s blinkin in the lift sae hie. . . There could bo no mistake,- —he kenned her horn! But in a moonlight walk of his own, related in “ Death and Doctor Hornbook,” Burns gets a stage beyond this. “The clachan yill he says—“had made me canty; I was na fou, but just Lad plenty.” The rising moon began to glowre Tho distant Cumnock hills out-owre; To count her horns, wi’ a' my power, 1 set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell. At what hour of the night may this have been ? The auld kirk hammer atrak the hell Some wee short hour ayont the twall. . . Note the vagueness—“ some wee short hour. . . ” Strokes of the bell or horns of tho moon, Burns was past counting either. My Geraldine inquirer may find here the explanation he is seeking. Councillor Mac-Mantis is a man of principle. Other chieftains round the civic camp fire hang together and are all of a mind (more or less); to Councillor MacManus belongs a splendid isolation and the distinction of being in a minority of one, his constant motto the line from Lucan—if he knew it— Vicirix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni. The Dunedin people, simple souls, approve the. knighthood of Mr Justice Sim, take pleasure in it, count it in some sense an honour to themselves and their city as well as to the particular recipient. Not so Councillor MrtcManus; —a motion of congratulation having been proposed by his colleagues, he interposed a firm and definite “ No.“

“Tn my judgment,” Cr MacManus declared. “the lime has arrived when a protest should bo raised against such empty baubles as this ascription of titles in a democratic country.” This it is to be a man of principle. Of course there are difficulties and embarrassments. Presiding at the civic camp tire (to return to metaphor) is the Mayor. How is the Mayor to be addressed? “His Worship ” sounds almost a profanity and is certainly undemocratic. Councillor MacManus himself, taking his walks abroad, may be accosted by the man in the street as “Mr ” MacManus; —think of it! —“ Mr,” which is Master, and more undemocratic than the “ Sir ” of Sir William S'rn. I see nothing for it but that Councillor MacManus as a man of principle should assume the rod nightcap, the Cap of Liberty, and be “Citizen” MacManus, as in the days when democracy and the guillotine flourished at their height in France. Zealous for my spiritual .and social welfare, a Pussyfoot writing from somewhere up country (place-name indecipherable) entreats me to tak’ a thought and mend, as I aiblins might. Why do I insist that there should be three issues on the referendum paper and not two only? Pussyfoot's obtuseness in this matter is not wilful but congenital. He honestly believes that in voting for State Control, or for Corporate Control (whatever that maybe) I vote against Continuance; as if there could be control with nothing to be controlled! Equally honest is his belief that my vote for State Control should be added to the Pussyfoot vote which it was my ■ express object to defeat! What a world wo live in ! Amiable Pussyfoot—his philauthrooy is so sincere and his methods are so mistaken that my heart yearns over him. If only he would join forces with ns, the moderates, we could reform the liquor traffic root and branch. But no “ the whole hog or none,’’ says be. and that fatal doctrine is his ruin. Moderation—he scouts it! Nevertheless, through much tribulation he will yet learn the lesson: “ Let your moderation be known unto all men.’’ Scottish stories still pursue me, some of them chestnuts. For example: The haughty English aristocrat was endeavouring to impress the import anco of his family upon his guide in the Scottish Highlands. “Why.” he exclaimed, “my ances tors have had the right to bear arms for the last two hundred years !” “Hoot, mon,” cried the Scot, “my ancestors have had-the right to bare legs for the last two thoosand years !” Mr Arthur Balfour, now Earl Balfour of that ilk, was one day strolling near his Scottish home at Whittinghame. when he was accosted by an old man hailing from a neighbouring village. On being presoufed with n shilling the man whisnered Mr Balfour: “Mon. dan ye ken what T’m gann to tell ye.” “No,” replied the statesman. “Well.” was the rejoinder. “It’s gann tae rain seventy-twa davs.” Mr Balfour, thinking to have a little fun with him, remarked: “That cannot be. for the world was entirely flooded in forty days.” “But,” returned the old fellow, “the world wisna sac weel drained then as it, is noo.” The next examples smack of the Irish bull, a rare thing in Scottish dialect: Two village neighbours were inspecting the new cemetery—spink and span, neat iron gates and railings, flower borders, and so forth. Said one: T dinna like it; I’d rather dee than be buried in sic a place.” Said the other: “Well, wi’ me it’s the verra reverse; I winnn ho buried onywhero else, if I’m spared.” Civis.