PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19204, 21 June 1924, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

The thrifty practice of calling an institution by the initials of its name has honourable precedent in the S. I’. Q. R(Sonatus Populusquo Romamis), which' marked State projierty under the Roman Republic, and which still looks majestic in half effaced inscriptions 2000 years old. Modern abbreviations of this kind haye no merit but their brevity. In Dunedin you may look in at the Y.M.G.A., cross over to the Y.W.C.A., do business at the D.1.C., the U.S.A., the A.M.P., the G.P.0., beat up the quarters of the W.K.A. and the A.S.R.S., etc., etc., wandering through a deaf-and-dumb alphabet of signs and symbols that save breath, but in themselves are meaningless, C.0.P.K.C., or, as a word, Copec (hitherto the name of a Russian coin), denotes in England a Conference on Christian Polities, Economics, and Citizenship, —numerically a big thing, it seems, for Copec recently collected at Birmingham 1200 delegates from 18 different countries to pass resolutions as absurd as its name; —one, that “Christian faith is fundamentally opposed to the spirit of Imperialism.’’ that is, to the spiritual bond that holds together Britain and the dominions; another, that Christianity is fundamentally opposed to “all war,”—and much good it docs to say so Why didn’t they also declare Christianity fundamentally opposed to “all crime,” beginning with murder and adultery ? Papier resolutions against war by people who don’t want it avail nothing with people who do.

But what about the League of Nations. I wish well to the League of Nations. I never think of the League of Nations without a prayer—more power to its elbow ! For want of power to its elbow the League of Nations is at present little more than an expensive form of “Copec. In the current Quarterly, Professor J. H. Morgan, who. it seems, was an intimate friend of Lord Motley —“ the richest mind of his time”—fills many with examples of Motley’s table talk; e.g. I asked him what ho thought of the Longue of Nations. _ . . Lord Motley : “A mirage, and an old ° n j. H. M. : “Yea. it began with Sully and has been the illusion of_ three centuries. How are you going to enforce it?” ■ _ Lord Morlev: “How indeed? One may as well talk of London morality being due to the Archbishop of Canterbury. But take away Scotland Yard ! Lord Mcrley, be it remembered, was in politics a Radical, and so far a pacifist that when, in August, 1914, we declared war against Germany, he along with John Burns resigned from the Ministry next day.

The difference between Monarchy and Republic is, as we all know, the difference between a king by inheritance, with freedom broadening slowly down from precedent to precedent, and a king by periodic election—a convulsive process combining the paroxysms of a. demoniac and the throes of a woman in travail. The French have for once got through an election with neatness and despatch, its chief feature a “community sing within the Legislative Chamber —statesmen and politicians of every degree, lawyers, journalists, men of light and leading, simultaneously taking part, one side singing the “Marseillaise,” the other the “Internationale,” a Continental version of the “Red Flag.” Cbmpared with this, a combination of the “Old Hundredth” and “Auld Lang Syne” would be classical music. Harmony over, and the two rival candidates having publicly kissed each other, the winner posted off at once to take possession of the Elysee, the official residence, and there found that his deposed predecessor had “privately departed,” probably in a hired taxi, without beat of drum. And so, till next time, all ends happily.

In America also an election fit is on, and will be the chief business of all Americans for the rest of the year. There are two historic parties, the Republicans and the Democrats, indistinguishable except in name and by their relation to office, the one party being the Ins and the other the Outs. The Republicans, at present the Ins, have already nominated their candidate, and in the grand manner, —America is a great country, and everything is on the grand scale; ten thousand delegates in convention, ten thousand throats roaring; “cat-calls, hisses, jeers, and shouts,” say the cables; the majority “encircling” the minority and marching round them singing the “Star Spangled Banner,'' as the Hauhaus in cur Maori war time used to march round their sacred pole, barking “hau, haul” It will he the turn of the Democrats next; the Democrats will follow suit and aim at going one better. We sometimes hear the suggestion that in the “march of progress” the British people will advance from an hereditary king to a king by election. Advance, do thyy call it? An advance backward! We’d better bide a wee.

In a letter to the Daily Times Pussyfoot complains that ‘Givis” peps away week in and wee!; out, concerning him. Pussyfoot, and his weary pund o’ tow. Week cut, rather than week in, I should say. My business is to shoot folly as it flies, and I must needs have an occasional shot at this folly, but a s seldom as may be. Like the huge, patient, eood-bumoured public, I am tired of Pussyfoot and his round of inanities. The Pussyfoots of New Zealand are “over 300,000,” be tells us. He should have added that the population of New Zealand is over 1,200,000: but he doesn’t conceal the bare and brutal fact that if at the next time of asking the Pussyfoot vote should exceed the anti-Pussyfoot vote by the merest handful, one half the population will proceed to coerce the other half in matters of their daily life and daily food. For that he hopes, and over the possibility of that he gloats. In the interest of all the moralities, high and low, I must do what I can to balk him. But I have here a letter of protest: “I am surprised at the attitude you take,” says the writer; “a man of your good sense and learning,” she continues (1 think this is a Indy Pussyfoot). It is precisely such good sense as I have, and my learning (such as it is), with my other high qualities, that determine my attitude, put me where I am, and make me what I am.

“Northern Ireland” sends me, as a curiosity, a Free State postage stamp, remarking: “See the brains all in Ulster.” For the stamp shows a map of Ireland in which Ulster, marked off by a broad black band, looks like a human head, and the rest of Ireland like a dropsical misshaped body. So “the brains are all in Ulster.” The colour of the stamp is green, of course; and round the margin are words in unintelligible Irish. A writer in Blackwood quotes a Free State announcement that “the name Ireland, when used by implication as being included in the expression united Kingdom, shall mean Saorstat Eireann.” _ But as to the meaning of Saorstat Eireann we are left in the dark. Apparently it is the official name of Ireland, and by and bve wo shall talk of Saorstat Eireann as glibly as of Jugo-Slovenia or Popocatepetl. As to the boundaries dispute, if the Free State becomes bumptious and aggressive, we shall hear again the saying we would gladly forget—-“ Ulster will tight, and Ulster will he right.” In that day, if fighting there must be, it will fare ill with the Southerners.

Scottish stories thought to be humorous —I am getting shy of them. Last week I had half a dozen; a day or two later the Daily Times had a whole column full. Them are districts in Scotland where domestic servants stipulate that they shall not be required to cat salmon oftener than twice a week. A similar protest against too much of a good thing is in the French saying. “Toujours perdrix !” In spite of all that, I must make room for another story-telling correspondent, assuming that what interests one may interest many. Dear “Uivis,” —The replies given fo

Arthur Balfour and “Geraldine” in last week’s “Passing Notes” remind me of the following stories, which 1 think are not widely known. The minister gave a coat ho was finished with to a sturdy parish vagrant, who put it on, buttoned it up,

gave a squint at it over his shoulder, mid (hen said, “It'll dno fine. Och! I’ll hae to gio ye a day’s heatin’ lor this.” Two farmers going home arm in arm from a ploughing match dinner, “gey foil,” and unco friendly. “Man ! .Jamie,” says Davie, “look at the auld muno risin’ ayont the hull.” “Man, Davie, ye’re fou! That’s no tho muno, that’s the sun.” “It’s yon that’s fou, Jamie; dno ye think I dinna kin the mime frae (he sun?” They got into a hot argument, nearly coming to active hostilities, when another man was seen coming along, and they agreed to reier the matter to him. He, canine man, after a good look, said: “Wcel, ma friens, soein’ this pairt o’ the country' is strange to me I wadna jest like iav say whither it’s tho sun or tho mime." Here is an Irish story which has an air of probability. The I’ricst; “Well, Dennis, you're married, I hear; I am very glad of it. How' do you and your wife get on together?” Dennis: “Well, your rivirince, oi think we get along besht together whin we are apart.” If story must cap story, I will wind up with a good one, the story of an incident which Mr Moreton Fre wen, who relates it, says “started a scandal in the Scottish Church which survives to this day.” At Holyrood a part of the High Commssioner’s functions 19 to entertain tho bishops on the Friday. They all appeared at tho levee except tho Bishop of Argyll and the Isles, who sent his dean to represent him, a functionary that Itosslyn described as “a ridiculous and pawky pe.rson.” His apology for tho Bishop’s absence was a noteworthy one. Ho said, “Mv Lord High Commissioner, my Lord Bishon is unable to attend; ho is ill, indeed ho is abod with ‘housemaid’s knee.’ ” Tho Lord High Commissioner put his inevitable glass in his oyo and said, “Mr Dean, that is the strangest excuse that I have yet, encountered. Pray, what has your Lord Bishop done with tho young person’s other organs?" Civis.