PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19240, 2 August 1924, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

The Earl of Chatham, with his sword drawn, Stood waiting for Sir Richard S (rah an; Sir Richard, longing to bo at ’em, Stood waiting for the Karl of Chatham. I address this respectfully to the Dunedin City Council and the Dunedin Harbour Hoard. Which of tho two is the Earl of Chatham and which Sir Richard Stratum I don’t know, and it doesn't matter. It is history that the military pair, waiting for each 1 other, brought to grief the Antwerp Expedition in the marshes of Walchercn; it is prophecy that the other pair, unless they drop their waiting, will do the like with the Dunedin Exhibition in the quicksands of Lake Logan. The “ Antwerp Expedition’’ and tho “Dunedin Exhibition, ’ — the words have an ominous chime. More than other men. Mr Lloyd George in his official days had command of the word in season ; out of office and under a cloud ho has it still. Tho sacrifices which tho dominions made from 1914 to 1918 were greater than any made by Britain in any war since ihe Napoleonic wars. The dominions had put 1.C00.C00 men in the field, and these men had probably been the decisive factor in what had happened. It was impossible not to comply with the dominions’ demand. Henceforward they should be consulted in matters of foreign policy which had committed them to such an enormous sacrifice. It had been difficult to got the departments to understand tho full meaning of that change.' It is not easy to think that Mr Lloyd George’s day is over. There is an honest ring in the testimony of Lord Birkenhead, himself just now out of office and under a cloud: Lord Birkenhead, addressing the University of Minnesota, characterised Mr Lloyd George as “the. greatest living Englishman, n man who by disposition hates war. "No man in England would have made or did make a greater effort to avoid the struggle,’’ added Lord Birkenhead. “He was one of the most tenacious, resourceful, and brilliant men during tho war. I never know him in low spirits. He radiated confidence and gladness.” In Britain as in this dominion, the outof date name ‘‘ Liberal ” casts an evil spell. There as here the true division is Socialist and Anti-Socialist. I? football in tho football season >s not a religion, it is the next thing to it. Indeed no religion could draw the crowd of a match when " Fights for tho E’lag ’’ are on, nor any boosted missioner, not even Gipsy Smith. As in religion, so in football, there are schisms and heresies, tho orthodox and the heterodox. In Dunedin just now tho Rugby Union is to the Rugby League as Jesuit was to Jansenist, and as Hindoo is to Mahometan in a ritual riot about defiling a temple or insulting the sacred cow. Tins week the All Blacks—the pick of our “ muddied oafs” as Kipling calls them—loft for England in the Rcmuera. Elalf Wellington was there to see them off. Did both Houses adjourn?—l didn't notice; it is not to bo supposed that either could keep a quorum. At the wharf, amid the ringing cheers of thousands, each muddied oaf as he marched up the gangway was ceremonially received by the contain of the ship. Not the Pope himself could have embarked with greater pomn. Yes, football is not far short of a religion. I have always recognised the religious note in Newbolt’s excellent verses on school cricket, —tho school being Clifton College: There’s a breathless hush iu tho Close to-night— Ten to make, and the match to win— A bumping pitch and a blinding light An hour to play and the last man in. And it’s not for tho sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame, But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote—- “ Play up! play up! and play tho garaj^” I don’t quote the rest, though it would be worth the space. The whole, piece, in large type, should be posted up in tho pavilion or club-house of every recreation ground. A religious spirit in sport is no bad thing; but it would bo an exceedingly had thing if sport were the only religion left us. Tho essence of sport is of course com-petition-competition for tho sake of competition and for tho pleasure of it. Bast doubt is tho pleasure of it. Every school ground is a playground, and every schoolboy game is competitive. No striving ior tho mastery—where would be tho fun/ Even tho children who hopscotch on the pavements hop competitively. Yet in commerce and industry this same competition, wo are told, is an evil thing—one of tho evils of “ capitalism,” says tho Socialist. As a matter of fact it is competition in commerce and industry that is tho consumer’s chief friend, cutting the claws of tho profiteer and monopolist. Maundering still in the wake of Karl Marx the Socialist denounces along with competition ” buying in the cheapest market and selling in vho dearest.” Does Mr Holland buy or sell anywhere else? Is there any lurking denizen of the Labour comer who buys in tho dearest market and sells in the cheapest? Apparently we are to picture the Socialist housewife saying at tho grocer’s, “ Butter one and eleven, isn’t it? Give mo a pound for two shillings. “ Can’t go higher than one and nine,” says tho butterman; “ take it or leave it!” So in the world of sport.—the same principles. V‘ Leg before, I think.” says the batsman who has taken the ball on his pad. “ Don’t mention it,’’ says the howler, as with a straight one he scatters his sticks. “Clean howled,” exclaims the batsman, gathering his bat under his arm. “ I apologise.” says the bowler, while umpire and wicket-keeper are readjusting the bails; “I’ll give you an extra ”: and with that sends down a wide which goes to tho boundary. The ideas and ideals of Socialism are tar reaching. Enclosing an advertisement in which a legal firm wanting a “Typiste” requires tho applicant to specify amongst other things her age, a correspondent writes: Dear “Givis,”—As a modest young lady I appeal to you for protection against these brutes of lawyers. Fancy asking a lady her ago! I have been proposed to twice but have never,been asked my age. A lady always looks young. Tho last sentence needs a large faith. I seem to have known ladies who, not to put too fine a point upon it, might truthfully bo described gs old, and looking old. All tho more reason for deprecating an inquisitorial spirit. It is indecent to ask a lady’s age, an invasion of a sacred privacy. A friend of mine had become engaged to a lady older than himself; when asked if he knew her age- —" Do you think I looked into her mouth/’’ ho snapped in replyv Looking into her month would be the method of a horsedealer. am willing to believe that this indignant correspondent —who has “ been proposed t*o twice ” —looks young and will continue to look young. To suggest that she will never look old woula argue perhaps either an early death or the left-handed compliment that was paid to Cleopatra,— Ago cannot, wither tier, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. A compelling charm of tho Mew Poetry is that anybody may produce it, just anybody. Sir William Orpen, lor instance, who is a painter and a great man in his own line of art, visits Paris. “ Now from my open window old Paris lies below me, wicked but beautiful,” he writes. Plain prose, you think. Not a hit! He arranges it for publication thus: Now from my open window Old Paris lies below me, Wicked but beautiful, and lo it is poetry. Again : A vision, Magnificent at. nnv time, Is now more wonderful Than I have ever known it.

Flat-footed prose, made iftto poetry ny chopping it into irregular lengths. there are five-and-fifty lines of this with buWilliam Orpen’s name at the top. it is obvious that a whole newspaper, from leading article to police, court reports, might bo expressed in the New Poetry. And of course High on the slopes of this Parnassus Would ho a place for Passing Notes; And, equally of course, My customary readers Would, In anger and disgust, Rise up and stone me. Reminds me all this of article “ Hymns Happy and Unhappy ” in -he London Mercury. Of the unhappy sort are many examples from popular hymn books; some index oddities I may find space for. A hymn beginning O God, what boots it to sing on. . . . has an index reference : O God, what boots .... Other first lines are similarly truncated: I thank Thee, uncreated Sun .... Let tlie sweet hope that Thou art mine. . O give me Samuel's heart . . We share onr mutual woes. . . • Index form : I thank Thee, line. . . • Let the sweet hop O give me Samuel. . . . Wc share our mut. . . • Alas for the saving grace of humour, here gone a missing! A sense, of humour would have saved these index makers from absurdity. “ Quibbler” (Mosgicl) would quibble with me through half a page of foolscap over the difference between a " statement of a fact” and a “statement of fact.” I reminded hint last week that the word ‘‘fact” is ambiguous. “Is A-a fact?’' means Is it true? “His facts are disputable” means that his tacts may be untme. “ Quibbler” cannot seo that a lie is a fact. Nor does he onng an intelligent mind to the statement that the moon is made of green cheese, nor to the statement —as old as Dante—-that the Man in the Moon is Cain with a faggot of thorns on Ids back, nor no the statement of Milton that the spots in the moon arc unpurgod Vapours not yet into her substance turned; —all statements of fact but erroneous statements. I may wind up tills qmt>bling over words, words, words by an appropriate story picked from the Morning Post. Asked to write an essay of not more than a hundred words on a motor ride, a small boy wrote the following; “My father went for a ride in his new motor yesterday, and it broke down half way up a hill, and ho had to walk all tho way back home. The other seventy words are what he said white doing so.” Civis.