PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19258, 23 August 1924, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

As was expected of him, Mr do Valera, released from jail, has once more upon his lips the word “Republic” for Ireland and tho words “foreign _ Power” for Great Britain. Ho is himself a halfbreed foreigner, born in New \ork, lus mother American Irish, his father a Spaniard, and “ do Valera ” tho good old Irish name of him. What a farce it is! A farce in which tho stage Irishman with a battered brimless hat and flourishing a sprig of shillelagh is ready enough to dance. ‘‘Shillelagh” said I ?—it is the automatic revolver nowadays, supplemented hy tho torch of tho midnight incendiary. 'The larrikin or hooligan—there are larrikins and hooligans in Dublin as in Melbourne and Sydney—chalks on the walls “ Up Republic ! ” and is ready for the next thing, which may bo any villainy. An Irish writer in the Round Table desiderates for his- countrymen a teacher (vain thought!)— Someone to toll the truth—that wc will never bo a nation till wo work: that Monarchies or Republics do not of themselves bring prosperity or riches in their train; that Ireland has now her future in her own hands, room to develop, freedom to expand, opportunity to grow rich. Someone to show tho farmer that as long as his cow can only produce 300 gallons of milk in the year, while the Danish cow, costing no more to food, produces 600 gallons, Denmark will bo more prosperous than Ireland, though they have a King and wo have none. Reasonable talk; but when did the wild Irishman listen to reason? He prefers listening to Mr de Valera. It is curious that, despite all the killing in the war, there are more people extant to-day than can find house-room. Alike in England and here there is a, distressing scarcity of dwelling houses. Governments are building, municipalities are building, but they do not build fast enough. That is the cry. Dismal stories are told in our own Parliament of families compelled to harbour in disused stables and abandoned fowl houses. What sort of dwellings should the Government build? Auckland municipality has set an example—“ handsome little five-roomed houses with kitchenette and bathroom, water and electrictv laid on.” I agree; may no worker—it is always the worker —bo domiciled less happily. But some bon. members suggest the possibility of existence in two-roomed houses and even—l shudder reporting it,, horresco referens — in tents. Thus Mr Anderson, Minister of Labour: ‘‘When I commenced life 1 was content to live in a two-roomed house; many men in high positions in New Zealand to-day were brought up in whares such as that” Then Mr Kdie, member for Clutba: In my early clays there was no cry for houses. We used to build what wo called “clout houses” —that is, tents. Some of tho families reared in those houses -would compare very favourably with the families reared in tho houses of to-day. I am sometimes amused to hoar people complaining about having nothing hut a tent over their heads. I would be satisfied to have a tent. I lived for many years as a surveyor, and I know that it is cmito possible for ono to to comfortable in a tent. This is new light, on the housing problem. Was there not at one time a whole suburb of Melbourne known as “ Canvas Town . Dear “Givis,” —The steamer Ripple, ono of Wellington’s mosquito fleet trading in and about tho wild and windy Straits, has gone to tho bottom as we know, and for that reason gets in all newspapers tho epithet “ illfated,” —“the ill-fated Ripple.” As “fated” means predestined, foreordained, “ ill-fated ” will mean that tho loss of the Ripple was inevitable, an event fixed unalterably from all eternity. Of course no one really means that. Then why talk of “ illfated? ” The word “ fate ” and ite derivatives “ fatal.” “ fatality,” are losing or have akeady lost, the notion of necessity. A pity perhaps, but so it is. We do not intend to be predestinarian Calvinists when we say of a man killed in war that he “ met his fate,” or when we describe an accident ending in death as a “ fatal accident ” or a “ fatality.” But the adjective “ fated ” still carries its original sense, —an event that was fated is an event that was predetermined. And, strictly, “ ill-fated ” should follow the same rule. But it doesn’t. The proper use of “fate” is seen in Pope’s couplet—

And, binding Nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

Being articles in common use, words may get worn down till their power of expressing fine distinctions is lost. When “fatality” is used for any death by accident it is no longer available for a necessitated event, which is its original meaning. Sometimes the original meaning is no loss; —“disaster,” “ influence ” and “ influenza ” say their say without, any suggestion of the stars, and we get the full use of the word “ fortune '' and its compounds without thinking of the cap'ricious goddess For tun a.

But about the loss of the Ripple I have another communication. “ Shellback,” an ancient mariner from whom we have occasionally heard with profit, writes:

In face of heavy southerly weather

the masted of the small steamer Ripple attempted to round Cape Palliser, the bastion bleak and stem—a corner post of the North Island—on which in south-east and south-west gales breaks the whole violence of the Pacific. It

was a plucky tiling. After a look at the Straits from Wellington Heads a man who cared for his ow -kin would have stopped inside. rr " to i s no harder service in the world than that of the coastal boats working Cook Strait from Wellington, plying to the Sounds and Nelson, to the Kaikouras, to Wanganui and to Napier. I once went—a passenger as it chanced—in the Stormbird from Wellington to'Wangapui, the old Stormbird before she was lengthened. OtT Terawhiti, another storm-beaten corner post, wo were held up whilst a leaking steam pipe was being patched with canvas and ropeyarn. As says Kipling’s Auld Fleet Engineer— I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow—so it was in the Stormbird. Some-

where off Terawhiti is Tom’s Pock, awash only at low springs.—on which, it is likely, the Citv of 'Dunedin snlit and drowned her people. She left Wellington one evening crowded with diggers for the West Coast, and was never heard of, not a trace of her picked up. I asked the Stormbird captain the whereabouts of Tom’s Rock. “ I don’t know exactly where it is,” he said. “ but I reckon wo go within a cable’s length.” I once heard the captain of an Australian wool ship boasting that he had carried his royals from Bass’s Strait to the Horn. Poking about Cook Strait in all weathers is no coward’s job. A man might, make the Gape Horn passage with loss risks.

Thanks for this enlightenment. Nothing remains bnt to think with sorrow and pain of the hardy men whose lives were cast away when the Ripple made nor gallant fight and lost. Labouring faithfully in his vocation, Pussyfoot still has hopes of “ Civis."’ Week by week, and never failing, ho makes appeal to my better nature. Privately, observe; and if I give to nis preachments no publicity I equally suppress correspondents who preach on the other side. Even-handed justice! But I must get into this column something from the latest Spectator (July 5). A Bill for liquor control was before the House of Lords: Lord Dawson of Penn made an interesting contribution to the debate from the scientific and medical side. He asserted that, though alcohol was not a food and was not physiologically beneficial, ir, was psychologically so, if taken in strict moderation, as it made men look upon the world cheerfully. He advocated, ns did Lord Birkenhead, a reform of public-houses. We wanted large popidar restaurants and not mere drinking-bars. Then the Spectator, speaking for itself : In our opinion, the present situation with regard to the liquor traffic is most dangerous and unsatisfactory. Wo give a tremendous monopoly to thrf Trade, and then tax that monopoly so heavily and ring it round with so many restric-

tions that, wo force upon tho retailers of alcohol a system of intensive trading. They can only make tho profit which every business must desire to make by employing all tho arts of tho salesman Hut alcohol, a benefit, as wo believe, in moderation but a terrible evil when the line of moderation is overstepped, is the last commodity in which intensive trading should bo encouraged ami stimulated. We do not want Prohibition. It is a great evil. Hut wo want no provocation or suggestion for tho consumption of liquor. Therefore tho liquor trade is an ideal trade for the State to handle. It will sell to people who really do want alcohol, a.nd havo a right to have it; but it will make no cflort to get business. In a, word, the whole course of tho debate confirms out view that the State, and the State alone, should carry on tho manufacture and distribution of intoxicants.

Wise words and worth repeating. From an Ulsterman: Dear “Civis,” —A certain country library in Otago was closed recently for several days so that tho books might bo re-classified. When the library reopened I had occasion to look for Professor J. K. Thomson’s “Irish Wrongs and English Remedies.” Alter looking through the historical section without success, I bethought myself that the book might bo found amongst recent war books, or even amongst the novels, but it was not there. Finally, in looking through tho “Science” bookshelves I found what I wanted under the heading of “ Medical ” ! I wonder what English remedy tho classifier thought would euro Irish wrongs. Of similar stories there are many; e.g.,— In tho index to a volume of memoirs—“Mr Justice Best, his groat mind; page so-and-so.” Turning up the page you read, “Mr Justice Host said he had a great mind to commit tho witness for contempt,” In tho catalogue at a book auction: “ Mill on Liberty. Ditto on the Floss.” I myself Lave seen at a Dunedin suction “Plato’s Opera” catalogued as “Music.” When Ruskin’s “Notes on the Construction of Shecpfolds ’ (a plea for Qhristian reunion) was announced there came an active demand from British farmers. And the ambiguity of Mr Ruskin’s fantastic title was their ample excuse.

Ag through the length and breadth of Otago I cater largely for “ Scots wha hae,” etc., I allow the following incoherent screed to pass, forbearing blue pencil and the waste-paper basket. It is from a Scotsman down South. His countrymen may puzzle it out. Dear “Civis,” —“Gloomy winter’s now awn.” I havo been looking through Tannahill’s poems, and came across this epigram:

Cried Dick to Bob: “Great news to-day!” “ Great news,” quoth Bob. “ What great nows, pray? ” Said Dick: "Our gallant tars at sea

Have gain’d a brilliant victory.” “ Indeed,” cried Bob, ” it may bo true, But that, you know, is nothing new.” Applicable to-day. To James Thomson I doff my bat, were it only for these lines (disloyalists fake a lesson !) —

Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard tho fair; Rule Britannia.

Brither Scots, I salute you! I havo noted in your column your attachment for matters Scottish, which makes mo think that perhaps your grandmother came north o’ the Border. °h, well, that is a legacy worth preserving. So many of my Scottish friends lay claim as authorities upon national matters that I havo finally to come to you for your interpretation of— I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi’ a’ the honours three.

You were referred to by a previous correspondent as being an authority on matters Scotch (whatever that may mean). Hero are two Scottish stories: Two old bachelors living together, Donald and Duncan. Donald: “Get married yourself, Duncan ; when its a dirty bit of work to do its always Donald • that gets it.” Donald, ultimately marries.' Morning after wedding. to bride; “Did you milk the cow?” “No, indeed.” Duncan: “What do you think wo married vou for? ” Aspirant to Highland charge on short leet, particular as to his personal appearance in pulpit: “ I wonder if you could get me a small glass, John?” Beadle, stealthily re-entering vestry, whispers: “I brought a whole bottle, sir; I ken boo nervous ano feels on sic an occasion.” “ Honours three,’’ —that is easy. At a meeting of Cabinet during the Crimean War time an under-secretary burst into the room waving a telegram and shouting “Sebastopol is taken!” Lord Palmerston, who was presiding, leaped on to tho chair, and with his foot on the table emitted a loud "Who-oop! who-oop! who-oop! ” Honours three. And then doubtless they had in tho decanters and the glasses. Civis.