THE COMMON ROUND.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19461, 22 April 1925, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND.

By Wayfarer. Next Saturday will bo Anzac Day. I am fairly entitled to get in before the leader winters, and the preachers. Not that I have anything new to say on the tenth anniversary. I feel almost stagfered by the backward vision of 1915-25. t seems but yesterday, to use a phrase which has become almost foolishly conventional. And yet, in a different way, it seems a hundred years ago. I like the judicial remark at Wanganui: “Anzao Day is holy day, and was never intended as a holiday,” said Mr Justice Frazer at the Arbitration Court when the Wanganui shop butchers’ dispute was being heard. “It was set aside as a day of remembrance, and I do not see why an effort should be made to ‘Mondayiso’ it. It would be like getting a holiday on false pretences.”

We have been told time and again, that Dickens is not popular at this end of the world. Young people in the dominions don’t understand or appreciate his local conditions, —so the story runs. His Cockneydom is too remote, his caricaturist humour obsolescent if not obsolete. I never credited the scandal, and now it .s good to have the authoritative assurance of Mr M'Ewan, the admirable, capable librarian of the Dunedin Public Library. “The old authors hold their own; the public taste for Dickens’s works is enormous, and is well maintained year after year.’’ At the same time it is rather disappointing that Thackeray and Scott are not conspicuously in demand. In this Edinburgh of the South Sir Walter might be supposed to bo a sure favourite. Thackeray modestly owned his inferiority to Dickens, though some of his admirers have been disposed to disagree with him. “People are pleased to tell me that I write well, but you must always remember that Mr Dickens wrote Weller.” And yet there is the marvellous circumstance that Mrs Henry Wood beats even Dickens in point of popularity. There are heaps of people who know their “East Lynne” without knowing their “David Copperfield.” Mr M’Ewan does not mention Nat Gould. Has his illustrious vogue evaporated? And what about Marie Corelli and Hall Caine?

The Germans are enjoying their presidential elections. There is no end to the business. To quote (he Berlin correspondent of the New York Times:— Ex-Kaiser Wilhelm is mentioned. So is his eldest son. So are his other sons. Field-Marshal von llindonburg bobs up on the list of candidates, also Field-Mar-shal von Mackenson—a German war cele-

brity who has known better than anybody hereabout to keep his mouth shut since 1918 and go his way scornful of publicity. Then there is Admiral von Tirpitz—one may guess the degree of enthusiasm his name would arouse in America and England—and that sly old veteran of Imperial Germany, Prince von Bulow.

Were it still in existence, that monstrous wooden effigy of “Iron Hindenburg” into which German patriots were in wardays permitted to drive nails for a consideration; doubtless the Peoples’ Party would parade it in triumph. But it ha* gone into the limbo of things forgotten, with that most popular of German warbooks, “Hindenburg’s march on London.” Rumour ran that the effigy was sold at very reasonable quotations as kindling wood, thus serving to boil German pots and kettles in lieu of inflaming German minds. Should the sun shine upon Hindenburg’s presidential pretensions it is sure to bo reflected in the resuscitated trappings of Prussian militarism. But German financiers in the United States have sent warning that his candidature will stop the flow of American capital to Berlin. Such a damming of the current of currency would never do.

So the ex-Crown Prince is not a war criminal. Roma locuta est: or, rather, the Supreme Court at Berlin has pronounced judgment,—and what more can be said? The implication may or may not be that Wilhelm fils was aw ar hero. “I am beginning to think that 1 was meant to make love, not to win battles,’’ was the letter-press beneath a Punch cartoon depicting the Prince wandering meditatively in sylvan glades.

It was recently announced in a German Nationalist paper that “The Royal Court” had gone into mourning for four weeks for the late Prince Wilhelm of Prussia. But wK'ere the Royal Court of Germany makes merry or mourns is not mentioned. Is it at Doom, the home of the ex-Kaiser, or at Oels where the Crown Prince lives in his castle? Seeing that ex-Eoyalties only figure in the case they cannot very well have anything but an ex-Court, which seems to be a proposition inviting metaphysical discussion

The great adventure of airship R 33 has provided a twenty-four hours’ sensation. “There is nothing to say—it is nothing at all,” quoth Flight-lieutenant Booth, modest if yawning, as he set foot on terra firms, at Pulham amid the excited thousands, reporters in front. An official of the Air Ministry thinks it was wmth while that the accident happened. Possibly the Ministry will consider the advisability of the encouragement of such unpremeditated flights in the future. But aviation is not what it was in the good old days. Betwixt the escapade of R 33 and the Ingolsby tale of “The ‘Monstre’ Balloon” which left Vauxhall one Monday at noon we may find points of analogy: Here’s news come at last! Here’s news come at, last ! A vessels com© in which has sailed very fast; And a gentleman serving before the mastMister Nokes—has declared that the party has past Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast, As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast To see such a monster come borne on the blast. And it caught in his waistband and there it stuck fast!

Sir Oliver Lodge is reported to have said in a recent address: —

When you open a door in answer to your cat’s mew, that is a miracle from the animal’s point of view. In the same way the interference on our behalf of supernal powers is ..a miracle to us. l

But how, it is pertinent to inquire, does even wise Sir Oliver know the cat’s point of view? Nobody can boast of plumbing that profound mystery. In any case what is a miracle to Grimalkin? Of less importance than a saucer of milk, or knowledge of that great truth that to those that ask shall be given.

Geographic and local conditions have always been more or less neglected in the curriculum of New Zealand schools. An extract from the Timaru Post; A matter of interest to Waimate was discussed by the South Canterbury Hospital Board, a suggestion being made that an advertisement should be placed in the Timaru papers. The Waimate member: “What about the Waimate paper?” One of the lady members: “Have you a paper in Waimate?” The Waimate member: “Mr Chairman, I think that when members come to a board of this sort they should pass an examination in geography and local conditions.” —(Laughter.) “Have you a paper in Waimate?” indeed! Have you a paper which has given spicy entertainment to the inside and outside community for many a year ? Timaru has much to learn.

Easter eggs are still in the shop windows. But they will not be there long enough to challenge the fearful age of the exhibit at Melbourne Museum. At election meetings in the Home Country I have seen ancient eggs,—malodorous, splattery, odious. A correct shyer would make a good mark on the candidate’s face, but the egg wasn’t more than a month or two old. Quite different from the Melbourne record of fifty-four thousand rears.

The curator of the museum (Mr Kershaw) said he had previously determined the egg to be that of a seabird, possibly a dotterel. Mr It. L. Jack, of the South Australian Survey, had calculated that at least 27.000 years would he required for the crystal condition of gypsum a foot thick As the egg shell was covered with two feet of crystallised gypsum, at least 04.000 years must have passed since the egg was laid.