PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20870, 9 November 1929, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

The wandering Prime Minister ot Great Britain has been, welcomed back to the fold at Westminster. “ Oh, Ramsay, we have missed you” was the Ministerial chorus, Mr Baldwin put in a bland equivalent of “ There's nao luck aboot the Hoose. - ’ 1 Which must all have been very gratifying to a statesman who has been paying rather more attention to the world’s affairs than to those of his own country, A recent revealing article on Mr Ramsay MacDonald by Lord Riddell begins;— I wonder whether the British people recognise that they have something new in the way of a Prime Minister, quite different from any of his predecessors. I am not alluding to his political opinions, but to his character and personality. There is a strong streak of romance in his make-up. He loves thrills, adventures, poetry, pictures, architecture, and, above a-11, travel—the joys of the country road and natural scenery. Romanticism is not usually regarded as a ground for enthusiasm in* Prime Ministers, especially in these difficult days. The picturesque and the practical arc generally at loggerheads. Lord Morley said that Gladstone was a Highlander in charge of a Lowlandcr; his romantic side was kept well in cheek by the caution of his Lowland forbears. Mr Ramsay MacDonald, says Lord Riddell, is just the reverse, and the Highlander runs the show. Perhaps that accounts also for his penchant for aerial flights. Against his soulful yearnings over the nations at large it is interesting to place the concentrated rumble of the Italian Dictator:— Nowadays there is too much talk of the peace of the world, notwithstanding that history teaches that a grave crisis is solvable only by arms and war. So speaks Rome for the benefit of Washington and London. Clearly Mr Ramsay MacDonald must call upon Signor Mussolini.

In our own legislative " talkies" there has been some livening-up towards the finish of the sessional feast of reason and flow of soul. A sort of swan song, no doubt, ' Very edifying have been the antics of the Labour Party with the balancing pole. Torn it has been between its anxiety over the doings of the Government and its fear of assisting the Reform Party to return to the Treasury benches. Of course, the stronger emotion has won every time. Mr Holland’s distressing avowal in this connection was distinctly improved upon by one of his followers. “We would join with Old Nick to keep the Tories out,” quoth Mr Sullivan. “You have always joined with him,” retorted a representative of Reform, and the soft impeachment rested where it fell. The distinction between language that is parliamentary and that which is not is instructive. The Speaker is spared exertion when, as happened the other day, a member with a nice sense of restraint declared: "That is a deliberate — 7 —, well, what it is.” And no doubt everybody is satisfied. Which recalls a story not yet out of circulation about Australia’s still redoubtable William Morris Hughes:— The Government in which he held , office had just been defeated by one vote, thanks to Lord Forrest having deserted his party and voted with the opposition. The divisions were announced, the figures were heard by everybody, and still Hughes, his band to his ear, stood listening in the middle of the chamber. u ' For what,” asked the Speaker, . is the honourable gentleman waiting? " And without a glance at the luckless Forrest, squirming in his seat. Mr Hughes explained: “I am waiting for the cock to crow.”

Many have sung in praise of inns. Not so many in praise of breweries. And yet—but why emphasise the obvious? Beer is a good thing in its way. Father i Jellicoe, a noted slum worker who has taken over a public house in a thirsty London suburb, says; “ Beer is a. gift from God.” So are all good things. A good thing, also, is prayer. It is offered up with ceremony for rain a pd divers blessings, including a good digestion. Unceasingly is it offered op for the conversion of the sinner. But prayer, carefully stage-managed, for the conversion of p brewery has the piquancy of the unusual. Doubtless the procession organised by the W.C.T.U. and led by Mrs Lee Cowie to pray over the new brewery at Otahuhu marks the introduction of more intensive methods into the anti-liquor campaign in this Dominion. All New Zealand will watch with keenest interest the career of the Otahuhu brewery. God has been asked in a. very pointed manner to convert it into a milk factory, or' a flourmill, or even a chapel. Could the miracle but happen overnight! Imagine the delighted surprise of the customers, the joy ,of the parched motorist after gathering in his keg at the hospitable gate to find himself hawking about the country several gallons of excellent milk. Imagine the brewer’s horses—glorious in their kind; —changed into cows, and the triumph of Mrs Cowie and her band. Suppose the petition for divine intervention had been too much for the vats, and they had collapsed like that monstrous tun containing 3555 barrels of strong beer which burst in Meux’a ' brewery over a century ago, and drowned half London in good malt liquor. But there are thoughts 'that lie too deep for tears. In Auckland many things soom to call for prayerfulness.

Room for the wrestlers! Their conversion to milkmen will no doubt be sought. Auckland should take the lead in this also. One of her newspapers offers, with pictures, such exciting headings as this:— Colourful American Exponents give Mat-sport big Boost in Auckland: Trussed up in the Crucifix. The wrestlers, or perhaps one should say the mat-sport artists, are with us, too, in Dunedin. The contests may well have their thrills:— Eklnnd was twisting the head off Gardim when the round ended. Gardini twisted grimly at Ekhmd’s head, and the gong went. Such extracts from reports of the bouts seem to indicate that the gong may he depended upon to avert the worst. It seems the modern wrestler practises an ancient art gingered up to suit our progressive generation. Of course, we all recall that the young Orlando took his life in his hand when he sailed in to overthrow Charles, the Duke's professional, who had just whetted his appetite by littering the ground with youthful wreckage. Yes, wrestling, that is, of course, to say the mat-sport, lias its groat traditions. In England the Grasmere Sports, sometimes known as the Olympic Games of the North, which enjoy the invaluable patronage of Lord Lonsdale, owed their early popularity chiefly to John Wilson, otherwise “ Christopher North ” of Noctes Ambrosianac fame. When living at Windermere he used to organise wrestling matches and prevail oii the local gentry to patronise them. Frequently he enlivened the proceedings by trying a fall with some of the most renowned of Westmoreland wrestlers, inheritors nf a skill which has been the pride of the dalesmen for centuries. Occasionally He won astonishing victories. Such experiences must have been a very helpful introduction to his chair of Moral Philosophy at Edinburgh. Possibly he knew what it was to be trussed up in the crucifix, which might appear to be the plight of some of our Georgian poets. For ourselves, contemplation of the replica, from the Greek in our Art Gallery might precede attendance at the Drill Hall.

One might suppose that the Otago Harbour Board was quite in' the habit of acquiring new £125,000 dredges. Surely the arrival of the Otakou, which by virtue of tonnage should be the flagship of its fleet, was worth a ceremony. A few yews ago the board would have brought out all its bunting, invited the leading citizens and their wives to ah excursion outside the Hoads, and then thrown the new ship open for public inspection for the rest of the month ■ One hopes the Board is going to be proud of the Otakou. which is to removi the bottom of tlio harbour, convert it into teal estate, and make the reputa* tion of tile Port of Otago, A regret to h e> associated with the acquisition is that it means that an old and faithful servant is to bo superseded. A senti mental sigb or two is merited by good old 222. Forty years ago and more, when we were children, we saw her at hci work, and she is still it, scoopin'* out the fairway Plow’ often has the creaking of her bucket ladder made music in the night watches! Few holidays has this sturdy old servant had, that is still hale and hearty and good for no end move work. What ships they turned out fifty years ago! It is no use expecting a hard, practical Harbour Board to pension off 222 in a nice little paddock, with a clean bottom, and some decent coal for purposes -of occasional exercise. But the stout old vessel really deserves a memorial, so long has she played a leading part in the history and life of Otago Harbour. Even a bucket dredge may possess personality. Superseded! It is rather a bitter word. Let the old and the new dredges bo laid alongside. Imagine, if vou can, the kind of conversation that mi"lit ensue between the youthful, and °we will hope respectful, Otakou, and the tried and trusty old campaigner that was never even given a proper name, merely a number. Let'the shapely old Plucky, still smart for repartee, be hard by in case the new craft is inclined to be patronising.

Modern parents have been in the fire of criticism at mental hygiene conferences m the Old Country. They could not expect to have any status at such gnther.ugs. Probably they have given up expecting anything anywhere save hard knocks. Mental hygiene js agreeably suggestive *o! disinfectant for the reasoning faculties. That parents should be powerfully sprayed with it is but another of their misfortunes. They are the scapegoats, chopping-blocks, and Aunt Sallies for the liome-rmssjoners of the new hygienic light. Many children conje into the police courts, says an official lady, a spinster, because they have the wrong parents. Nobody arises to say how many parents go off the rails because they have the wrong children. The head master of Harrow, who should be n great authority, has scholarly views concerning the secret of the failure of the modem father, who has permitted his son to address him as “Old Bean”—sometimes it is “ Old Spud ” —and the more reverential “ Sir ” has gone beyond recall. Sons no longer stand at attention in the august presence. The modern pater has recklessly descended from Olympus and become accessible and comparatively friendly. When he docs roar he is regarded ns staging a vaudeville turn. At school it is brought under Young Hopeful’s notice that the boy is father of th.> man. He acts accordingly. Parents may be scolded by hygienic conferences, but everybody understands which one is the target. Of course, there are fathers and fathers. Perhaps there is the perfect father, something betwixt a monster and a deity, bathing every morning in mental hygiene. There is the unhygienic father, whoso lung power is like the broadside of a battleship. There seems to be so much against fathers that it were painful to pursue the subject. Tct on their bowed heads one ray of redeeming light would seem to linger. They are still generally a financial sine qua non. As the French proverb has it 'Un pero est un banquior donne par la Nature.” Givis.