PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20988, 29 March 1930, Page 6

PASSING NOTES.

A’ o’ers are ill but o’er the water

To every citizen of Dunedin Anniversary Day should be a Day of Re membrance—whether he arrived in the city by ship, train, or motor car in the last century or in this. For Dunedin was founded just as were founded many of the great nations of the world. A long voyage to an unknown land seems to have been regarded as an essential preliminary to greatness. And many nations that could not lay claim to this important preliminary invented it. Rome was founded—in legend—by longvoyaging Trojans. To America came the Pilgrim Fathers. The Anglo-Sax-ons came across from Germany, but were not satisfied that the length of the voyage fulfilled the requirements. They revised their history. Their new country was surely Brutain:— Brut or Brutus was the great frandson of Aeneas, the eponymous 'rojan hero. Banished from Italy, after many adventures, be found his way to Albion, then the abode of

giants, who were not destroyed without desperate fighting. The founder of France, likewise, was the mythical Francus, son of the same eponymous hero. The voyage of Aeneas to Rome was a mere harbour excursion compared to the long pilgrimage of the John Wickliffe and the Philip Laing. But similarities are not absent. Ten years of bitter warfare preceded the destruction of Troy and the flight of Aeneas. Ten years of bitter controversy preceded the “ Disruption ” and the emigration of the Free Churchmen who refused “to go over ”; for, says the old Scotch proverb:—

an’ o’er the hill. Neptune frowned on both. Both ‘‘sang on the way as they went, that the journey might be leas tedious.” And the pious descendants of both gave honour to {heir ancestors.

The most momentous and providential event in the history of the English langu age-greater far than the Roman Occu pation or the Norman Conquest—is the advent of the Talking Pictures and of Broadcasting. It is a new Renaissance with promised effects quite as far-reach ing as the old. Less than ten years ago the destiny of England, spoken and written, was overcast with gloom. The Fate of Latin, of Teutonic, of Old Scan dinavian was hanging over its devoted head. And no human power was in sight to prevent its disintegration into daugh ter languages, each differing from the other, like French, Spanish, and Italian, or English. German, and Dutch. In a few hundred years a Dunedin student would have required a dictionary to lead Edgar Wallace. Says Sir Robert Donald:—

‘ Science has saved the unity of the English language. The risk of disintegration has gone. The coming of _ the Talking Picture will lead to uniformity and to the acceptance of recognised standards. English actors with good articulation and no distinguishing accent are now in great demand in American film studios, and are talking themselves into fortunes in American stars are taking lessons in pure English. Within a few years there will be no marked difference between the language of the Talkies throughout the English-speaking world. Artistic instincts and commercial interests are combining to bring about a common film language. The Talking Picture will bring a recognised standard of speech into every English-speaking town and village in the world—into Oklahoma and Taihape, Wooloomooloo and Medicine Hat. The silent film, with its infantile hero, has gone the way of infantile things. Gone are the days when the real movie hero was the man who sat through it. After all, its faults were mere growing pains. As Macaulay’s schoolboy would know, Horace did not write his Satires with an eye on New Zealand politics. Yet he seems at times to have the vision of a seer:— Exacto contentus tempore vita cedat uti conviva satur. “Satisfied with his past term, let him resign his place like a well-filled guest.” It is here delicately suggested that Mr H. R. Jenkins, M.P., in relinquishing his seat at the Parliamentary table like a well-filled—or full-up—guest, is only expressing his satisfaction. The unsatisfactory performance of his party has given, him a long-awaited excuse of returning to the fold of Reform. Resig nation of a Member during the currency of Parliament is rare, but not unknown. The eternal triangle—Member, Party, Constituency—always contains elements of instability. At least three varieties of divorce emerge, all attributable to some kind of conversion and consequent desertion. A constituency may desert its member, or his party may desert him, or he himself may desert them both. All three cases have worthy precedents—some, however, stopping short at mere desertion. Gladstone’s constituency experienced a change of heart in 1859, and again in 1865. But 110 one mentioned the word resignation. In 1885 the English Liberals were returned as opponents of Home Rule. Immediately after the election Gladstone announced his electrifying conversion. The leaders of the Liberal Bloc met, and the Bloc heads decreed that the party should follow its leader. Members who refused to do so were not called upon to resign. This happened also when the suddenly-devised policy of Tariff Reform was imposed on the Unionists by Chamberlain in 1900. The third case introduces the sad predicament of the Member who deserts both his party and his constituency. Resignation then is a matter of the Member’s conscience. Mr Jenkins saw around him a seethin» welter of desertion. His party, he says, deserted its promises and its principlesHe therefore promptly deserts the party. He tnen proceeds to his constituents in the confidence that, in the meantime, they have deserted the party too.

Authorities agree that the British Parliamentary system does its best work with two parties, and no more. Hesi tation between two issues easily becomes bewilderment before three. Ever sinee the trouble caused in the Garden of Eden by a third party we have regarded two as company and three as a crowd. And it is so also in love. The Independent, who belongs to no party, is an aggravation of the evil. Said yesterday, Mr M. J. Savage, M.P., for Auckland West:— There are in the House three groups, "with a few Independents. Parliament is no place for Independents. They are only a humbug.

The Independent is ambidextrous— dealing now with the Left, now with the Right. Neither hand can be perfectly efficient. “'ll uage entro deux caux.” He coquets—his situation compels him to. Like Rosebery, he “ ploughs his lonely furrow alone,” and has difficulty in keeping it straight. As the man in the old saying puts it: “I am deter mined as long as I live, to be free to spit in my own parlour.” “ Independence is a rocky island without a beach,” said Napoleon. I accept the adjective rocky. Rear-admiral Byrd saw islands like that. The Independent takes things very seriously—like the man who committed suicide “ because of the interminable buttoning and unbuttoning.” He confuses an election by the intrusion of another personality. Small wonder that all eyes are now turned towards Parnell—anxiously, as they did a gener ation or two ago." What Parnell thinks on that April Election Day, New Zealand may think on the morrow—that is, if_ no Independents stand. The day is big with possibilities. Says the Nursery Rhyme: In April, cuckoos como ; In May he play his drum: In June he change his tune; In July he fly away. Parliament meets in June. By July something will have happened.

Various English journals note a curious revival of interest in witchcraft. The devil being never far away from his handmaiden the witch, he also enjoys his share of interest. The omniscient Dean Inge has made a pronouncement in favour of belief in a personal devil, “an active personal evil waging war against souls, powers, and principalities.” Here and there in France, we are told, pacts with the devil are being made every day. James I, “ the wisest fool in Christendom,” wrote a Daemonology, saying that The assautes of Sathan are most certainly practized, and the instruments thereof merit most severely to be punished. Bishop Latimer figured the devil as a bishop in his own diocese. Since authorities like these are made to be followed, let us follow them. The devil has often been described. Some have seen him “ as a tree-trunk without feet or legs, seated on a throne, having in some sort the face of a huge and, frightful man.” Others say No! to this: “he is like a goat, with two horns in frent and two behind, or perhaps three in both places.” Other accounts ascribe to him Horns of stag, face of owl, long beard, wolf’s ears, horse’s tail, bear’s paws, and feet of a man. To Milton he resembled a cormorant sitting on a tree. Most unsatisfactory witnesses, all of them, A Dunedin detective cent to pick him up on these descriptions, and to clap the steel on him, would- be looking for an owl-faced stag, and would miss the leering, jeering, sneering Mephistopheles not far away.

The devil that is striving to creep into the Garden of Democracy merits more accurate description than this. Necessarily he modernises his method of entrance. Not nowadays would he penetrate blatantly as a serpent, “with a voice whispering behind the leaves.” He accommodates his form to suit the mentality of the occupants. Sometimes, as in Russia, he enters like Frankenstein’s monster, raging like a fury, setting out to nationalise bodies and souls, and ending by nationalising misery. At other times, as in Italy, he stalks in as a Mussolini, II Duee—anglicised appropriately as “The Deuce ’’—and substitutes the Black Shirt for the Black Hand. Different again are his methods in Mexico. American observers across the Rio Grande know he is there, but in what guise they cannot yet tell. They only see Presidents being brought in by the ballot and out by the bullet. In more sophisticated British communities the devil is driven to cunning approaches. Thus an old writer; The devil workefh not alone, or merely as one. He hath under his obedience and rule sixtie and six legions of devils. ! A legion numbers 6666. Prepare then for a horde of little devils amounting to over 14 millions! The conclusion we must come to is that, in a British community, in New Zealand, as elsewhere, the devil is a white ant. A white ant? Yes, the creature that works in myriads, eating the heart out of things removing the whole internal substance of a telegraph pole and leaving only the outer skin. The post then dangles on the wire. He devours the wood of a mighty tree and leaves only the bark standing. You lean against what appears to be a perfect tree. It crashes down, upon you. This devilish whiteanting of democracy is a continuous process—here a little, there a little. Take a Diogenes’ lantern and search for it. A Democracy may be standing up, perfect in form, and yet be nothing but a Demonocracy,

Dear Civis, —For more than thirty years the tower of our University has been like the chorus hymeneal in Shelley’s “ Ode to the Skylark,” a thing wherein we fee] there is some hidden want. That lack is now to be dissipated by Sir Thomas Sidey. who should have adopted the title Sir Chronoe. The question now arises, “ What would be an appropriate cliime? ” May I suggest the four opening cadences of the Capping Carnival chorus? This would do a double service. We would be perpetuating the_ memory of Mr Arthur H. Adams, writer of the chorus, and of Sir Arthur Sullivan, the composer of the Soldiers’ Chorus in “Patience,” which was brought under contribution to serve the ends of the students in statu joculari.—Discipdlds. A natural “ Discipulus ” view—anything for a little excitement. The other side should be heard. Already—we are informed —the roar of the passing tramcar means a relaxation and a gain of time to the student, a vexation and a loss of time to the professor. The words of the Students’ chorus run:— We’re here to-night In force, The students of Otago, We welcome you of course. To this—our great Farrago. Pine words and fine music—if chimed forth from the Theatre on Carnival Night. But quite out of place when and where classes are being held, Think of It! “This, our great Farrago” is not the usual conception of a University Lecture—at least not, we hope, in the Otago University. Civis.