THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22057, 13 September 1933, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfarer,

This is, on the whole, a disillusioned and materialistic age, not given to pleasing expression. We have recorded the displacement by the Razz of such inspired flows of invective as once were used by civilised persons to indicate disapprobation. When Prospero derided Caliban, what was his reply? All the Infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prospero tall, and make him By inch-meal n disease . . . and so on. This is a highly-cultivated way of saying you dislike a person. It is to be encouraged. Mr Kingsmill’s search into history has revealed many equally effective sallies which were employed for the purpose of avowing contempt. But even among our immediate ancestors the gentle art of vituperation had not departed. In “ The Life and Letters of Sir Edmund Gosse” we are given an idea of the heights of artistry to which the poet may rise without being Mr Masefield. Excerpt: — Swinburne wrote to Emerson, whose reported remarks had offended_ him. Gosse: I hope you said nothing rash. Swinburne: Oh, no, Gosse: >But what did you say? Swinburne: 1 kept my temper, 1 pre served my equanimity. Gosse: Yes, but what did you say? “ I called him,” replied Swinburne in his chanting voice, “ a wrinkled and toothless baboon, who, first hoisted into notoriety on the_ shoulders of Carlyle, now spits and sputters on a filthier platform of his own finding and fouling.” This, it seems to us, is a more satisfactory retort to one with whom you are mildly annoyed than the thrusting of tongue between teeth in the un aesthetic motions of the Razz. .

Take even D. H. Lawrence, prophetelect of a newer school of literary controversialists. • His opinion of his fellows, ns expressed through Mellors, is no emission of an ear-splitting noise, but it seems equally devastating.

The Colonel used to say: Lad, the English middle classes have to chew every mouthful thirty times because their guts are so narrow, a bit as big as a pea would give them a stoppage. They’re the mingiest set of ladylike snipe ever invented: full of conceit of themselves, frightened even if their bootlaces aren’t correct, rotten as high game, and always in the right. . . • The Razz, one is forced to conclude, is but a poor substitute for vilification indicated with voice informed by spleen. What we really deplore, however, is that it appears to be symptomatic of a general decline in the art of using words.

We are concerned particularly with the art of verbal love-making. Loveletters once provided a gratifying stimulus to the literary pretensions of the people. The man who, ordinarily, could not put three words together neatly in order to voice an idea. would, in the throes of the great emotion, rise to heights of rhetoric. Our appreciation of this elevating influence is stirred by some love-letters that were under discussion in England the other day. For instance:—

Sweet and incomparable Josephine, what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart! Are you vexed? Are you ill at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover. . . . Or, again:—

. . . my dear, the love with which you have inspired me has bereft me of reason. I shall never find it again. . , . You, you alone, such

as -1 see you, such as you are, can please me and absorb all the faculties of my mind.

These perfervid thoughts are not the outpourings of an impractical idealist, nor the work of the professional amorist or impressionable stripling. This sighing swain was the terror of Europe, this half-demented lover had nations at his feet, and was trampling them. His name was Napoleon.

Contrast this epistolatory eloquence with the casual correspondence of the twentieth century, even when the affections are engaged. We quote from the reminiscences concerning a famous English club:— Hooper, who has been hall porter at Buck’s Club since it was started over 12 years ago, wag servant to Lord Alastair Leveson-Gower during his engagement. When he became engaged he said to his fiancee: “I shan’t be able to write to you because I hate writing letters.” So his fiancee said: “ All right, but ask your servant to send me a line occasionally to tell me you ate all right.” I can see dear old Alley now in the Boia des Dames saying: “Hooper, Hooper, have you written my letter? ” It is a sad reflection on the decline of literacy among the aristocracy. One is reminded of marriage a la mode, as depicted in Punch or elsewhere. The elegant young man-about-town and his feminine counterpart are strolling in Bond street. Negligently he points his cane towards a jeweller’s shop window displaying engagement rings. “Well,” lie says casually, “What about it, old thing ? ”

If we are to look for the perpetuation or revival of literary love in modern times, we have to search in less sequestered glades than Mayfair. It seems that it is left to the constabulary, upholders of our national laws, to bolster also our national literature. In a breach of promise action heard in England recently it was a kinema attendant who personified the Josephine of the present, and a policeman who provided the Napoleonic periods. Herewith excerpts from his impassioned letters:— We shall have a bumper [Christmas] next year. Just you and I, yurayum. .... I am quite 0.K., and still love you like blazes. . . . My own dearest sweetheart, I have got it bad.' I think the worst is over now. The first two days I was bad I felt like suicide. I never realised before

that the corner you occupy in my heart was such a big one. . . . This case reminds us that love letters have their economic aspect, as the policeman’s ex-young lady appeared to realise. It is a point that is not to be neglected in time of depression. Napoleon’s love letters, eight of them, realised £4400 the other day. Those are the sort of letters any woman would treasure. Even a casual flirtation at Stewart Island has commercial possibilities if there are written documents to attest it. But perhaps that realisation on the part of the Josephines accounts for the lack of written declarations on the part of jour potential Napoleons.

“Musical Instruments—Wanted, Bassinette, in good order; cheap . . Advt. in South Island paper. Some love the hum Of kettle-drum ; Some watch the maestro, both arms flailing. Provoking sound as, cat-gut walling, Violin and bass, Take up the pace. Then some prefer The Wurlitzer, Booming a hymn tune, chant or ditty; They think such symphonies are pretty ; Or else the croon Of big bassoon. Or there are chaps Who may, perhaps. Adore the strangulated pipes. The skirl that grips, the drone that gripes; Some like, I know. The piccolo.

Cymbal, trombone. Or saxophone; Trlple-tongued cornet, harp or cello, Induce In some a feeling mellow; And some adore Euphonium’s, roar. Each to his Instrument, wo say; For us the only one that gets Our heart, Is that sweet tune they play, In Karitane bassinettes. A New Zealand newspaper mailed 52 years ago has just arrived at its destination in the United States. New Zealand postal officials declare that some delay must have occurred, as in the ordinary course it would have been delivered sooner than this. We read of an uttercr of valueless cheques who “ was sentenced to nine months by the magistrate.” We hope that this prolonged association with a law-breaker will not have a corrupting effect on the member of the Bench. The president of the Fruit-growers Federation says that there are few subjects so fruitful of animated discussion as embargoes and tariffs. And few arouse such acid comment as citrus fruits.