PASSING NOTES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22060, 16 September 1933, Page 6

PASSING NOTES

“ There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast.” So says Dickens in “ Oliver Twist,” when the whole crowded street responds to the cry of “ Stop thief! ” and joins ardently in the chase. There are, of course, other hunts than this, infinitely various in their methods and purposes and in their times and seasons. With fox hunting we arc fairly familiar, if only by repute. And this species of outlet for, the hunting instinct may serve ns a type of all the rest. It is a hunt with hound and horn, in the crisp air of the incense-breathing morn, when the frost-bound grass breaks like thin-woven’ glass beneath the hoof, or when the wind has an cast in it-r-over ditch and hedgerow, past copse and spinney, when hound follows scent and horse follows hound. Not wholly of sport and rural gaiety, but with many elements not dissimilar, is another kind of chase. Its hunters are Society, its time is the London season, and its hunting ground is a continuity of routs and crushes, levees and balls, dinners and drawing rooms—and secluded conservatories. Let not the scoffing of the narrow-minded deride this daily and nightly chase. Its quarry is no will-o’-the-wisp. For wherever there are daughters to be married, there also will bo Rachels weeping and fighting for their children. As an aftermath of a royal garden party at Buckingham Palace, the social columns of several London newspapers were filled with announcements (at so much a line) intimating that “Mr and Mrs Soandeo regret they were unavoidably prevented from obeying their Majesties' commands to attend the garden party.” A comment on these advertised apologies for absence saw only the comedy of them, and missed the pathos: Those who inserted them must have read the summons to the function carelessly, or they would have seen that they were not themselves commanded to attend. The Lord Chamberlain was commanded to invite them. The distinction has not much difference. But why did the absentees publicly announce their absence? Oscar Wilde gives the reason in the words of Lord Illingworth in “ A Woman of No Importance ”; “If society is a bore, to be out of it is a tragedy.” To enter London society is not enough—you must fight to keep in it. Writes a former French Ambassador at the Court of St. James: For a mother not to receive an invitation for her daughters to a fashionable party may be a disaster. On the occasion of an Embassy Ball our already overcrowded list had to be definitely closed. We had to refuse an invitation to a family of good standing in which were two young “misses” in search of husbands. The mother wrote to her Excellency asking for an interview. Receiving no reply to her letter, she came and forced her way into the house on the very morning of the reception, and her heart-broken entreaties so moved her Excellency’s soft heart that an invitation was given. The mother then burst into tears, pouring out her gratitude effusively, and giving as her reason that the invitation was a matter of life and death to her daughters. It would have effectively ruined their chances of a good marriage; for not to be seen at the French Embassy Ball would _ have closed against them all, similar functions during the. eeason.

Not a mere chase is this, but a desperate: war'of trenches, of fighting, Inch by, inch. Every daughter knows the limits of her' opportunities, for the custom is fixed by stern necessity. “ One season in London, or at most two; then off she must go to try her luck in India.”

As vague as a shadow is the dictionary definition of wrestling. It is merely “the art’of grappling with and trying to throw an adversary.” Within these widely-drawn limits it might be the innocuous amusement of a drawing-room in a boisterous, family. Definitions from more reliable sources bring it more up-to-date as the occasional episode of a zoo or Jungle. ; For we are told that wrestling is “ the art of forcing an opponent to the ground by every possible means except by the drawing of blood, or the recourse to blows or kicks.” Even this gives the modern wrestler as many options as there are parts and organs in the body. The picturesque description of the Daily Times reporter of last Saturday’s wrestling bout in the big Town Hall, which drew four or five thousand people to seats worth half-a-guinea and down, reveals the lack of cohesion which always exists between the fool and hie money: Beyond some remarkable grimaces when they stood on each other’s toes or tugged furiously at each other’s ears or hair, there was nothing unusual in their actions. Two somewhat fat men struggled and perspired on the mat. At times they threatened to become annoyed after exchanges of slaps or bumps Throwing Varga over on his face, Walker pulled his opponent’s legs up between his own, and holding an ankle in each hand sat down heavily on Varga’s

back. . , - And so on, and worse. The crowd was disappointed at the absence of “fireworks,” and pennies began to appear in the ring after the first round. There are many mysterious ways of making a living; but, with the public as it is, one way at least is quite easy.

In fact, the real interest in a wrestling match, as in a prize fight, may not centre in the ring, but in the crowd. Which reminds me of a description of an old-time prize-fight of ft century ago, quoted by E. V, Lucas from a book by a French observer: It was at Molesey Hurst, and the combatants were Tom Molineaux, the negro, and Rimmer, of Lancashire. A huge ring of wagons and other vehicles had been formed, and, having bargained for seats on a cart, my companions and I mounted and . had a good view. Here began a scene quite unexpected to me, the clearing of the ring. All the boxers in town, professional and amateurs, charged the mob, at once, which, giving way in confusion, fofmed a sort of irregular circle outside the rope ring, but not large enough. With sticks and whips applied sans ceremonie these champions of the fist pressed back the compact mass. . . . The mob shrunk from the flogging, but without resentment. The progress of the fight was too sanguinary even for the Frenchman to describe. Half-way through, the surging ,mob invaded the ring, carrying stage and rope and everything else before it. It took half an hour to restore order and to allow the performance to be resumed. Black Molineaux knocked his opponent out, and stood grinning over his fallen adversary in Homeric triumph. In sooth, the rate at which mankind is progressing is imperceptible to the naked eye.

Last week’s Note on the comparative enphonionsness of languages quoted the opinion of a learned professor who placed Italian first, with French, Spanish, Southern English following on in that order. Writes a inter alia: I observe with some regret _ that instead oi giving us your own opinion —the aKi important thing in the eyes of most of your readers—you content yourself with merely registering the pronouncement of some foreign authority. I well remember how the Hon. Edward Lyttelton, detained one summer in Italy by an attack of fever, expressed himself as extremely disappointed with the quality of the voices he heard/ The majority of them would, he maintained, be better classified as cacophonous than as euphonious. . .■ . Neither the nasal tones of the Frenchmen nor the guttural accents of the Teuton are nearly as

euphonious as the beautiful melodious voice timbre of the cultured class in the South of England. A judge of perfect competence in this competition should be a linguist, a phonetician, a physicist, a musician, a physiologist,' a psychologist. My own opinion, for which my correspondent gently asks, is of small value beside that of the learned authority quoted. For a mere layman should not rush in where experts tread but timidly. Among many excellences of individual languages, the rules of this contest are sternly limited to only one—acoustic effect. Efficiency as a means of expression, clearness, simplicity, the abundance of pretty things to express—these and other merits arc here to be ignored. And complete impartiality is impossible in a matter so intimate as the tongue wo have spoken since wo lisped our first letters. The elements that constitute euphonious are many, possessed of rival values and of varying importance. In this beauty contest, tot homines tot sententiae.

Had I columns at my disposal I might attempt to substantiate this euphonic hierarchy of languages. Having only a Note or two, I can but hold a medicine bottle under Niagara. Universal consent has given Italian its pride of place as the language with the finest acoustic effect. Not necessarily the Italian of Florence, whose Tuscan dialect has imposed itself as the Italian national language, but Tuscan as she is spoken by good speakers and singers in Rome — according to true and well-founded statement: “ Lingua toscana in bocca romana.” Italian as spoken in Florence grievously disappointed Longfellow, who quivered at its rough aspirates. But Rome made up for it. Italian euphoniousness is based fundamentally on control of the breath. Italians, it has been said, speak naturally as the rest of us are laboriously taught to sing. And this determines the very warp and woof of their articulation. An Italian p, c, t are not the p, c, t of English, in spite of similarity of spelling and the apparent likeness of sound. Italian avoids incongruous consonantal groups. The English “apt,” from Latin “ aptus,” is so smoothed and ironed out into “ atto.” Similarly Latin “ octo ” becomes “ otto,” “ obvius ” becomes. “ ovvio,” “ capsa ” becomes “ cassa,” “ somnum ” becomes “ sonno,” “ maritima ” becomes “ marenna.” Let this be taken as typical, as one element among many, and you have in Italian a smooth liquid flow which befits it par excellence as the language of opera and song. An instinct for ease of omission has changed “ spasmo ” to “ spasimo,” “ aema ” to “ asimo,” and the English names Hawkwood and Webster to “ Acuto ” and “ Uestere.” For the same reason Italian words universally end in vowels, a custom of which an Italian finds it hard to rid himself in his pronunciation of English. Further, one might write at length on Italian vowel purity, the absence of slurred vowels, its musical pitch, which gives Italian a maximum of audibility, and affords the hearer the pleasure of immediate, effortless recognition.

Dear “ Civis,” —Said I to a lady the other day, “Squally weather! Still, we need the rain.” Said she to me, “Oh, of course, it’s squally; ’twill soon be the equinox, you know." Said I to another, “Ghastly weather! ’Twill soon be the equinox, _ you know.” Said .she to me, “Equinox? Rubbish! We had an aurora on Saturday night.” It eeems to me that this passeth all understanding. In jour wisdom could you tell me if anti-cyclones and depressions have been cheated out of their work of regulating the weather of late? —I am, etc., Galusha. Ever since the days of Jupiter Tonans and Jupiter Pluvius men have looked about for some person or thing to blame for the weather. The sun and the moon have both had their apportionment of curses and blessings. Holy Scripture alone expresses the true fact of the matter when it says that the “ wind bloweth where it listeth.” For generally where the wind listeth to blow it brings some weather change. Our worst rain listeth to come with the south-west wind all the way from Invercargill and beyond. Yet some blame Dunedin for it. For long it has been the fallacious custom to blame the equinox for an outburst of stormy winds. For this there is no foundation of fact. , Observations of 50 years of weather show that fewer gales and storms have occurred during the equinox weeks than during weeks before or after. We might as well speak of equinoctial calms. Civis.