PASSING NOTES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22368, 15 September 1934, Page 6

PASSING NOTES

When did (lie hand Of opportunity knock more loudly at the door of our Poet Laureate, our king’s minstrel, “ joculator regis,” than when, on the shores of an Austrian lake, an English prince plighted his troth to an exiled Greek princess? Not that the cabled narrative, straining every nerve to find singularities in this idyll of George and Marina, gave us any features that were exclusively or essentially royal. Or that lake-side and river bank, woodland pathway or fabled islet—those kindly conspirators with Fate—have looked with more favour on love-making in royal purple than in plain brown homespun, or have lavished on prince and princess Jovci's what they would have withheld from ’Atry and ’Arriet. But such arc the ramifications of this commonplace incident, so far afield would the poet’s leaping imagination take him, that his laureate ode would gather episodes and allusions as it went along, and would expand before his very eyes to the dimensions of an old-time epic. Across a whole century of European history would he I'ange, taking us to the steps of half the thrones of Christendom, telling an epic story of wax's and tx'iumphs, romaxjce, adventure and tragedy. And royal English ode though it would be, its central theme would be the fortunes not of the Royal Family of England, but those of the Viking Danes who ruled modern Greece.

Not since the days of the sixteenth century Hapsburgs has a x'oyal family launched its sons and daughters so courageously into the world’s highest places as has the house of Denmark. King Chi'istian IX, the envy ever since of anxious and ambitious fathers, set all his childi'en on kingly or imperial thrones. Fi'ederiek, bis first-born, succeeded him in Denmark. Alexandra, his daughter, sat as consort on the imperial throne of Britain. Dagmar (Mary) became by marriage the Czarina of All the Russias. And George, accepting the crown of Gi'eece, which was then going begging—did not Gladstone himself decline it? —left his Baltic home to rule an alien land, the home of epic story, where

The mountain looks on Marathon And Marathon looks on the sea. Alien patriot though he was, tragedy dogged his footsteps, aud the footsteps of every member of his fated line. He himself was mnrdei'ed by a degenerate half-wit at Salonika at the moment when his Ci’owix Prince Constantine, at the head of his Greek armies, was breaking the last “ impregnable triangle of Turkish fortresses.” Then upon “ Tino ’’ in his turn, placed during the Great War between the devil and the deep sea, fell the fate of humiliation and abdication. Not even then was Destiny satisfied. His two sons, after brief and precarious reigns, joined the European “ kings in exile.” His brother Nicholas, in exile also, supports himself and his daughters on the proceeds of inherited jewels. And the laureate ode might fittingly end with Marina, who now, like Alexandra, her great aunt, three generations ago, comes to Euglaixd as “ the Viking’s Daughter.”

Changed times, and a. different royal mother-in-law, will case the path of Marina. Thus the official announcement: With the greatest pleasure the King and Queen announce the betrothal of their dearly loved son George to the Princess Marina, daughter of the Prince and Princess Nicholas of Greece, to which union the King has gladly given hia con- . sent. Easy and pleasant will this marriage be. That of Alexandra and Edward VII was overshadowed by the stern figure of that Victorian mother-in-law, the most Victorian of all Victorians, the Great White Queen. No roses bestrewed the path of that young couple. Alexandra was not 14 when her name was sent to Queen Victoria, and accepted, as that of a. likely wife for the Prince of Wales. “ Uncle, Leopold ” —the King of the Belgians—-appears first to have made the choice when he drew up a list of seven more or less eligible princesses, the other six being German. The Queen thought it her duty to warn the betrothed princess “not to show too much partiality for her native land.” “ There must be no Danish partisanship.” For this she felt it behoved her to have long heart-to-heart talks with the Princess, who- was invited—invited is scarcely the word —to stay for at least a month at Osborne and Windsor. The father might escort his daughter to England, but must not stay more than two days. The mother was pointedly excluded from “ the invitation.” And above all, “ Bertie ” must be well out of the way. . . . For the Prince Consort had said to Uncle Leopold, “We take the Princess, but not her re-

lations.” An unhappy beginning, which made the atmosphere for a time, says Queen Alexandra’s biographer, “usually tepid.”

“ Cultured English is good enough tor all of us,” said his Excellency the Governor-General in Wellington last week.

He disagreed with the recently expressed views that the acquisition by New Zealanders of a characteristic twang was more a matter for congratulation than for reproach. . . . He entertained high hopes that cultured English would be spoken in New Zealand in the future.

Wise and timely is his Excellency’s pronouncement, Should there be a new Zealand accent? There are some who advocate it —nay, insist upon it. “ New Zealand lias now reached the stage of nationhood,” -they say, “ and is entitled to her own variety of English speech.” Thus has come to little New Zealand a phase of the insane nationalism of modern times which in Europe is struggling to keep alive, or to revive, as media of contemporary culture, such idioms as Welsh, Magyar, Latvian, Czech, Esthonian, Erse and Gael. For such rabid nationalism what reason has any British colony? Why should a British Dominion, for no valid reason whatsoever, «;hut itself up within the narrow intellectual confines of its own back yard? Why should it accept all the advantages of other elements of English—literature, form, spelling —and turn its back like a spoilt and wayward child on one of the most important? And worse than that. Why hang a millstone of faulty speech-habits round the pliant necks of our helpless sons and daughters?

Whatever an inverted snobbishness may say or think about it, there is a standard of English speech, accepted and recognised, formulated by authorities in authoritative text-books, general throughout England, demanded of teachers of English in foreign countries. Is it a “social” standard? Perhaps, but is it the worse for that? Mainly is it intellectual. Without it a New Zealander in England, or throughout the Empire, is handicapped, is placed at a disadvantage, is lowered several degrees in the intellectual scale, and therefore in the social. The stand is broad-based enough to accommodate many varieties, optionalitics, and even idiosyncracies, for pronunciation is as varying as faces. Gladstone had a number of queer mannerisms drawn partly from Lancashire and partly from an older Oxford. For example, he said “ bute ” for “ boot.” Lord Curzon had the north-country habit of clipping his a’s—saying “dence” for “dance.” Mr Baldwin has certain definite west-country strains. Most great preachers have their attractive oddities. But such men lose no status by it. Right methods of speech have an importance

impossible to exaggerate. By your pronunciation you pay a tribute to the parents that have brought you up, and by it also you proclaim to the world tl'ie refinement or lack of refinement of the people with whom you mix. By a slovenly accent you east a slur on those you hold most dear. Speech is more important than dress. Clothe yourselves in rags, if you will; but if from the rags there emerges an educated speech yonr rags become a mere pardonable eccentricity. A University degree, conjoined witlx the speech of a careless schoolboy, is, at times, our most distressing phenomenon.

An “entertainment” is “a thing that entertains.” From this concise definition you simply cannot escape. Failure to recognise such a truth has moved a correspondent to lyrical frenzy:

The Duuedtn City Council have got nothing much to learn. They approach each civic meeting with their countenances stern, And take their scats (in Council) with a grim determination To wrestle to their utmost with the problems of the nation. But their latest problem’s difficult for even minds profound, Though our worthy city fathers have been over all the ground. And the question erudite of what a Sunday concert meant Provoked among these gentlemen the sagest argument. First, clearly, entertainments on a Sunday weren't allowed, They were sure to be debasing for the morals of the crowd. It became essential then to redeQue the word more clear. For instance, the Salvation Army had no cause to f.ear. Now, one got up and said (and it's a view could be maintained) That it “ must ” be entertainment if the crowd were entertained. Another held the Council contravened their legislation. Holding Sunday organ concerts sponsored by the Corporation! Discussion thus went on and on, profunda and profunda. They talked about the Sunday bands that play in a rotunda. Thus, wisely, subtly, was the thing debated as they sat. What makes au entertainment? And a concert, what makes that? And “X ” got up and made a speech quite doubting the propriety Of “V," a councillor, belonging to the Film Society. Then they voted for the motion, it was getting such a bore. And the whole darn thing was carried by a million votes to four. Now. I don’t know what you think of this ingenious solution. But to the question I should like to add this contribution — It would- be an entertainment that would take a lot of beating If our worthy City Council were to hold a Sunday meeting. No, no. The city itself has just voted against the taxing of unimproved values, A quest for information: Dear “ Givis,” — For some time I have been endeavouring to get the words of a poem or song published, I believe, about 40 years ago. entitled “ Dimes and Dollars.” The theme of the words is “ Poverty is the worst of crimes,” and tlxe verses deal in a witty manner with the necessity of raising dimes and dollars if we would count for anything in the world. I wonder if cither you, Dr one of your readers, could supply the words.—l am, etc., Dimes. I pass this on. Alas! One forgets a great deal in 40 years. Cuts.