“THE HONEST AND INDEPENDENT”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23500, 14 May 1938, Page 24

“THE HONEST AND INDEPENDENT”

By M. R. M,

Mr Pickwick would no doubt have been delighted if he had found himself in Dunedin in the past fortnight. He would have readily recognised again the Blues and the Buffs whose differences had enlivened the election he was privileged to witness at Eatanswill. He would have found the old axiom, that history repeats itself, still true. Once again, if the Blues suggest anything, the Buffs have a thousand reasons to urge against it. Likewise if the Buffs propose the erection of an additional pump in High street or—shall we say?—the removal of guns from a public park, the Blues to one man stand aghast at the enormity. And once again the honest and independent voter is told by two obviously conflicting parties that they have his best interests very near to their hearts. He is flattered but dazed.

The newspapers lack some of that robustness that characterised the age of Dickens. They have not the vigour of attack and parry that distinguished the Eatanswill Gazette and the Independent. How interesting it would have been if, when we opened our papers in the morning, we found such phrases as these: “Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette,” “ that disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent,” “ that false and scurrilous print, the Independent,” “ that vile and slanderous calumnator, the Gazette.” In this case there would be no necessity to practise the principle known as reading between the lines, when studying the editorial. In more ways than one the recent campaign lacked the whole heartedness of the one which Mr Pickwick records. For example, none of the Candidates saw fit to woo the women electors with the gift of green parasols. They may have shaken hands with 20 washed men at the street door, but not one was brave enough to emulate the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, who, though he showed a little modest reluctance when urged by his agent to make sure of the mothers’ goodwill by patting some infants on the head, and if possible kissing one, was so carried beyond himself when the critical momeht arrived that he kissed all the babies in sight. It is pleasant to note that Samuel won the election. Candidates’ committee men in New Zealand, though not so enterprising or so fertile in ideas, are equally zealous. In earlier days in Dunedin’s history it was not uncommon at election time to see an old worthy taking his first ride in a motor car; but from the gledm in his eye as he sat upright in his seat savouring the new experience, the impression was gained that he was there entirely without prejudice.” He was fully conscious of the value of the secret ballot, and knew that at the polling booth sleekest broadcloth counted no more than homespun coat of honest grey. In New Zealand we take our voting too seriously. The continentals know so much better than we do how to arrange such things. They raise it to an art. They do it in time to music. The voter goes to his task to the tune of “Deutschland Über Alles ” and returns to the strains of “ Horst Wessel.” The beating of drums and the sounds of -martial music nerve him for his great responsibility. And the results justify the labour expended by the authorities to achieve the right atmosphere. No election campaign in New Zealand has achieved a more than 90 per cent, success at the polls. Nor does a benevolent government or municipal authority make the matter perfectly clear for its people. A simple “ Yes ”or“ No ” is within the canacity of every elector, but instead of being asked to accept this or that ticket en bloc, we are confronted with a long list of names from which we must make our own choice. Immediately all sorts of difficulties arise. Perhaps we forget to take with us to the booth the complete list of the men of our “ colour.” Or else, in the pride of citizenship, and confident in the knowledge that we had followed the election campaign intelligently—yea, even to the point of sitting on a hard seat in a draughty hall for two hours—we have disdained to take a crib with us to the polling centre. Then we are confronted with the blue paper slip, the white paper slip, the pink paper slip, and numerous names in heavy black type stare at us from their respective backgrounds. We have come, we have seen, but we fail to conquer. Instead we emerge from the booth obviously shaken. The whole experience from start to finish is nerve-wracking. When authority demands the required information we feel that we are guilty until proved innocent. “ Name? ” “ Mary Jones.” But a gentle murmur does not suffice. In a resonant masculine voice, well suited to cheer the ball down the field, comes the resurrection of names decently . buried soon after baptism. “ Jones, Mary Myrtle Thomasina? ” We expect “Age? ’’ to follow, but authority relents, and we escape into the curtained seclusion of a booth. Blessings on the head of William Ewart Gladstone for his Secret Ballot Act! Having done our best with exhibits A, B and C, and heeded the solemn warning to distinguish carefully between the yellow box and the purple box. we emerge to mingle again with the crowds in the outer courts. Here Mr Pickwick’s advice proves invaluable. When there are two mobs shout with the largest. Then at last the results are known, and, according as the Blues or the Buffs have won, we are either sunk in deepest gloom waiting for the worst to happen, or raised to giddy heights of expectation confident in the speedy appearance of a new heaven and a new earth.