PASSING NOTES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26963, 24 December 1948, Page 2

PASSING NOTES

What profit hath a man?—Ecclesiastes i, 3. What are the objects of writing? To give instruction, as in a treatise on astronomy; to give pleasure and entertainment, as in Stephen Leacock’s humorous essays; to give power and moral uplift, as in Ruskin and Carlyle; to give that ecstatic delectation which the best poetry provides. From the point' of view of the writer there are also the bread-and-butter urge, the appetite of vanity, and, in the case oi the greatest writers, an irresistible thrust from within. I ask myself this question at this time of the year, a time for looking into the accounts. I cannot classify Passing Notes under any one of the above captions—they may have had some effect this year—at least, if they have done little good, they cannot have done much harm — but my readers must be auditors of this account, that is, if a reader can be an auditor. There was an old Roman emperor—l think he was the one responsible for the dreadful siege of Jerusalem in 70 AD—who used to examine himself at the end of each day, and when he could find he had conferred no benefit upon anyone he would say to his courtiers, “Amici, hodie diem perdidi—friends, to-day I have lost a day.” Looking back over the year to Christmas, 1947, I ask myself the emperor’s question, only substituting “ annum ” for “ diem.” I cannot answer that I have lost a year, for I have at least had my share of happiness. Everyone must make up his own account. There are two main ways of life-accounting, one the sum of pleasure obtained, two the sum of benefits conferred. But, ah! that won’t do. I’m on. the verge of sermonising, and, if not careful, I will fall over the precipice. So. reader, call in some other life-accountant, or make up the tale yourself.

Still will Christmas gild the year’s mischances. Watts-Dunton. *' The

Christmas Tree.”

Old Sir Roger de Coverley in one of Addison’s essays says, “ I have often thought it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle of winter.” Certainly it is a picturesque time in Northern Europe—a time of long nights, Yuletide logs and Christmas trees with snow deep on the ground as I saw it in an English village years ago when the little church was being decorated with ivy and holly for the great day. One could easily imagine old Santa Claus appearing with nis white locks and the snow flecking his bundle of delights. Addison wrote before Cook’s voyages had opened the door to antipodean civilisation, and hence he merely continued the northern tradition of Chrstmas. These new lands have accepted the spirit and the symbols of this tradition, and our children are brought to look for a snowy Santa. Yet anyone who has attacked roast turkey, plum pudding, and all the supporting programme, including, lively beverages, feels the incongruity of those delights with a shade temperature of 90 degrees. Such is the hold gained by Christmas over the imagination that any attempt to offer for children’s worship or delectation a southern Santa, clad in summer, scanty raiment, would be denounced almost as a blasphemy. Yet it will come, and a new ritual and new songs will grow about the southern Christmas. The day will come when our descendants here will have a substitute for Scott’s Heap on more wood!—the wind ifl chill; But let it whistle a 6 it will; We’ll keep our Christmas merry still. No doubt the sentiment will remain, but a summer Santa Claus, summer Christmas cards, and a warm summer art, music and poetry will symbolise that sentiment. To talk In public, to think in solitude, to read and to hear, to inquire and to answer inquiries, is the business of a scholar.—Dr Johnson. We have heard at numerous school break-ups much about education in the past fortnight, yet much variety in it—indeed little to justify the gibe of the Greek cynic that education consisted of the “-same persons telling to the same people the same things about the same things.” Lately re-reading Mr Downie Stewart’s biography of William Rolleston, I came upon this statement made by Rolleston at the jubilee of Christ College, Canterbury— The time is coming when the public will realise that it is monstrous that people should grow up without the equipment furnished by a knowledge of Latin ana Greek.” There is very little to-day that is the same as that said by the same people to the same persons, in the main now our schools do not aim at producing scholars--thy proceed on a general idea that education is a preparation for life, and therefore is not the same now, since life is not the same. Yet scholarship is one aim, and a good one for the few. A true scholar loves learning. King Ptolemy of Egypt asked Eucleides for a short cut in learning the elements of geometry. “ Sire," said Eucleides, “ there s no royal road to geometry.” Again, a smart young man after learning the first proposition about an equilateral triangle said. “And what am I to get from this stuff.” Eucleides called a slave boy and said, “ Give this fellow threepence as he must needs gain by everything he learns.” Scholars don t make money—as a rule they don t want to—they have their own rewards. But the mass cf men must begin on bread-and-butter learning. Man shall not live by bread alone, but he can t live without it, and he needs something to drink. At the school breakups we «hall continue to hear changing views. Ability is many-sided. I have never known a boy or man wno was not my superior in one or more ways. My sisters, the birds.—St. Francis of Assisi. It pleases me to think there is truth in the dictum of Herbert Spencer that the behaviour of men to the lower animals, and their behaviour to each other bear a constant relationship, i have always liked animals. I suppose a bird is an animal. Lately, per medium of crusts and some porridge, I have made friends with a starling, a blackbird, four “ sparrers ” (as a small boy calls them) and a demure little thrush. Years ago in tne Australian bush I knew two trappers who made a companion of a lizard by feeding him with flies—a plentiful commodity there—at their meal outside the tent. A relative of mine actually became so friendly with a snake ;as to carry it in his pocket—he said that snakes were affectionate. My acquaintance with them was definitely restricted to a shot-gun or a waddy. I remember Sir Isaac Newton had a dog named Fido—this dog knocked some MSS into a fire, whereat Newton said- “Fido, Fido, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done.” Newton also had two openings in a door—a large one and a small one—for his two cats; a large one and a small one; which shows that he was weak on applied mathematics. Thomas Campbell. the gifted author of Hohenlinden ” and “ Lochiel,” has a poem about a Spanish canary in England, brought by some sailors, but remaining obstinately silent. Long afterwards some Spanish sailors arrived. They hailed the bird in Spanish Sp66ch| The bird In Spanish speech replied, Hopped round the cage with joyous screech, Dropped down and died. But I warm most to Cowper and his hare, “Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,” and his Puss on which he wrote a neat Latin epitaph when the cat died at the age of nine. Poor Cowper —the last line of the epitaph was Et moriar ego,” I too shall die. But nol Cowper lives on—a good poet, and a good man, conforming to Herbert Spencer’s dictum. It's a long way to Tipperary.—Jack Judge. I note in the News Chronicle. London, that when the Irish playwright, Mr Sean O’Casey, was asked to comment on the repeal of the External Relations Act in Ireland, he said. I don’t give a damn what they do . . as peooles they can’t separate us . . . Our fates are wrapped up with one another.” Bernard Shaw said the repeal would make no difference—- “ Irishmen will continue to flock to England because they are able to use their brains over here.” The remarks of Mr O’Casey are very practical and reasonable —he doesn’t wave a shille-

lagh or exclaim “be jabers or “ begorrah.” He knows as he says that when an intelligent Irishman meets an intelligent Englishman, they will be friends. Eire secedes from the British Commonwealth and yet strives for the abolition of partition. There might have been a chance for a united Ireland had Eire remained in the Commonwealth —but now! An Irishman once said to me, “Ah, their unity, their unity—Ulster and Eire will never be wan while they’re separated, and thin they’ll be two even if they’re wan if ye see what I mean,” whereat he winked and laughed. In loyalty to my ancestors I aver that the Irishman is no fool—despite Dean Swift. This sardonic cleric once riding through Dublin, being told that a new building was a magazine, said at once: Behold this proof of Irish sense Here Irish wit is seen: When nothing’s left that's worth defence They build a magazine. G B. Shaw says he is still a foreigner in England after all these years. Well, he is a good testimonial for the Irish —he has wit and humour—and he has not reflected the gentle art of spoiling the Egyptians—his portrayals or betrayals of the English character have filled his plays (and his bank account) with good things. . Civis.