PASSING NOTES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3512, 5 July 1921, Page 3

PASSING NOTES.

(From Saturday's Daily Time#.) There is a Parliament in Ireland ; the King in person has opened it. Instantly, even here at the Antipodes, the inevitable Sinn Fein reaction shows itself. From Mosgiel and its vicinity—in which region, somewhere, may be surmised a perennial fountain of bitterness—we get protestations and denunciations, overweening assertions and bumptious pretences; e.g.—TO THE EDITOR. Sib, —In your editorial you have referred to Mr De Valera as the “so-called President of tho Irish Republican Party.” I presume you mean Mr De Valera, President of the Irish Republic. Gracious ! —what a prodigious gape was there ! —as Horace might eay. And in conformity thereto ‘‘Let England acknowledge Ireland’s right as a free and independent nation,”—which Ireland never was nor ever will be. A free and independent hand or foot or arm or leg in the human body were as natural and as reasonable. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. The Irish Parliament. opened by the King is for loyal Ulster, otherwise that part of Scotland called the North of Ireland, as we might say, speaking ethnologically. Because Ulster receives and rejoices in a Parliament of her own, our local Sinn Feiners talk of Ulster as “a few sweated districts,” manipulated by “a small lot of powerful business men.” I was wrong in talking of a fountain of bitterness. I ought to kave suggested a mud volcano. “ What is tho wonderful charm of the Catholic priesthood?” asks a correspondent of the Daily Times this week : . . of tho Catholio priesthood, whom the world’s deadliest perils and epidemics do not daunt ?—who follow one another up the forlorn hope and mock at death itself; whose missionpriest’s life is one of sacrifice for ilia people, and sick calls can get him night or day, sick or well himself, in all weathers and seasons; who in their thousands act all in one way, and infuse a prompt obedience to rule, as if they were under some stern military compulsion To find an answer is difficult, unless the obvious one is allowed—that they intensely believe. . . —in short that they believe what they profess to believe and honestly try to do their proper w'ork. I entirely sympathise. In token whereof I am willing to quote, what I have quoted before, some verses of the pathetic ballad pourtraying the attachment of the Irish peasant to his -“soggarth aroon” —his priest dear :

Who, in the winter’s night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And on my earthen tlure Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon ? Who, on the marriage day, Mads the poor cabin gay. And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring. At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon ? Who, as friend only met, Never did flout me yet, And when my hearth was dim Gave, while his eye did brim, -What I should give to him, Sogga r t h a roo n ? Let the priest stick to liis priesting, and he shall get only good words, in this column at any rate. If on the other hand he preaches sedition and condones crimes of blood paralleled only by Jack the. Ripper and the Thugs of India, no honest man of any creed will spare him.

Mr Robert Semple, labour agitator and extremist, who in the past, if I don’t mistake, proved his faith by “doing time,” presented himself to a crowded labour meeting the other Sunday night in the unexpected character of Sard among the prophets. It was in Wellington, where he has been carrying out a tunnelling contract made between the Wellington City Corporation and himself,—himself as the head of a company of co-operative labourers who, jointly and severally, did their work as well as they could and as fast as they could. “Speeding up!”-—rang out a disgusted voice from the audience. “Yes!”— snapped back “Our Bob,” rounding upon the interjector :—“and I would like to speed up some of you roosters. Come out to Orongorongo and I will speed you up.” For Mr Robert Semple “go slow” has lost its ignoble charm; the strike likewise. “To. me the strike is a nightmare, and I want to see the day when the strike in New Zealand is as extinct as the moa.” Saul among the pronhets, did I say ? It would have been quite apposite to recall the transmuted Saul of Tarsus. When Mr Semple has finished at Orongorongo and has collected the “good money” there earned, let him come south to Dunedin and take up his parable at “the Fountain.” He will probably fce stoned, —but what of that ? The cause of sanity and common sense would be helped by a martyrdom.

The astronomical fortune tellers who predicted for us a heavenly visitant on Sunday, the 25th June, are revising their calculations. In these naturalistic times the event is usually at war with the prophet. Somewhere in our vicinity the Pons-Weinocke comet may be; but it makes no sign. A few meteors dropped on Sunday might have restored confidence. Quite other is the effect of a volcanic outburst in Italy, corroborated by a simultaneous New Zealand earthquake, flinging down chimneys and driving people to the streets in their nightshirts. If these phenomena betoken the comet, we could wish if further away. Probably Mr Clement Wragge would refer them to sun-spots. A comet has position, parts, and magnitude, but of substance none at all. You can see stars through the head of it, and its tail, like the beam of a search-light, is mere appearance. Yet if a sun-spot can stir up earthquakes and volcanoes, why not a comet? For really trustworthy information I turn to a rhymester upon whom I have stumbled :—-

COMETARY REFLECTIONS. Out from the ice-cold starry waste with a rush the Pons •Weine eke came, Shivery, —ugh!—so'lie put on the pace and shot for the central flame. “Delightful here by the kitchen fire,” said he, as ho toasted his shins; “But, warmth to carry away, good lack! it is ended before it begins. Hurry’s the word, and I’m off to visit tho Cross and tho Bear in their stations, — A lonely road, and it’s awfully cold out

there in the constellations. Smug little planets go smugly round, in safety from stress and storm, No elongated ellipse for them, and they’re never out of the warm.

Scared of me as I pas 3, poor pets,—one doesn’t quite see why; For space is space, and there’s any amount, with room for us both sure-iy. A pyrotechnic display, perhaps, for that I could make provision— Meteors, shooting stars, and the like; but thanks, no!—not a collision! The Earth is a planet and„solid —a clod, to be left in its place, For butting against solidity would spoil my filmy grace. A clod is the Earth, with nothing to fear, —let it bless its base condition! Lightness, brightness, swiftness am I, an etherial apparition. But if tiie clodhopping Earth-folk are intent on turning pale, My next return I may signalise by a swish from my plumy tail.”

Dean Inge, of Sfc. Paul’s, London, is a celebrity or a notoriety as you may choose ; either way he is about the best known ecclesiastic in England. People listen to him, though they little like him; —his courage in telling unwelcome truths and predicting the consequences of national folly offends. “ The gloomy Dean!” they say';—“here he is again.” By way of dissipating the superstition that he is a man of gloom, Dean Inge is writing newspaper articles that show him to be a man of humour. For example, from the London Evening Standard :

Some 15 years ago, when I was vicar of a West End parish, I preached a sermon about King David. I ventured to say that his character was not much to our taste, because, with all his virtues, be was no gentleman. I thought that his treatment of Uriah, Michal, Shimei, and others justified this statement. But my parishioners were much scandalised. Some of my classical friends might fce equally shocked if I said tho same about the hero of the Odyssey, a most amusing rascal, with a wife in every port and a lie for every emergency. But some of the ancients —Plutarch, and Pliny, the letter-writer, and Horace (though his father was a slave) —were unquestionably gentlemen.

Perhaps it was because so unquestionably a gentleman that Horace so frankly described himself as “a hog of Epicurus’ stye.” But let that pass. Proceeding, and telling, us that “the idea of a gentleman is the lay religion of the English people”; that “it embodies all the qualities which as a nation we respect, and which no Englishman will allow that lie lacks”; and that “the man who is con

spiculously wanting in these qualities is called a cad, the most unpardonable word of abuse in the English language” ; Dean Inge has next this most delightful remark ;

Even a bishop would be much more angry if ho were told that he was no gentleman than if he were told that he was no Christian.

Even a bishop ! The sum of a two-column discussion in this tone seems to be that everybody knows what a gentleman is, but that nobody can define him. The nearest to a definition, in Dean Inge’s opinion, is by George Bernard Shaw :—“A gentleman is a man who always tries to put in a little more than he takes out.” That depends. Suppose he is taking out the evil from some of Mr Shaw’s plays and prefaces,—and tries to put in more than he takes out. How then?

At the end of another two columns filled with schoolboy howlers collected during a mastership at Eton. Dean Inge says : “1 wait in eagerness to s'ee what certain of your contemporaries, Mr Editor, will make of this new exhibition of my habitual melancholy.” Clearly a humorist, this, and anxious for recognition. The schoolboy howler is sometimes *'a manufactured article in which we may suspect the hand of the hilarious examiner. But specimens offered by Dean Inge are to be accepted as genuine. Theology is a subject in which profane jesting is doubtless out of place. But, the schoolboy’s blunders are too innocent to offend anybody. It was an ordination candidate, not a schoolboy, who hoped to conciliate an orthodox bishop by writing down, “I believe in all things, both visible and invisible” -all that he could remember of the Nicene Creed. Another would-be pillar of the Church informed his examiners that “the youthful Origen declared his intention of going out to seek martyrdom. His father saved him by hiding his trousers.” It was an Oxford undergraduate who, when asked, in his viva voce, to say .'what he knew of Joab, replied “Joab was a wash-pot.” A small fourth-form pupil of mine at Eton:—“lf any man shall smile thee on the right cheek, smite him on the ether also.” Thus the Sermon on the Mount was triumphantly brought to its complete harmony with schoolboy ethics. Another wrote: “The Pharisees were a very mean and stingy lot. ‘ One of them brought a penny to our Lord, who, when he had looked at it, said, ‘Whose subscription is this?’” Another : “Christians are only .flowed ono wife. 1 his is called monotony.” And there was a boy who referred, “First the blade, then the ear,” to Sit. Peter and Malchus, which was rather ingenious. History, as told by the schoolboy, contains some surprising facts. “The isles of Greece were always qua rolling

about the birthplace of Homer. Chaos has the best right to claim him.” “Luther is famous for his Diet of Worms. At last he said, Heaven help mo.! I can take no other course.” Quantum suff. Dean Inge himself offera apology : “This is a very frivolous subject, after the serious political and social problems which I have been discussing week by week; hut I feel that I owe your readers a laugh.” From Oamaru : Dear Civis, —On reading “Parsing Notes” of Saturday last, I was rather surprised that you stated George Bernard Shaw wrote a novel glorifying prize-fighting. The book to which you refer is, I presume, “Cashel Byron's'Profession,” Unfortunately I have not this novel in ray possession, so I cannot verify ray impression; but I must say I have always thought this entertaining book was written with the idea of discouraging the art of prize-fighting. Does not the author in his preface emphasise this? On the chance that I was wrong I insert this letter and—hypothetically—apologise. The infallibility of this column turns on its readiness to admit mistakes. From Invercargill : Dear “Civis,” —What do you think of the school dress of tho Southland High School boys?—Scotty. SCHOOL DRESS. Tlio school dress consists of a closefitting blue skull cap, with school badge, and blue* stockings with tops of the school colours. These are obtainable at the leading outfitters. Every boy must wear the school dress; the badge is procurable only at the Behoof. Blue cap and blue stockings,—picturesque but airy, considering the climate. A few touches ct woad—which was also blue —- would complete the colour scheme and bridge the gap between cap and stockings. *- Also from Invercargill : * Headline in the Southland Times, Monday, June 27 ; DIVORCE LAW. THE CHRISTCHURCH AID FROM HEALTH DEPARTMENT. Half a column lower down ; DIPHTHERIA. EFFECT OF SECTION FOUR. MR JUSTICE SALMOND S VIEW. Due to the Genius of Misrule that in any and every newspaper office may sometimes take charge. But these ar« trivialities; in vain do I make a stand against them. They come to me from all quarters, and-—for some people—l am bound to think them interesting. Here is another : From Far Samoa : Dear “Civis,” —Your budgot of April 2 on malapropos combinations reminds me that gvhen a youth in Wanganui I knew a professional pianist who attended dances and taught the pupils by night, set tvpe as a compositor by day, and slept when he could. He was what his fellow comps, called “a good ’un”; but though his job printing was artistio his knowledge of musical composers and their works was not vast. One day ho achieved the publication of a musical programme whioh alleged that. Mr Blank would sing “Oh rest in the Lord, Elijah.” That is easily capped. There have been concert programmes for Handel’s “Messiah” that ran : “0 thou that tellest, Miss Jones”; “Rejoice greatly, Mrs Smith”; “Why do the nations? Mr Brown”; “Thou shalt break them, Mr Robinson.” Tho rest may be filled in ad lib. Civis.