PASSING NOTES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3673, 5 August 1924, Page 3

PASSING NOTES.

(From Saturday’s Daily Times.) The Karl of Chatham, with hie sword drawn, Stood waiting for Sir Richard Strahan; Sir Richard, longing to be at ’em, Stood waiting for the Earl of Chatham. I address this respectfully to the Dunedin City Council and the Dunedin Harbour Board. Which of the two is the Earl of Chatham and which Sir Richard Strahan I don’t know, and it doesn't matter. It is history that the military pair, waiting for each) other, brought to grief the Antwerp Expedition in the marshes of W alcheren; it is prophecy that the other pair,* unless they drop their waiting, will do the like with the Dunedin Exhibition in the quicksands of Lake Logan. The “ Antwerp Expedition’’ and the “Dunedin Exhibition,’’ — the words have an ominous chime. More than other men, Mr Lloyd George in his official days had command of the word in season; out of office and under a cloud he has it still. The sacrifices which the dominions made fro n 1914 to 1918 were greater than any made by Britain in any war since the Napoleonic wars. The dominions had put 1,000,000 men in the field, and these men had probably been the decisive factor in what had happened. It was impossible not to comply with the dominions’ demand. Henceforward they should be consulted in matters cf foreign policy which had committed them to such an enormous sacrifice. It had been difficult to get the departments to understand the full meaning of that change. It is not easy to think that Mt Lloyd George’s day is over. There is an honest ring in the testimony of Lord Birkenhead, himself just now out of office and under a cloud: Lord Birkenhead, addressing the University of Minnesota, characterised Mr Lloyd George as “the greatest living Englishman, a man who by .disposition hates war. “No man in England would have made or did make a greater effort to avoid the struggle,’’ added Lord Birkenhead. “He was one of the most tenacious, resourceful, and brilliant men during the war. I never knew him in low spirits. He radiated confidence and gladness.’’ In Britain as in this dominion, the out-of-date name “ Liberal ’’ casts an evil spell. There as here the true division is Socialist and Anti-Socialist.

If football in the football season is not a religion, .it is the next thing to it. Indeed no religion could draw the crowd of a match when “ Fights for the Flag ” are on, nor any boosted missioner, not even Gipsy Smith. As in religion, so in football, there are schisms and heresies, the orthodox and the heterodox. In Dunedin just now the Rugby Union is to the Rugby League as Jesuit was to Jansenist, and as Hindoo is to Mahometan in a ritual riot about defiling a temple or insulting the sacred cow. This week the All Blacks—the pick of our “ muddied oafs ’’ as Kipling calls them —left for England in the Remuera. Half Wellington was there’ to see them off. Did both Houses adjourn?—l didn’t notice; it is not to be supposed that either could keep a quorum. At the wharf, amid the ringing cheers of thousands, each muddied oaf as he marched up the gangway was ceremonially received by the captain of the ship. Not the Pope himself could have embarked with greater pomp. Yes, football is not far short of a religion. I have always recognised the religious note in Newbolt’s excellent verses dn school cricket, —the school being Clifton College: There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night— Ten to make, and the match to win— A bumping pitch and-a blinding light An hour to play and the last man in. And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame, But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote — “ Play up! play up! and play the game! ” I don’t quote the rest, though it would he worth’ the space. The whole piece, in large type, should be posted up in the pavilion or club-house of every recreation ground. A religious spirit in sport is no bad thing; but it would be an exceedingly had thing if sport were the only religion left us. The essence of sport is of course competition—competition for the sake of competition and for the pleasure of it. Past doubt is the pleasure of it. Every school ground is a playground, and every schoolboy game is competitive. No striving ior the mastery—where would be the fun? Even the children who hopscotch on the pavements hop competitively. Yet Jn commerce and industry this same competition, we are told, is an evil thing—one of the evils of “ capitalism,’’ says the Socialist. As a matter of fact 10 is competition in commerce and industry that* is the consumer’s chief friend, cutting the claws of the profiteer and monopolist. Maundering still in the wake of Karl Marx the Socialist denounces along with competition “ buying m the cheapest market and selling in -be dearest.” Does Mr Holland buy or sell anywhere else? Is there any lurking denizen of the Labour corner who buys in the dearest market and sells in the cheapest? Apparently we are to picture the Socialist housewife saying at the grocer’s, “ Butter one and eleven, isn’t it? Give me a pound for two shillings. “ Can’t go higher than one and nine,” says the butterman ; *“ take it or leave it f ” So in the world of sport,—the same principles. “ Leg before, I think,” says the batsman who has taken the ball on his pad. “ Don’t mention it,” says the bowler, as with a straight one he scatters his sticks. “Clean howled,” exclaims the batsman, gathering his bat under his arm. “ I apologise,” says the howler, while umpire and wicket-keeper are readjusting the bails; “I’ll give you an extra ”; and with that sends down a wide which goes to the boundary. The ideas and ideals of Socialism are far reaching. Enclosing an advertisement in which a legal firm wanting a “Typiste” requires the applicant to specify amongst other things her age, a correspondent writes:

Dear “ Civis,’ —As a modest young lady I appeal to you for' protection against these brutes of lawyers. Fancy asking a lady her age! I have been proposed to'twice but have never been asked my age. A lady ahvays looks young. The last sentence needs a large faith. I seem to have known ladies who, not to put too fine a point upon it, might truthfully be described as old, and looking old. All the more reason for deprecating an inquisitorial spirit. It is indecent to ask a lady’s age, an invasion of a sacred privacy. A friend of mine had become engaged to a lady older than himself; when asked if he knew her age—“ Do you think I looked into her mouth?'’ he snapped in reply. Looking into Her mouth would be the method of a horsedealer. I am willing to believe that thia indignant correspondent—who has “ been proposed to twice ” —looks young and will continue to look young. To suggest that she will never look old would argue perhaps either an early death or the left-handed compliment that was paid to Cleopatra— Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. A compelling charm of the New Poetry is that anybody may produce it, just anybody. Sir William Orpen, for instance, who is a painter and a great man in his own line of art, visits Paris. “ Now from my open window old Fans lies below me, wicked but beautiful,” he writes. Plain prose, you think. Not a bit!- He arranges it for publication thus: Now from my open window Old Paris lies below me, Wicked but beautiful, and lo it is poetry. Again: A vision, Magnificent at any time, Is now more wonderful Than I have ever known it. Flat-footed prose, made into poetry by chopping it into irregular lengths. There are five-and-fifty lines of this with Sir William Orpen s name at the top. it is obvious that a whole newspaper, from leading article to police court reports, might be expressed in the New Poetry. And of course High on the slopes of this Parnassus Would be a place for Passing Notes; And, equally of course, My customary readers Would, In anger and disgust, Rise up and stone me. Reminds me all this of an article “ Hymns Happy and Unhappy ” in -he London Mercury. Of the unhappy sort are many examples from popular hymn books; some index oddities I may find space for. A hymn beginning O God, what boots it to sing on. , . . has an index reference: O God, what boots .... Other first lines are similarly truncated: I thank Thee uncreated Sun . . . . Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine. . O give me Samuel’s heart . . . We share our mutual woes. . . . Index form : I thank Thee, unc. . . . Let the sweet hop O give me Samuel. . . . We share our milt. .’ . . Alas for the saving grace of humour, here gone a missing! A sense of humour would have saved these index makers from absurdity. “ Quibbler ” (Mosgiel) would quibble with me through half a page of foolscap over the difference between a ” statement of a fact’’ and a “statement of fact.” I reminded him last week that the word “fact” is ambiguous. “Is it a fact?’’ means Is it true? “His facts are disputable” means that his facts may be untrue. “ Quibbler ” cannot see that a lie is a fact. Nor does he ormg an intelligent mind to the statement that the moon is made of green cheese, nor to the statement—as old as Dante—that the Man in the Moon is Cain with a faggot of thorns on his back, nor to the statement of Milton that the spots in the moon are unpurged Vapours not yet into her substance turned; —all statements of fact but erroneous statements. I may wind up this quibbling over words, words, words by an appropriate story picked from the Morning Post. Asked to write on essay of not more than a hundred words on a motor ride, a small boy wrote the following: “My father went for a ride in his new motor yesterday, and it broke down half way up a hill, and he had to walk all the way back home. The. other seventy words are what he said while doing so.” Civis.