THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3870, 15 May 1928, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

A POPLAR ON A WET NIGHT. A poplar turns over its silver And counts it in the rain. For fear lest a bat should pilfer His wealth, he turns over his silver Again and again, With the moan of a miserly soul in pain, A poplar turns over his silver And counts it in the rain. —Honor F. Leeke, in Poetry Review. A POET TO A LOVER. The joy of making wonder out of words Is what I give up love to know You are to me what cages are to birds Who want the sky. A cage is safe, but though As you have told me, skies are lonely things, Still —I have wings! And so . . . —Mary Carolyn Davies, in Poetry. WHAT IS “JAZZ”? By Alex M'Lachlan. The application of the word “ jazz ” is, in these progressive days, of no small interest, for we find it generally accepted to mean anything hectic, bright, out of the ordinary; thus a gay mode of existence is termed “ jazz life,” bizarre and multi-hued dress materials are labelled “ jazz fabrics,” and so forth. The word appears, however, to have been adopted—rather than adapted—from “ jazz music,” and its application would seem to be an appropriate one. The word when applied to a certain mode of life is as negligible as the existence to which it refers is futile, and can be dismissed summarily. But when a new term, or form, is introduced into the art of music, and is universally accepted as authentic, it is high time to review the facts as they actually exist. Various musicians—mainly conductors of note —have expressed strong opinions in favour or in .condemnation of “jazz”; but the main point appears to have been missed, and that is whether or not “ jazz ” can be considered as a musical form. These opinions, authentic as they may appear on the surface, might be at once dismissed by the roan in the street, as might also the text books written on the subject, for lengthly discussions and personal points of view are outside the issue.

Certain combinations of instruments, call “ jazz bands,” dispense what is called “ jazz.” That much is certain, in fact is too evident to be overlooked. In restaurants, cinemas, and theatres “ jazz ” is thrust upon us.

And that is the grievance. Whether we want it or not, we are compelled to hear these outpourings during meals, between acts, or to help out the films. ‘One never hears a Beethoven symphony in a restaurant! There are exceptions, admittedly, of vocalists rendering first-class ballads or the orchestra giving short items of good music both in cinema and restaurant, but these are out of all proportion to the amount of “ jazz ” performed. A certain section of the public expect and demand it, perhaps, but a plebiscite would probably show such section to represent the minority. This leads to the interesting question: What is the public’s attitude towards “jazz”? The facts are strangely different from what one would at first expect. “ Jazz ” addicts will have their special diet or nothing; anything outside the “ jazz ” realm is termed “ highbrow,” and dismissed as undesirable and boring. The lover of good music is more tolerant. By all means let them have their “ jazz,” he declares, but in its proper place, and only in its proper place. Nevertheless, h- is only human, and when “jazz” is hurled and blared at him he resents and ’ • t-'s aeainst it. Yet, despite libels to the contrary, the serious music lo -r is the more tolerant of the two factions.

But what qualification has “ jazz ” to recofnition as music? The fact that it emanates from musical instruments is no qualification. The new edition of Grove (the. musician’s second Bible) makes no mention of it; its near relative “ragtime ” is dismissed in a few non-com-mittal lines. Syncopation, on the other hand, has a full column, the musical examples being extracts from Brahms, Beethoven, Schumann, etc. So if “jazz” founds its claim on the syncopation secured by the various means of varying normal time accents, it has no strong case for originality or distinction.- And who could put forward such claim after hearing, say, Wagner’s syncopation in the Rienzi Overture and then listening to a modern “ jazz ” masterpiece. Dignity and impudence, in truth! . Advocates for “ jazz ” state that musicians are conservative, curmudgeons, who not only resent new things, but abuse them, citing the opposition originally meted out to the symphonic poem. Though Liszt had no definite form in mind when he introduced the symphonic poem 70 years ago, he was obviously expressing a thought in some way not expressable by any then-existing means.

What he was endeavouring to achieve was recognised by later composers, and notably by Richard Strauss, who evolved from Liszt’s beginnings a very clear objective point of view, as his “ Ein Heldenleben,” “ Don Juan,” etc., prove. Smetana, that great but neglected Czech composer, furnishes excellent examples of the development and definite establishment of the symphonic poem. One emphasises that it is definite, and therefore, universally recognised as a legitimate method of expressing an original idea in music. One cannot stress too heavily the word “ original ” in this application to the tone poem.

But can “ jazz ” claim to possess such art-form? If so, it is obscure. Efforts have been made to establish this claim; some have gone so far as to coin for it the label “ symphonic syncopation.” Putting aside jazz dance music (quite another matter) we have Gerschwin’s “ Rhapsody in Blue ” as the classic “ jazz ” creation. Now has come to Britain (in gramophone form only’, so far as can be ascertained) a parody on Strauss waltzes entitled “ The jazzmaster Suite,” by a certain Thos MacEben. On finding the great Arthur Nikisch’s son associated with this work, and thinking there might after all be something in it, the present writer analysed the work carefully and found what has always been found before—a series of tricks of orchestration, well or badly done, as the case may be, but entirely lacking in individuality. The composer seems unable to express himself with any originality, being hemmed in by the limitations of those stereotyped tricks that every " jazz ” composer uses. In other words, it is mechanical.

What claim, then, has “ jazz ” on our attention ? A great one, we gladly admit. As a medium for providing rhythm and a certain (if usually limited) melody for dance purposes, it is indispensable and excellent. In that sphere nothing could replace it. But to inflict it on a long-suffering public at all times and in all places is as unfair as it is Unnecesary. No one has the least complaint against “ jazz ” so long as it is not confounded with “ music ” and. very important, so long as it is kept in its right and proper place, and that is the dance room.—Glasgow Weeklv Herald. AMBUSH. At evening in the strange unlighted town I sought the streets for comfort, turning down Each covered dusky’ walk. . . . There was a tree Whereunder children swung and stared at me. Some houses slept, with doors and windows locked. I passed a shallow porch where people rocked; They whispered. I went on, and met a man Who trimmed the border where his grass began. Across a garden, fragrant now’ and cool, Three happy puppies played about a pool Until a boy behind them pushed them in. The night was sweet as none had ever been. . . . I turned another 'way, to go and sleep. When suddenly a cottage seemed to creep Close to the walk and wait for me. I looked; The poreh was empty and the screen was hooked; But, dim within, two ancient women sat, Motionless, their feet upon a mat. I could not. see an eye; but there were four That fixed me as I hastened by the door. Soon I was out of hearing; and I knew There went no word between them as they’ grew Expectant of the next foot that would fall. ... I tried forgetting, but my thoughts w’ere all Of darkness, and a path before a den, And silent, silent spiders watching men. —Mark Van Doren, in the Measure. MOTHERING MOTHER. Many mothers are so mothered by their daughters that they retire perforce into—not graceful middle-age, but the actual sere and yellow leaf. We have all met the type of • so-called dutiful daughter who is over-anxious, oversolicitous, who takes to herself all the rights of service, and patronises and coddles her parents, and who then goes about a self-constituted martyr to her own duties.

Too many daughters acquire the idea that because mother is on the other side of 60 she must always wear gowns of sober cut and sombre colour, must eat only such food as is “good for her digestion,” and must find her only distraction in a little mild bridge and crochet work. When mother goes to buy a new hat and hankers longingly after one in a rich wine colour, she is promptly told by her daughter that' it is far too youthful for her. It is the same thing with her gowns. Black again is : the only permissable colour. No -matter how' much mother might prefer a change—say, one of the new soft raisin

shades, dull blues or deep amethysts—her girls decide for her that “ black is best.” It sounds comical, but it is a fact that a dressmaker told me quite a number of her elderly customers, when choosing a frock, will say: “ Well, I should like that coloured one, but I know my daughter would not let me wear it.” Or: “ Yes, I quite agree with y r ou that a skirt a little shorter would be smarter and more comfortable to walk in, but my son does not like me to have my skirts any shorter than I am in the habit of wearing, so I suppose that this one will have to be usual length, please.” It is the same in the house. Mother is quite fit and anxious to do her own cooking, but the reins seem somehow to have been taken from her hands into those of her capable daughters, who “ wish to spare her any trouble,” and who, in consequence, only succeed in making her life dull and miserable. Any offer on her part to make a batch of sconeS or a cake of gingerbread is sure to be met with: “Oh, no, mother dear, it would just tire you out. You go and lie down for a little and rest.”

When mother is invited out for the evening, it is quite on the cards that the daughter who answers the ’phone will say to the hostess: “ How kind it is of you to ask mother out to-morrow night. No, I have not gjven her your invitation. You see, she has a slight cold, and it is a pity she should be tempted to go out at night. Jenny or I will come in her place if you like.” When holiday time comes round, her affectionate daughters again take matters in their own hands. Although mother lives in a sleepy little back town all the year round, and would dearly love some gaiety, she is annually transplanted into the depths of the country, where her choice of amusements amounts to taking short strolls along the dusty high road, or sitting amongst the gooseberry bushes in the back garden.

Most people imagine that elderly people want alw’ays quiet and rest. But there are many who like movement and brightness around them much more than scenery. The small country village or little seaside place seems to them only suitable for lively young people who can move here and there, and make their own amusement. As one old lady remarked to me last year, what she really would enjoy would be a little trip abroad, but her daughters would not hear of it. Another lady, verging on 80, defied her affectionate daughters, declining absolutely to go to a little seaside village to stay with intimate friends, on the ground that it would be quite time enough for her to do these things when she was “an old woman.”—Glasgow Weekly Herald. MY LITTLE TOWN. “ She’s not been back for many a year,” They say; they never know I’m near. For where my wistful dreaming goes No shadow ever shows. I walk the quiet streets and see No change with all the years. For me, The elms branch still above our lawn And not a friend is gone. “ She not been back,” they say, nor look Where sunlight dances on the brook. In peaceful rooms they never see The child I used to be. Perhaps at dusk the still streets know; They, too, remember long ago. Perl they guess;, since I am there, How yearningly I care. But I shall never speed across The long, long miles, to learn of loss, To find the old town new and strange— For me it does not change. —-Hilda Morris, in the New York Times. CHASING AWAY FATIGUE. Good looks and: fatigue are bad friends. The plain woman, when she looks fresh, will challenge, comparison with a prettier but tired girl. Most of us feel .worn out at times, especially after innumerable parties, dances, and other engagements, and it requires the biggest effort to keep our weariness from showing. Even then, try how we will, some lines will insist on creeping into our faces. Nobody should want to doctor tiredness. Tiredness is an agreeable and healthy feeling, which everyone experiences after a sharp walk or other energetic outdoor recreation. It is fatigue that makes the face look old, and fatigue is most unpleasant.

This fatigue is a state of mind which you suffer whert you overdo things. Often the fault lies with you yourself, for you may have gone to bed late too many nights, danced too much, or been on the move too constantly. Then you will reach a pitch when you cannot - stay still; you become jumpy and irritable, and sleep badly. Such over-fatigue would never have arisen, if you had taken measures to combat it in time.

Sometimes fatigue results from the accumulation of undesirable waste products in the body. The digestion may be disordered from eating too much, or too little, and a little care in your diet may set the matter right. It is astonishing how quickly a good purge will remedy hoUow eyes and tired faces.

Again, this feeling of fatigue may be due to a stuffy atmosphere. Lack of

oxygen impoverishes the blood and makes it run sluggishly, causing a heavy and listless feeling. Try opening the. window, and note how much better you feel all at once. If you can afford it, an electric fan is a wonderful banisher of lassitude. The position in which you sit has much to do with youl - sepsabion of fatigue. If you are in the habit of lounging or lolling about, you will feel ever so much wearier. Bit down as often as you can, but sit upright. When you feel tired out and haven’t the time for a proper rest, try stretchtng your arms above your head several imes and yawn. Nobody knows why, but stretching and yawning are extremely helpful. * * » Be sure to have your afternoon’s rest; or, if this is impossible, take a short rest between - tea time and the time for dinner. First of all, step into a comfortably warm bath, in which some eau-de-Cologne crystals have been dissolved. Our grandmothers used oil of pine extensively in their beauty baths. It is wonderfully refreshing. This was their recipe: Make some bath sachets of soft bath towelling, and place into each three large cupfuls of the best smooth fine oatmeal, two tablespoonfuls of powdered borax, two tablespoonfuls of best superfatted soap, very .finely shaved; and extiact of Pinus Sylvestris 90 grains. Oil of rosemary can be added if desired. Try this next time you have a gav evening before you, instead of the usual crystals, and see how much brighter you feel. After the bath, massage yourself. Then rub yourself briskly for 10 minutes before lying down. The more thoroughly you rub yourself, the more completely will relaxation follow. When you -lie down let every part of you flop limply on the bed. The secret of beneficial . rest lies in this absolute relaxation. Breathe deeply eight times to remove bad vapours from the lungs, before trying to sleep. Upon waking, drink a cup of tea, or, if you have been very fatigued and want to’Hock your very best during the evening, take a half-teaspoonful of sal-volatile with water.—Women’s Weekly. THE TENT SPEAKS. I am the symbol of the soul of the circus— For if the soul of the circus is anything, It is the soul of the gipsy. I am the charm of the Out-of-Doors— The charm of blue sky; of fleecy white 'clouds, Of storm-clouds; of wind, of rain; Of crimson and golden sunsets, Of glorious sunrises; Of dew in Summer and of frost in Autumn; Of sun and moon and stars— The burning, pulsing, throbbing stars— The red and silver and blue and golden stars. I am also the symbol of happiness. For I am the psychology of the laughing, Shoving, pushing,- "joyous, care-free crowd: To roe human nature is an open book; Wherever I go, men, women and children, Of all castes and colours, Keep me company. Thus it is that 1 get out of life Much more than I could possibly derive If I were the palace of a king, ( r the office of a business man, Or a store, or a hotel, or a church, Or any other kinds of a building. . . . —Sam J. Banks, in the Standard. MANY HA DF> Y RETURNS OF THE DAY. This year has seen the fortieth birthday of I’ort Sunlight, the famous Cheshire village founded by the late Lord Leverhulme. Every one has heard of Lord Leverhulme’s romantic career, but not everyone knows the inside details of his business success, and how he rose from small beginnings. Because the housewife of to-day owes so much to his business enterprise, and because it was through his efforts that washing day has been made so much easier to face, we are giving the details of his very fascinating career. * * * In the nineteenth century a young commercial -traveller—William Hesketh Lever—called on his father’s grocer customers day by day. He resolved to find a fresh district. Lancashire’s possibilities he realised are not bounded by Bolton. So he advanced and booked new orders in new fields. That restlessness which men call ambition took root. Going home, young Lever dreamed. He knew his dreams could be fulfilled in reality. Soap, he decided, should be the medium. A small factory was taken in Warrington. That was in 1886. * * * Now soap in those days was cut from a long bar of uncertain quality, and wrapped up in any bit of paper that was handy.

Young Lever saw an opportunity for a great reform, and he took it. It is to him the housewife owes the handy tablet of soap, of uniform quality, neatly enclosed in a cardboard packet. But his innovation would not of itself have won the confidence of the world. It needed the help of advertisement, and in this department of modern husinasa

Lover discovered in himself a positive genius. Paticularly did he realise the necessity of press advertising. Not otherwise could men and women have been made familiar as they are with Sunlight,” its younger partner “ Lifebuoy,” its natural" allies*“ Lux ” and ‘ Vim,” all of which are now household words! Each of these represented a scientific contribution to the solution of household problems. t< Sunlight ” . superseded bar soaps, Lifebuoy ” linked up cleaning with health and hygiene. “Lux” overcame the difficulties of washing woollens and the fine fabrics of to-day. “ Vim ” replaced bath-brick and similar abrasives. When Lever came to the factory in VV arrington, fortune came with him. In less than two years its output had been increased from 20 to 450 tons a week. But that was not enough: and so, in 1888, on March 3, the first sod was cut in Port Sunlight, and the first big step taken in building up a business which each year has seen expand, until to-day it is a commonwealth of over 200 associated companies with factories and agencies throughout the world, and in its service 39,000 white people, and (in West Africa and other tropical regions) some 28,000 natives. And it employs a capital of un’-’-do £70.000,000. « * * No man .1. more for his empioyees than the late Lord Leverhulme. His work for them and for every housewife in the land will always be a splendid monument to his memory.—An exchange. THE SPANISH DANCER. She moves, a wave upon the sea, Her fingers are the running fcvmi Her body is a shaken tree, That holds a rifled honeycomb. The merry wind runs laughing through The shaken tree, the silken shawl; Her feet are little doves that w’oo Beneath the boughs, and flit, and fall. Her tresses are a gusty spray That tumbles on the marble sill That is her brow. But, look and pray I She is a shrine now she is still. —Wilfrid Thorley, in Life and Letters. MY IDEAL AUNT. By A Nephew. Of course, I haven’t got one. All told, my aunts are not a bad lot. But there isn’t one who is all that an aunt should be. I often feel I should like to take my aunts into my confidence and give them a few tips, Aunt Priscilla, for instance. When she leaves us she is sure to say some time before she leaves: “ How' dreadfully Georgie does behave; you really must send him to a boarding school, Joan, dear.” Now, being called “ Georgie ” makes my blood boil. Dash it all! When a boy’s 12 he’s i man, and ought to bo called just plain George. Then there’s Aunt Annie. She’s a regular highbrow, and simply won’t coms off books and history and such dry things. She delights in torturing me with questions she knows I can’t answer for toffee, and she shows a dreadful curiosity about the place I got in last term’s examination. Now, the aunt I like doesn’t stand on ceremony or ask me a lot of regular “ stunners ” about learning. Right from the start she puts herself in my place, and takes an interest in my white mice and rabbits and helps me to feed the chickens. She doesn’t make a song about getting her shoes muddy. She has a pleasing w’ay with children, too. .She doesn’t handle a baby as if it were a boa-constrictor, or hunt the hall for her gloves and goloshes- for half an hour before she departs. Then the aunt of my imagination knows all about bicycles and motor cars. When we are out walking, and, spotting a car, I exclaim “ Morris! ” She doesn’t look at the boy on the footpath and bring a blush to my cheeks with, a “ Maurice who, dear ? ” You can always tell the quality of an aunt by the presents she gives you. A proper aunt gives a boy steam engines, meccano, and useful things—and she doesn’t expect letters of thanks, for she knows I simply loathe letter writing. There is one hint which I would like to have printed in letters of gold and handed round to all my aunts. It would read: “Never, on any account, say to your nephews or nieces, ’ Now, when I was your age I used to ... ’ ” — A Scottish paper. SONG. Love goes As the wind blows, And no man knows The place thereof; But pity stays Through weary days, Keeping the house of love. Though you come late To the swinging gate, The path is straight And the door is wide; And pity’s eyes Are so sadly wise You will think it is love inside. —Aline Kilmer, in the Lyric.