PASSING NOTES.

Otago Witness, Issue 4042, 1 September 1931, Page 3

PASSING NOTES.

Adversity makes strange bedfellows. Labour, Conservative, and Liberal are by now bolstered together pro hac vice, conjoined in the one aim alone, to stabilise the national credit, and solemnly sworn to sunder when that much to be desired end has been achieved. Then, like the ghostly visitants in “ Macbeth,’’ they shall sing in unison When shall we three meet again. In thunder, lightning, or in rain? Mr MacDonald has been pulled in twain, his Labour organisations, the pith and marrow of his party, intractable, unmanageable, and immoveable, pressing him one way; part of his dismembered Cabinet and his inner sense of the homely safeguards demanded, the other. Mr Baldwin, once more into the healing breach, vindicates for himself the certain claim he prefers—the salvation of his country to that of his party —a statesman and statescraftsman in one. In well-nigh similar straits, what will little New Zealand do? Here is an admirable and well-founded precedent for the vacillations of Mr Coates. Will he turn, at last, and lead his flock within the fold? The omens seem to point this way. And

Mr Holland, still destined to enjoy the privilege of office, without its chastening disciplines, will elect to keep the flag of independence waving above the ark of Labour.

Our cricketers have tasted to the full the tantrums of an English summer. Jupiter Phivius, lachrymose as ever Greenwich waterworks, has hovered over them in dogged persistence, in their itineraries from south to north and back again. It would appear not only that the rain, it raineth every day, but that it is also, by nature, übiquitous. Are there no zones of climate in the United Kingdom, to provide for humid weathe’ in London, but sparkling sunbeams in the Midlands? In New Zealand things are ordered differently, rain in Auckland spelling halcyon days in Dunedin. St Swithin is to blame. This popular prelate, Bishop of Winchester, died in the year 862, and on his deathbed desired to be buried in the Minster churchyard, that the sweet rain of heaven might fall upon his grave. On his canonisation, however, the officious monks bethought the saint better housed" within the choir. The ceremony fell on July 15 and it rained thereafter for forty days.

St. Swithin’s day. gif ye do rain, for forty days ’twill remain; St. Swithin’s day. an ye be fair, for forty days ’twill Tain nae mair. As for our vernal hours, that arc on the wing, was it Horace Walpole who said “Spring has set in with its usual severity”? Outs is a fickle climate. The spring, the summer. The chiding autumn, angry winter, change Their worsted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.

At the first anniversary of the establishment of universal compulsory education in Russia it was announced that 17.500,000 children—B2 per cent, of children of school age —were already in the schools, compared with 7.000.000 under the Czarist regime. Studies are conducted in 70-languages. The news that 17,500,000 of the rising generation in Russia are being trained in the primary schools is distinctly on couraging. Apparently there is to be a cosmopolitan programme of linguistic studies, coupled with technical work in science, an ambitious project of national education. Our ideals of a liberal training have undergone some rather radical changes of recent years. Science has been given a prominent place in the curricula of our high schools and universities. At Home is being celebrated the centenary of Faraday, a very great figure. A distinguished statesman, himself a classical scholar of no mean order, visited the scientist’s laboratory to see for himself what these discoveries in electricity and magnetism portended. “What is the use of all this ? ” he asked the natural philosopher. The latter, after the manner of oracles, rejoined cryptically: “ What is the use of a baby ? ” A good deal of adverse criticism is now being levelled at university education and university degrees are being spoken of slightingly. “ A Master of Arts is simply a triumph of mediocrity. A.M., Arts Mediocrity.” But this is the voice of the cynic, and we have it on good authority that the cynic is one who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing. Let some of the critics in our university circles take this definition to heart.

Is Home Rule to prove a failure, an>l will Ulster and the rest of Ireland never see eye to eye? The old phraseology, the form of union, “by the Grace of God,

King of Great Britain and Ireland,” had a satisfying ring about it, and from one point of view it is a pity it could not have been maintained for all time. Perhaps the different racial characteristics of English, Scottish, and Irish renders that consummation impossible. The Scotsman is reputed to be mean and pawky, his neighbour across the Channel given to blarney and make-belief, the Englishman conceited and conservative—mere phrases, of course, and not to’ be taken at all seriously. In some of the stories Pat scores well.

John Bull, Pat, and Sandy, each was holding forth on the merits of his nation and on his own mental prepossessions. The Englishman affected science, the Scot psychology, while the Irishman said lie knew nothing of either, but be experienced the most wonderful dreams —no one could beat him in that line. The challenge was accepted and a test would be held that very night. The best dreamer would get the quartern loaf that reposed on the table. On the morrow they met to compare nocturnal notes, but the loaf was missing. Pat said he had a most wonderful and powerful dream of hunger, so compelling that he got up and ate the loaf entirely. Science and psychology wcre nowhere.

The annual festival, running its course of fourteen days and rejoicing under the euphonious title of “ Competitions,” is again in full swing. One cannot but admire the courage and zeal in contestants and adjudicator alike, the former in weighing their talents, numerous or th e reverse, against their contemporaries in verse, song, and other musical accomplishment, the latter in having perforce to swallow an iteration of phrase and note. But the proof of the pudding is in its eating, and this commendable emulation may unearth, some day, a youthful Wagner or Elgar. One notes that the test of an impromptu speech ranks as one of the society’s salient charms. The path of the ex tempore speaker is strewn with pitfalls. Henry Irving once made a speech at a dinner given in honour of several distinguished American actors. He mentioned all by name except the most important—Nat Goodwin, then New York’s principal comedian. A friend, noticing the omission, wrote the name on a piece of paper and had it handed to Irving, who at once surmised that something must be wrong with his speech. t Groping for his glasses, he continued thus:— Of course, there is one guest with us to-night—a man we are always—always delighted to have among us — er —whose name is a household word —household word in both hemispheres —I need hardly say that I allude to — ray dear old friend (here he found his glasses and took a hasty glance at the paper)—my dear old friend— Nit Godwin.

Not being an ardent habitue of the kinema, I am unable to say yea or nay to the appended note from a correspondent. I take it from what he says that the debut of a well-known light-comedy artiste to the talking screen has not been altogether propitious.

I went to a picture. “ The Celestial Night Out,” or something like that, the other day. The heroine, a flower seller in the theatre, went off to the country where she was invited to dine with the local count. He was a real he-man, full of pep, with a strong, delightful sensual face. He hovered around the lady, clawed her shoulders, admired her back—her actual back, that is, for she wore a backless dress —endeavoured by the usual he-man blandishments to debauch her, and finally flung her into his bedroom, giving her “ two minutes to come to

her senses.” She escapes through a casement and rushes through pouring rain to her abode. Next day her outraged modesty is so far restored that she invites the count to supper—she is very forgiving. He regrets the previous evening’s conduct —that is, he regrets that he failed. Great osculation and shoulderclawing ensues, and towards the end of the scene the lady exclaims, “It has been a won’erful night, beaudiful, beaudiful.’’ Next day she is back in her city garret. But the count turns J’P a . ,low says he means marriage, terrific osculation. Curtain. Thus we see how the new morality, backless dresses, and forgiving ladies can turn a would-be debaucher into a husband. n ll i See ’ fchere is a rise in morality all the time—you begin in the stye and conclude at the altar. Won’erful, beaudiful! On the wav out of the theatre, an old man with silvery hair said to me: “ That is corrupt—it muddies the fountains of morality—our young New Zealand girls will learn from that to look lightly on the wouldbe seducer. In my youth a man. count or no count, who acted like that would have been branded as a ruffian. I don’t like it. it will do harm. Excuse me for expectorating.” And so he kept on repeating. The poor old fellow is out of 'date, isn’t he? He surely must be a Victorian. Poor old Victorian! Ci vis.