The "Glugs of Gosh"

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 1164, 3 November 1917, Page 7 (Supplement)

The "Glugs of Gosh"

ITHIN a few months," the publisher's K foreword to the "Glugs of Gosh" assures us, "the word 'glug' will be ■ in daily use among us, and wherever our (on . l > ue * s spoken, 'Ogs' (the Huns), "Swanks' (Government otlicials), and the 'Lord High Stodge' (pompous authority) will be household words." So there is no great need for reviewers' Opinions. However, we have received a copy of C. J. Dennis's latest ambitious effort in verse from the publishers, Angus and Robertson, Ltd., Sydney, and intend to rise to the responsibility imposed on us. The reading public who, having been captured by the "Sentimental Bloke" and "Ginger Mick," are thoroughly interested in Dennis, may be curious to observe the new "star's" paces in the field of allegory: "The Glugs of Gosh" is a "whimsical, satirical allegory"—the foreword says so. The critic, after one casual and one careful reading of the allegory, cannot make up his mind as lo whether the work is a notably good performance or only amazingly facile nonsense verse contai ;ing a thin red line of satire. At least it can be guaranteed that Dennis pillorises in quite agreeable humour the foibles and self-complacency of the average Bumble and his most sacrosanct public institutions. In fact, this satirist puts everybody—you, me, and our friends and relations—into the stocks and pelts his victims with puff-balls. We all are Glugs, from his Worship the Mayor downwards to the mannikin whose mount will drive the Cup field home at Biccarton next Monday. For a Glug is defined as "ourselves as others see us"— a text, by the way, from which one Burns long ago preached a memorable sermon. As for liosh—it is Christchurch, or New Zealand, or Sarawak, or any other community under the Flag. Here we are, questing the Glug:— Step not jauntily, not too grave, Till the lip of the languorous sea you quit; Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave Tumbles a jellyfish out at your feet. Not too hopefully, not forlorn, Whisper a word of your earnest quest; Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn And sneers in your face like a fish possessed. Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way Brooding jellyfish won't be gay. That is one sign-post on the way to Gosh. 'Another equally delirious, after one passes the •■big bank" that "gnashes its doors," ami interrogates the "carrier's horse with the long, sad face," is according to the following specification:— Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand, Punched by the porter who broods in his box; Journey afar to the sad, soggy land, Wearing your spot-silk lavender socks. Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog, Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest. Seductive rhythm and alliteration all this, a * subject for W. Heath Robinson's whimsical pencil, but in the last analysis just nonsense verses ■with too little relevance and strung together with a dangerous facility. A catalogue of images grotesque does not create an atmosphere such as ennis aims at. As for the Feasible Dog and the GuflFer Bird, this writer refuses to be interested in them. The Lord Swank who, "in fifty fathoms of thin red tape . . swaddled his portly shape, Jike a large insane c«,coon," we all know. And when that same nobleman shelters from the King's wrath "behind the fence of Begulation Six and under Section Four Eight 0" we can march side by side with Dennis. Sym, a Glug, but yet not of Gosh, appeals to us. He prefers the troubadour's life in the lap of Nature to the pettiness and selfishness of the Glugs. He is the tinker man, the sun of whose earth is Emily Ann. It is the mountain for him, Jiigh above Gosh, with his dear and the little red dog. And Dennis leaves the moral of his story to be hold on the last page by the singing Sym:— Kettles and pans! Ho, kettles and pans! The stars are the gods' but the earth, it is V man's! Yet down in the slud dull mortals there are. Who climb in the tree-tops to snatch at a star; Seeking content and a surcease of care, Finding but emptiness everywhere. Then make for the mountain, importunate man! With a kettle to mend . . . and your Emily Ann. With which sage advice, we can bid adieu to the allegory, after taking brief space to Ad the Gilbertian and Carrollish flavour of parts of it, and Hal Gye's somewhat inelastic illustrations. P.S.—The Sentimental Bloke, speaking on bei? ?. himse,f and friends, has just rung up to sav that he 'ain't very shook on these 'alligatories'." We pass the message undecoded on to C. J. Dennis, who will understand.