In the Mirror

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 2, Issue 11, 1 May 1924, Page 3

In the Mirror

Dear Lady in the Mirror, It is very gratifying to learn from Mr. Massey that in England housewives can buy New Zealand butter for one and fourpence a pound, eightpence less than the cost of Danish. He did not add that this is, moreover, about eightpence less than we have to pay for it ourselves — wonder why? I would remind our worthy Premier that charity begins at home, and whilst we rejoice that New Zealand can play so material a part in assisting to cheapen the famous English breakfast-table, it would be even more a matter for congratulation if, we could cheapen our own. Not only does this apply to butter and breakfast tables, but to our mutton and fruit and many other articles, which we proudly read are helping to reduce the cost of living in England. Mr. Massey has of late devoted much of his rhetorical verbosity to the parlous state of things at Home, and has even gone so far as to announce that if he lived in England he would devote the whole of his time to improving the present state of affairs. This I take leave to doubt, for judging from his recent utterances, he would then start worrying about New Zealand domestic conditions. Of course, I know that Mr. Massey has all sorts of secret information as to why butter costs less 13,000 miles away than it does in the country of its origin, but, probably, like so many other things, the reason is too closely connected with weighty matters of State to allow of his taking mere ordinary mortals into his confidence without shaking the fabric of Empire to its very foundations. It must be terrible, but at the same time most frightfully thrilling, to be the locked receptacle of so many mysterious secretsalways to be “in the know, but never be able to unbosom oneself. One must feel like a man apart, separated from common humanity by a veil of secrecybut how awful it would be, how fraught with dire peril U the very existence of the Empire, if Mr. Massey were afflicted with that distressing habit of talking in his sleep! Few politicians, however, can so suffer as long as it is the universal custom to sleep hatless. And our egg supply for the next three years is ordered in advance — a most satisfactory condition of: affairs, and one on which we may justifiably congratulate ourselves. Meanwhile we shall continue to pay threepence, and probably fourpence, each for those that can be spared for home consumption when we are lucky enough to get them. Naturally, I could explain why these things be — my lips are sealed! —and anyway, it would not be good for you to know, and you wouldn’t understand it if I told you; and thus, having in the approved fashion made my reputation for omniscience secure without any trouble to myself, I will pass on to pleasanter topics than the cost of living. It’s a beast of a subject, anyway, and much better avoided. RADIO’S PERILS. It has not taken long to brand the radio craze with a particular form of villainy. It is a wrecker of homes, a disturber of domestic peace. Even as

the cinema was a corrupter of infantile morals, a seducer of juvenile virtue, and jazz a trap for the unwary, if nimble, feet of our girlhood, so is listening-in a blighter of wedded bliss. Whether this habit of linking each craze with some especial form of vice is modern, or whether it has been indulged in through the ages, I cannot say. I do seem to remember that the cycling craze was denounced as a destroyer of modesty and a direct threat at the charm of our womanhood, and that motoring was an incentive to extravagance and a long step on the road to bankruptcy. Probably ping-pong and photography and philately all concealed some wile of the devil, each having its own private form of temptation. Anyway, nowadays we must have some excuse for our evil doings, and the fashionable form of relaxation for the nonce is as good as any. Let a tickle husband desert his wife and family, listening-in makes a good enough reason —and learned judges can inveigh against it, and paragraph writers find it a spicy diet for jaded appetites. No matter that such things have happened since the foundation of monogamy—to ■ attribute it to the waywardness of faulty human nature would make but a sordid, insipid story, not likely to tempt “ Paterfamilias” or “ Mother-of-six ” into printa story without ‘ ‘ heart interest. ’ ’ Next we shall have some defalcating cashier attributing his lapse to Mah-Jongg, and Radio will be able to assume an air of virtuous respectability. So far my life has been blameless, but should I happen to be found out some day, I trust I shall shoulder the responsibility myself, and not try to exonerate my faulty nature at the expense of “ Tiddley-winks ” or “ Beggar-my-neighbour,” or whatever the popular fad of| the moment happens to be. By the way, I see the cinema producers have already commenced to wail at the inroads listening-in is making on their profits. It only seems yesterday since the theatrical people were announcing bitterly that they were ruined by the upstart cinema. So wags the world. OUR UNGALLANT M.P.’s. Fie! Mr. Wright, M.P.! Really, if you have been reported correctly, it is indeed ungallant of you to say that “women’s demands for money add a new horror to life.” May I remind you of that hoary old chestnut aoout the man who had been married for about six months and met a friend who asked him how things were going. “It would be all right,”

said the Benedict, ‘‘ if she didn’t keep asking me for money.” “But what does she do with it all?” naturally inquired the friend. “I don’t knowl haven’t given her any yet,” replied the grumbler. I might suggest that your complaint is just about as well founded as his—and that the obvious remedy for the state of affairs you find so trying would be the same in both eases. Of course, I may be doing the worthy member a grave injustice—what he possibly meant to convey was not that he objected to fair deputations waiting on him, but that he found that it wrung his tender heart to have, through sheer necessity, to refuse their reasonable and just demands. His generous instincts must constantly be aroused by the very deserving nature of their appeals—no wonder he finds it horrifying to have to steel himself to refuse them. If this be the case, Mr. Wright has my sympathy— in case he is not a married man (and I can only surmise that if he were he would be more ease-hardened), I can assure him that his is no uncommon woe. Still, it is a pity that women’s demands on the national exchequer are usually for such humdrum, though very vital, objects. Battleships and the spectacular panoply of Empire make so much greater an appeal to the public imagination than do childwelfare and slum-reclamation and the various other domestic problems that compel women to poster our politicians for the means to carry on. It’s just the same all through—a man may grumble at having to meet the milliner’s bill, but he does feel he getting something for his money the cost of the new mangle rends him to the bottom of his inmost soul. Perhaps some day New Zealand will follow the lead of England and elect women as representatives, when they will be able to plead their needs in full council rather than to an individual. “STRAINING AT GNATS. .. . ” A recent case in which I am glad to see that justice was tempered with mercy, though somewhat tardily, has attracted attention once again to our anti-gambling legislation. Whether this is right in theory or no is a question on which everyone holds his own opinion, and which need not be discussed here, but that it works out somewhat unequally in practice is only too obvious. The small fry are apprehended and punished with rigour. Judging from what one hears, and what one must be very unobservant not to see happening every day at our street corners, there are big bet-

ting organisations that seem to have found some way by which to evade the clutches of the law. Possibly it is a case of the old adage of giving a dog enough rope, but one would suppose a plentiful sufficiency had now been supplied to hang the offenders as high as Banian. It’s a curious paradox, certainly, that the youngster who makes a few bets in the small circle of his office is incarcerated, while the big bookmaker is immune and flourishes like the green bay tree. ANCESTRY AND AUCTIONS. Even in New Zealand we are not all so democratic as we would have the world believe (as a matter of fact, there is no snob so great as your true out-and-out democrat, wherever you find him), but the reverse often applies, too. The latest story regarding a certain would-be establisher of ready-made ancient lineage concerns some family “heirlooms” that were proudly displayed with the explanation, “Just been sent out from the Old Place (with the emphasis on the capital P) at Home, you know.” Unfortunately, the blue-blooded one had omitted to notice that the heirlooms bore on an obscure spot a small ticket that proclaimed that they had figured as “Lot 99” in a recent auction! THE PRINCE’S LATEST SPILL. The photograph on the cover of this issue was taken by Mr. S. P. Andrew during the Prince’s visit to New Zealand. The latest portrait of the Prince, taken since his recent alarming accident, will appear in an early issue. It is fortunate that no permanent injury was received, though the Prince was still sporting a highly chromatic specimen of a contused optic when he left for a short Continental holiday early in April. There is some interesting news about this photo, on page 64. SINGAPORE SHELVED. So, after all, we cannot sleep peacefully in our beds, and must continually tremble at the menace from the unknown, or at anyrate unnamed Power that is to threaten our existence. Mr. MacDonald won’t have a new base at Singapore, and Australia and New Zealand are to be left to their fate. Just who is going to attack us, and how Singapore was going to stop their doing it, I, despite the gallons of printing ink that have been spilled in expounding the vital necessity of the base, fail to see; but then I always was dense about politics. If we had been good and obedient, and done as we were told by the Press, we should all be up in arms at the dastardly betrayal, but really we know so little about it that we have taken it very calmly. Even our local cartoonists seem a little vague on the subject, though they have nobly tried to imitate the Fat Boy in “Pickwick Papers” and make our flesh creep. The Sage of Queen Street depicted Ramsay removing the guard (in a most unsoldierly manner) while we, rightly typified as innocent babes, slumbered unconcernedly. Another cartoon showed a very massive Mr. Massey behaving in a very unseemly way in Mr. Mae-

Donald’s office (which I should hate to think he would) and threatening, somewhat indefinitely, that unless he got Singapore it would be “Bang!” —so I suppose now it will have to be Bang! ” If only the people who should know, the high naval authorities, were more unanimous in their opinions, the ordinary man-in-the-street (for which I don’t know the feminine equivalent) might have a more decided view on the subject. I do think that if all those millions can be found, or even our modest ten thousand, they would be much better employed in giving employment to white labour, rather than Chinese. But I would like to know what was at the bottom of all the Press agitation in favour of the scheme. AN UNENVIABLE TASK. As events proved, I turned out to be only too true a prophet of evil, and before even our last number appeared on the bookstalls it was officially announced that Lord Jellicoe could not see his way to extend his period of office. Naturally, surmise is already busy with the problem of who will succeed him. Whoever it may be, I cannot say that I think his task will be an enviable one, for so great has Lord Jellieoe’s popularity been that it is almost inevitable that invidious comparisons will be made. I doubt if much credence can be given to the rumour that we are to be honoured by the appointment of a Royal Governor. The Duke of York is too much in demand in England for his presence to be easily dispensed with, while Prince George is too young and also, if rumour does not lie, too occupied by affairs of another and more romantic nature, as is reported elsewhere in this issue. Failing so exalted a choice, probably we could not do better than follow the precedent that has proved so successful in the case of the present Governor, and another appointment from the Navy or Army would undoubtedly be well received. There are, of course, several names that occur to one as having been conspicuously successful in similar spheres elsewhere, but whether the qualities that are required to rule, for example, an Indian province would be qualities appreciated in a Governor of the Dominion is a very moot point. Still, everyone who came into contact with Lord Ronaldshay, late Governor of Bengal, or Lord Willingdon, who had the unique experience of governing successively Bombay and Madras, have nothing but praise for their personality and tact, and it seems a pity not to utilise such qualities in the rare event of their being discovered. AN ALLURING ART. I remember that some years ago, in London, the police had to regulate the enormous male crowd that blocked one side of Regent Street. The attraction was a shop window devoted to entirely and particularly feminine needs, and displayed a diaphanouslyclad waxen damsel poised on one toe. Possibly it was the marvel of equilibrium that was the attraction, or maybe it was something else; but the crowd was an undoubted fact. Whether the proprietors of the exhibit found the attraction a profitable advertisement I cannot say. Since then I doubt if windows devoted to feminine requirements have again attracted so much masculine attention until the last few weeks, but the displays that have been such a feature of Auckland’s premier thoroughfare have undoubtedly exercised as much fascination on the male mind as on those for whom they were presumably primarily designed, and I trust that many deserving Auckland wives and sisters have reaped a rich

reward from Messrs. Milne and Choyee’s enterprise. I doubt if New Zealand has everseen so fine an example of the art of window-dressing, and I “makes my bow” to whoever was responsible, for indeed it was the work of no mean artist. When one thinks of it, we spend a very large part of our time looking into shop windows, often alas! with unavailing longing, and our thanks are due to whoever gives us increased pleasure in our pastime. Window-dressing and poster-design-ing and such like street displays can be real art — bring art to where it should be, into our daily lives and occupations.

THE APPEAL OF COLOUR. One thing in the display struck me particularly —the vivid emerald wig of one of the models. Curiously enough the effect was not particularly bizarre. Wigs of unusual tints, worn either to match the garb or to obtain a bold contrast, have had some vogue in the centres of Fashion, but I have not yet seen anyone sufficiently courageous to introduce the idea into New Zealand society. Of course, for fancy dress they would be by no means out of the way, but it would certainly require no small amount of fearlessness to attend an ordinary dinner party in a hirsute adornment of flaming scarlet or brilliant blue. Nevertheless, there are some types to which these somewhat outre colour schemes are particularly suitable, and possibly someone will be brave enough to attempt the experiment during the coming season. 1 hope so, for anything that adds colour to our dreary lives is very welcome these days. I am sorry to sound so pessimistic, but I am writing to the sound of the persistent drip of rain, and the sun has long since forgotten how to shine. It’s been raining for a thousand years and intends to rain for eternity. We are all so saturated in the subject

of weather that I cannot, despite editorial injunctions, avoid it. I feel as if I am dipping my pen in slush and mud. And yet all sorts of horrible things are happening in Dunedin because it won’t rain. I wonder if there is a vacancy on any Dunedin journal? whether any Dunedin journalist would like to exchange jobs? I would want a guarantee that present weather conditions are to continue; for I never want to see rain again—never! New Zealand has a wonderful climate. To wade back to my subject: any idea that suggests colour and gaiety and sunlight appeals to me under

these conditions. I would almost welcome the recrudescence of the suggestion that men ’s evening clothes should become chromatic. Possibly, if I could go now and change into a coat of many colours, of orange and pale blue for choice, and take my lady of the emerald head out to some cheerful place to dinner, where there was music and wine and dance, I might almost forget that it is raining—rainingraining. As it is, I am thinking of going out and drowning myself in the north-cast corner of the puddle for which I pay eightpenee, or thereabouts, a day. I hope it will clear up for you for Easter. I don’t think it will. NATURE AND PHILISTINISM. Municipalities all over the country are showing a most commendable spirit of civic pride by beautifying the areas within their control by the planting of trees, flowering shrubs and hedges. No one can deny the fact that a residential road artistically planted is a delight to the tired eyes, bored with continual vistas of brick and concrete. Yet there seems a mania amongst private property owners to destroy the handiwork

of nature —no sooner does a man purchase a new house than he sallies forth, like George Washington, with his little axe, bent on demolishing every vestige of arboricultural charm within his domain. Probably the idea is that he will thus enable passers-by to view without hindrance the beauties of his dwelling place and form a proper opinion of his wealth and importance. More often he discloses views of domestic offices much better obscured, and enables the neighbourhood to ascertain with accuracy exactly how often he and his family change their linen. Despite the delightful intimacy and candour of our clothes lines on Monday mornings, I cannot help regretting that these revelations are so often purchased by the destruction of so much of Nature’s most beautiful handiwork. “SIC TRANSIT ” While on the subject of vandalism: can nothing be done to prevent the destruction of one of Auckland’s oldest and most beautiful residences? Some commercially-minded genius has decided that a row of unneeded shops would be a delightful change from the peaceful beauties of age-old trees and charming vistas, and the edict has gone forth that the house in question, with its delightful grounds, must be demolished. It is situated in one of the best parts of Auckland, surrounded by the city’s finest homes, and many offers have been received for the property, but an “isn’t-that-pretty? let’s- ’eave-a-brick-at-it ” attitude has been adopted, and without pressure can be brought to bear at the eleventh hour, it is doomed. CONTRASTS IN JOURNALISM. So the annual ’Varsity Boat Race has been decided, and we glean from a tiny paragraph in the corner of one of our dailies that Cambridge won, though apparently more important, judging from the space devoted to it, was the fact that one of. the Oxford crew spent a few possibly repentant hours in the seclusion of Vine Street. At Home this ranks as the premier amateur sporting event of the year, requiring columns to minutely describe every detail of the race, and for days beforehand one cannot open a paper without finding lengthy prognostications of the result. Ant res pans, mitres moeurs. One would, however, think that a sufficiently large number of people in New Zealand are interested in the race to justify a little more space being devoted to it. OUR FAR-FLUNG BATTLE LINE.” The great event of the next few weeks will, of course, be the visit of the Fleet, and it is to be hoped that New Zealand will not fail in keeping up the reputation it has gained for hospitality of exactly the right kind. It is a great pity that some evilly minded persons spread abroad such a vile and stupid rumour during the vessels’ stay at Hobart, but judging from the fact that the Admiral has been forced to curtail the programme arranged at Sydney, Australia has since done its best to remove the unpleasant impression that the libel left. No effort should be spared to enable as many children as possible to visit the Squadron. The “Hood” is the most wonderful fighting machine that man’s ingenuity has ever called into existence, and possibly, if disarmament proposals are happily translated into facts, will forever remain so. In any event, it will be long before another opportunity occurs in New Zealand to enable the younger generation to realise the actuality of “the sure shield of Empire,’’ and instil into them a lesson in Imperialism that should bear fruit in the years to come. Knave o Hearts.

Will New Zealand

▼ ▼ Hi X’NV-.VV Cl. JL CA JL I V^-i Recent events at Home have started the political wiseacres speculating as to whether similar developments will occur in the New Zealand arena. If we are to judge by the confident expression of the Prime Minister, he has no qualms regarding the immediate future, but neither do his opponents, if their photographs are to be taken as an index to their feelings, show any lack of optimism. The immediate political future is fraught with many possibilities and interesting eventualities, and it would take a bold prophet to forecast which of the three men whose photographs appear above will be guiding the destinies of the Dominion at the end of the present year. o o O Probably one of the most remarkable phases of the recent Parliamentary changes in England was the reunion of Mr. Asquith and Air. Lloyd George. Our centre photograph

Follow England's Lead 1 shows Mr. Asquith with his versatile —some think too versatile —wife at the wedding of the Hon. Diamond Ilardinge, daughter of an ex-viceroy of India, to Captain Robert Abercromby, whilst below Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd George, with Miss Megan Lloyd George, are seen at Southampton on their return from the U.S.A. o o o General Smuts' speech at the Premiers' Conference, which he is here seen leaving, gave small satisfaction to India, whose representative bitterly denounced South Africa's policy. o o o It is persistently rumoured that an engagement will shortly be announced between Prince George, the King's third son, and Lord Curzon's charming daughter. Lady Alexandra, who are seen above at the Household Brigade Steeplechase.