After Dinner Gossip and Echoes of the Week.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XV, 11 April 1903, Page 991

After Dinner Gossip and Echoes of the Week.

A Chance. A slight alteration -will be noticed in the form of our heading this week, and a similarly slight corresponding change will be found in the style and substance of the paragraphs which appear below. To gain space for matter which experience teaches us readers And more attractive, subjects which have hitherto been treated under the style of “Topics of the Week” will be dealt with hereinunder, but in that lighter - and perhaps more flippant style, which is usually found more acceptable “after dinner,” when the burden and heat of the day are over, and when light discussion over the events of the week, here, there, and everywhere, can alternate with the latest good store, whether true or “ben trovato.” Not that I may not sometimes treat subjects seriously, far from it, for there are subjects (I have several of them to-day) which cannot be spoken or written of, save with seriousness; and, moreover, there is not a more tiresome creature in this world than the man who never, if one may so phrase it, never leaves off giggling in Ids scribblings; but the general tendency will be to look al. ti e brighter side of life, and, where possible, to seek out the humorous aspect of things—for there is often humour even in tragedy, as you must have noticed—and in brief to “make the best of things.” This is rather - where we all fail •row-a-days, I think. We have over in lu'ged our inainiable right to grumble, and too often forget that, despite its troubles and worries, this old world of ours is a mighty pleasant place to live in, and that in life’s little ironies there is usually something to laugh at as well as to growl over, and that that it is a much pleasanter thing for us all to smile than to scowl. The old English catch always pleases me. I wonder if you know it? It runs as thusr Oh! a lass is good, and a glass is good, And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; And the world is good and the people are good, And we’re all good fellows together. That is assuredly the way we should feel after dinner, and if we cannot always attain so felicitous an ideal, we’ll try to, as often as we can, and if you find me dull, my friend, as you often will, I fear, why, send in your own pet story; and, so that it be not chestnutty of the chestnuts, it will be warmly welcomed, as will also any discussion on after-dinner subjects; for beshrew the host who will ever do all the talking himself, and never let a soul get a word in edgeways. And so, my masters, let’s to business.

Can Good Writing Be Taught? A good deal of controversy seems to be aroused in the South over the matter of teaching -writing in our public schools, and heated arguments were aroused over the question as to whether a sloping or vertical hand was the best. That is a matter of uninteresting detail into which I don’t intend to drag my worst enemy; the point which perturbs me is, whether ■writing can really be taught at all. That spelling cannot I am certain. The bad speller is born, and he can no more change his amazing capacity for blunder than our old friend the leopard his spots. Similarly with writing—l don’t believe the genuine bom bad writer can be changed practise he never so assiduously, and heaven knows I should know, for have I not been the “bote noir” of compositors ever since I commenced (futile profession) scribbling for bread and butter; and to be the enemy of the compositor in a newspaper office is a very awful thing indeed. Moreover, bad writing is hereditary, like gout and other evil things; and it is useless to interfere with heredity. But the bud writer has his consolations. He may, day after day, be made humiliatingly aware that he cannot decipher his own caligraphy, but no one can if he be also a bad speller, which is probable, taunt him in that direction. He can cover up his track* with an ease which the unfor-

tunate perfect caligrapliist can only envy when his orthography breaks hopelessly down. It has been thought that phonetic spelling might help matters along, but this is not the case. Outside the comic papers and literature of the “Bad Boy’s Diary” stamp the bad speller never by any chance spells phonetically. He goes the longest way round as a matter of course, and the more superfluous letters he can import into a moderately simple word the better be is pleased. Why, once upon a time there was a man. But that, as the great Kipling says, is another story, and I mind me too a long one.

Inter-Unlverslty Carnivals. That really important and interesting function, the Inter-University Carnival, is being held in Auckland this year, and representatives from the various University Colleges of the colony have met each other in friendly rivalry, in sports, tennis, etc., and last, but not least, debate. This, which is only the second fixture of its kind, deserves public support and recognition to a greater extent than might on the surface appear. These annual gatherings must tend to popularise the Universities concerned, to create greater outside interest in the institutions, and to rub down some cf that priggishness which must almost infallably attach to the students of a nonresidential college. A graduate, or

under grad., who is very much of a lion at his own college, may in these tourneys of wit and skill find that he is after all “very small potatoes and few to the heap,” as the American humourist has it (the metaphors are somewhat mixed, but, then, ’tis after dinner), and the knowledge cannot but do him good. The meeting must, too, tend to foster that spirit of esprit de corps which is, after all, the chiefest aim and object of a University training, and which, from lack of residential conveniences, is so slight a characteristic of ’Varsity life in the colony.

Spiritualism In High Places. The cable man is an innocent and ingenious creature, whose real, or, assumed, ignorance of matters of common notoriety always reminds me of a certain Lord Chief Justice who in a famous cause celebre, years ago, where Connie Gilchrist’s name was mentioned, paralysed the entire court by asking, in tones of bland ignorance, “And who is Connie Gilchrist?” that now haughty aristocrat’s name then being the most talked of woman in London as a very daring and sprightly dancer. For instance, we were this week informed that spiritualists in Berlin have been prosecuted, and then it is mentioned as something novel that gross superstition prevails in aristocratic and high social circles. Of course, it does; and so it does in London, and in such social circles as we possess, so it does here in New Zealand. Spiritualism is a form of foolery whose charm is perennial, and the most extraordinary people fall under the ban every now and then. The average newspaper correspondent and reporter is usually voted a pretty sceptical individual and a “hard case” generally, and assuredly it’s not the fault of his profession if he’s not; but one of the most fatuous and enthusiastic victims to the spiritualism fraud I remember was a •Parliamentary reporter of the greatest ability. Many Wellingtonians, and not a few M.H.B.’s and M.L.C.’s, will remember the desperate seriousness with which a certain gallery reporter used to conduct seances and manifestations on Sundays and “off evenings” more years ago than some of us care to remember. Many will recall the simple expedients —a flash of powder in the keyhole of the carefully darkened room, or even a carefully thrown boot, by which the usually wide-awake pressman was again and again imposed upon, and how cheerfully he swallowed the most egregious mental concoctions gotten up for his benefit. No

one knows the stories of that time better than the Hon. W. Swanson, who was one of the ringleaders of the fun. At Home, too, when the writer was there on a visit only a few years since, there were families of culture and education who were imposed upon by the most ludicrously obvious frauds, and who would merely get angry and scornful if one attempted the almost hopeless task of opening their eyes. No; spiritualism in high places is as old as the hills, and will probably exist long after what are hills now are mere island peaks or rocks submerged beneath some ocean. + + *

Good Friday and Sports. There is, I judge, from letters received and exchange newspapers, a considerable amount of what is usually euphemistically termed “feeling” in Christchurch over the decision of a certain cycling club to hold their sports on Good Friday. Religious subjects are avoided by all well-mannered folk in mixed company, especially in the afterdinner hour, but this is rather a different matter. Some one has blundered! So much is evident, for the cyclists aver that it was the original manner of the approach made to them that raised their ire and made them adamant, but one would at the same time have imagined that seeing how many feelings they were obviously hurting they would have seen the wisdom of a graceful surrender. For the whole gist of the matter seems to me to rest here. Is one in such a case openly and aggressively offending the feelings of the majority, or even of a respectable (in numbers, understand me) minority? If so, one should be suppressed, for one is acting in an anti-social manner, and once tolerate that and chaos comes again. If you can play tennis, croquet, golf, bowls, on a Sunday, or such a day as Good Friday, without obtruding the fact on the minds of people likely to suffer therefrom, you have, in my opinion, a perfect right to do so; it is, then, a matter between yourself and your inner convictions of what is right and wrong; but once you advertise such play, once you invite the public, and charge admission fees for witnessing such sports and pastimes, you seem to cross the line. A logician would probably object to my premises, but the world is ruled by sentiment, and not by logic; and most people will agree that the action of the Christchurch cyclists in this matter has been, to say the least of it, regrettable. Still, we all know the case with which one “damns the sins that they’ve no mind to,” and some chance reader may care to break a lance on the other side. If so, I shall be happy to oblige. Excuses are always easy to find. The writer well remembers youthful Sundays in Ireland. Noah’s ark was the only permitted toy; but tin soldiers held temptation irresistible. Consequently enter upon us youngsters paterfamilias, finding Noah and his animals between four lines of tin cavalry infantry, exclusive of a ten shilling battalion of mounted artillery some 50 strong, and the pride of the nursery. “What!” thunders the outraged parent, “did I not say no soldiers on Sunday?” “Ye-es, sir (we called our fathers sir in

those days. Ye-es; but —but — (with sudden inspiration) in these times we didn’t like to trust poor old Noah to church without an escort.” Thus easily does the Devil serve his youngest recruits, outrages were f he order of tha day, and we ourselves drove to church under escort. Wherefore did authority smile and presently retreat to its smoking-room with chuckling remarks as to “young divils.”

* + * Bound to Oet On. Talking of yarns, one was told me this week of a certain office boy, who will probably end by being Premier. A gentleman calling on a well-known solicitor, while waiting in the reception room, was attracted by the manner of the small attendant, and started a random conversation. “And how much do yon earn a week, my boy?” he inquired. “A pound,” said the youngster with avidity. Being shown into the solicitor’s office just then the visitor’s surprise found vent in words. “Mighty bright boy you have there, Mr. R , to be getting a pound a week,” he remarked. “A pound be hanged,” said Mr. R ; “he gets five bob.” “But he told me just now you were giving him £ 1 a week,” persisted the gentleman'. “Nonsense,” said Mr. R , and touched the bell. “Billy,” he said, “did you tell this gentleman I was paying you £ 1 a week ?” “No, sir.” “You didn’t? Well, what did you say?’ “I said I earned it,” was the prompt and stout, rejoinder. ■fr 4- -fc A Sinister Subject. From gay to grave again. Try and keep off it how one will, one sinister, sad subject still remains first in the thoughts of us all. Other topics may banish it for a time, and there is light and laughter in between whiles, but every now and then the memory of that great and brave soldier, Sir Hector Macdonald, comes forth to still merriment like Banquo’s ghost, and, Macbeth-like, wo murmur, “Then comes my fit again.” Was he hounded to death, or did he die dishonoured? These are questions which haunt one uneasily and intermittently, and even if the worst comes to the worst, it will be better to know it than dwell for ever in the dreadful uncertainty and atmosphere of the grossest of insinuations and suppositions. Looking at the face of the man, looking at his record, and remembering the recent revelations of the Guards hounding conscientious officers out of the army, is it not more reasonable to suppose a shameless conspiracy in certain quarters rather- than impute actions to a man for which shame has no word? Both propositions seem too horribly unreal, yet one of them is and must be a certainty. I think, though the result cannot be unpleasant which ever way the verdict goes, that all will sympathise with those friends whom it is cabled will provide funds for, and insist upon, a searching inquiry.