PASSING NOTES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26619, 15 November 1947, Page 2

PASSING NOTES

Critics are all ready-made.— Byron. There has lately been a local discussion on the nature and function of criticism. In a town of the size of Dunedin a critic cannot achieve the impersonal detachment that is possible in London, Paris and other large cities. There is the possibility always of personal propinquity, which can hardly fail of influencing judgment. Further, the question for a sincere critic that is difficult to answer is how far in a town of this size he should apply universal standards or how far make what might be called topographical allowances. Necessarily the artists are limited in number—hence the highest standards cannot be expected. But if excessive adulation is accorded to feeble performances,' local patriotism may easily puff up a false conceit of excellence. On the other hand, the critic, if he really wishes to be helpful, must not so far disparage the effofts to discourage those making them. Again, it is sometimes said that a critic should be an expert exponent of what he criticises. This is a mistake. Bernard Shaw criticised not only drama and literature, but also music and art —yet I fancy Shaw made no name as a musician or painter. One mistake I have frequently observed in young singers and instrumentalists —they attempt work that is beyond them, work which reveals their defects where less ambitious choice would reveal their excellence. If I were a critic, I think I should overpraise. Who shall criticise the critics? Sport that wrinkled care derides.— Milton: L’Allegro. The questionnaire sent to 95 British newspapers reveals that readers are mainly interested in sport, sordid tragedies, and in a minor though growing degree in woild affairs. The interest in sport is universal,, and it is not new. The greatest writers of antiquity depict chariot races, boxing, wrestling, running and boat racing. And in later days even the austere Milton in “Paradise Lost” tells how the unarmed youth of heaven exercised heroic games in the presence of the glorious angel Ithuriel. The play instinct from which true sport derives is one of the most wholesome and attractive of all the spontaneous urges in the human equipment. But the danger is excess. “ Nothing too much, said the Delphic inscription—good counsel then, now and always. Other dangers are in professionalism and commercialism. It must be a very unplayful business to be a professional tennis player. In fact, some leading soi-disant amateurs are camouflaged professionals subsidised by sellers of sporting requisites. True sport is a protection against the strain of living; it throws off the shackles of business, it gives elasticity to the bodv, joyousness to the mind, brings out qualities of courage, skill and good nature, and /perhaps best of all brings into relief that moral quality which is known as “playing the game.” A true lover of sport is generous; he is more ready to cede a point than to demand one. Sport on this level is a boon, and if enjoyed by the public in that spirit it is entitled to its place in the press. . \

In sports and journeys men are known.—Old Proverb. In the palmy days of the Olympic Games the noblest in the land were proud to win the crown of wild olive, to have hymns sung and statues ejected in their honour. One famous runner, Astylus, twice victor at Olympia allowed the prince of Syracuse to bribe him to enter as a Syracusan. His indignant compatriots tore down his statue and made of his house a prison. But despite my reverence for the. ancients, their general sporting standards, as revealed in their poets, were far below ours; for, apart from the great festivals of the national games, the chivalrous spirit in victory and generous acknowledgment in defeat—two fine concomitants of our amateur sports—these are too often absent. An amateur is literally a lover,” and that is the true sporting spirit—to be a lover of the game. The perfect amateur must be a gentleman—or a lady. Arnold of Rugby amongst the first of moderns saw the educational value of sport, coming upon it, like Becquerel upon radioactivity and Fleming upon penicillin, almost by accident. When in the first school cricket match in 179 b Westminster beat Eton by laying on the willow, the headmaster ®f Eton next day beat his team again by laying on the birch —the team had been absent without leave. Our Rugby is thought to be descended from a fierce game played in Sparta where one team of boys kicking and biting strove tb push their opponents into the river. What a glorious theme for press reporters! But, alas! there was no press in those days.

Then let us pray that come it

may.—Burns. The questionnaire above notes increased interest in world affairs. Human society has progressed from a family association, through tribal grouping, up to the nations we know to-day. This progress demanded constant readaptation of thought, action, institution, education, and compromise as well as war. An emergent evolution is at work. We see in the clash of opinions over Palestine, India, Greece, Russia, the Balkans the fermentation that precedes a new ebullition—let us hope this time a peaceful one. The first European to profess a disdain for his native city-state was. I believe, the cynic Diogenes, an interesting but repulsive gentleman—he announced himself as a cosmopolitan, a world-citizen. Next came the Stoics about 300 B.C.—cosmopolitan in a far nobler sense than that of the sordid Cynic. Their finest products were the slave Epictetus and the emperor Marcus Aurelius, who both wrote books that are still popular. Then came Christianity with its assertion of the Fatherhood of God and the necessary corollai'y, the Brotherhood of Man. But old prejudices existed. The Greeks regarded Ml others as barbarians, the Hebrews were the Chosen of the Lord; St. Paul proudly asserted “ civis Romanus sum.” So far no philosophy and no religion has obliterated the barriers between nations. But there are hopeful omens. The germ of a world-conscience has appeared—strangely enough a co-eval of the atom bomb. Have we then the bane and the antidote at one time?

The great Australian adjective.— Common Talk. Junagadh is in the news—formerly with Pakistan, now with India. This place first interested me when 20 years ago I was asked to review a book on Pope’s “ Rape of the Lock ” by an Indian professor of English in that place. Thirty pages were given to the poem, over 400 to the explanation, one of which reads: “She vowed apocalyptic vengeance against the bloody washout” So Australia cannot monopolise the unpleasant adjective, which in its expletive sense originally was, and often is still, an adverb. New Zealand, too, and Britain could dispute the claim. In London a Cockney larded his discourse so freely with the expletive that a listener said, “Can’t you tell that story without that He complied, but on finishing said. “There you are, but it spoiled the (expletive) yarn.” (The Greek word “haematic” will be much pleasanter, though not so convincing in argument as our full-blooded explosive.) There was of course, the normal adjective formed from “ blood ” quite common in Shakespeare. I learn that over 60 vears ago one of Dunedin’s three Shakespeare societies was playing “ Macbeth.” King Duncan, pointing out through the wings, where a wounded soldier is to be conveyed in on a stretcher, says, “What bloody man is that”? But the bearers could not get through to the stage. The King again exclaimed as stated. No go! No appearance! Then, as in “ Excelsior,” a voice from the pit rang through the startled air, “ Where is the i haematic) man”? Audience convulsed, play ruined—a pity, as the players had rehearsed nobly. But “ Where is the (haematic) man ” beat Shakespeare hollow. Such are the reflections prompted by Junagadh. Civis.