THE YOUNG IDEA

Southland Times, Issue 21097, 31 May 1930, Page 13

THE YOUNG IDEA

A LITTLE SCOTCH

(By

Susan Lee.)

It certainly looks as if Invercargill is going to have something to be proud of yet, no matter what it is called, or how, though I would just like to say that the suggestion that it should be called Inverkegville seems to me most unsuitable for a city of its well-known statis in the community. I mean to say, Scotch pronunciation or not, its thirst has definitely been proved not Scotch, and I don’t think there should be any confusion about this in the question of its name. As a matter of fact until that part of the controversy is cleared up, I really don’t feel inclined to recognise that other adjective which the wearers of the kilt prefer in reference to themselves. I mean to say, it’s actually up to the Scotch part of our community to remove any misunderstanding about that absolutely at once. Of course, any broad-minded girl like me knows that if you give a dog a bad name, it’ll stick to it; and that when Juliet Capulet cried out to Romeo, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet; —Romeo, doff thy name” she was probably in deadly seriousness about it, anyway just as earnest as the respected councillors who wanted to avert the disastrous effect of “Invercargill” on the ear, and just as earnest as that sensitive business-man who heard the news of the controversy as if a dagger had pierced his heart! I mean to say, there’s patriotism for you, bighearted, pulsing patriotism, and no one could ever doubt the sincerity of their motives. It’s not a little thing to stir the patriotic soul-stuff of us Southlanders, and it needed a brave heart to set the ball rolling. but I don’t seem to have finished about the -Montague-Capulet row, from which there is a grave and arresting moral to be learnt, for despite Juliet’s brave words, and Romeo’s eager acceptance of them in the true lover-like manner, just think what happened to them. Not only is it a warning to all young people to respect the quarrels of their parents, but it is a terrible cautionary tale to all those people who might be inclined to take names lightly. What happened to them ? I repeat (this is for effect, and musn’t be taken as an indication that I don’t know the answer). They killed themselves, and though it made a terribly dramatic gesture, you can’t help regarding it as so much heroics, because there really wasn’t any need. Anyway, it served as a lesson to us people in Invercargill, and we’d be turning our backs on the face of Providence if we didn’t regard the present matter seriously. Of course anybody with any sense at all would have seen the weakness of Juliet’s argument without waiting for the final crash, because that which we call a rose, if it were called a dandelion, would certainly smell just as sweet; but who would know about it? The mere fact of its being called a dandelion would prevent people from investigating it. And take that which we call a pole-cat for instance, which seems as if it is most offensive to one’s olfactory (I’ve been trying to use that word correctly for over a month) organ; yet as a skunk collar who would remember its hateful origin; indeed who would want to. I would like to suggest, too, that it makes quite a lot of difference to that which is born a female whether she is called a lady or a woman. I mean to say. doesn’t it. I think Mr Shaun O’Sullivan has complained that the present name of our city doesn’t lend itself to having an immortalizing ode written about it, and all I can say is that it’s just like a poet to be so selfish, especially when he’s already used the only two available rhymes. I mean to say, it’s all very well to have made the quite important discovery that “darg” means “the day’s work,” although “gargle,” on the other hand, should be thrown out on the same grounds as Inverkegville; but when he goes further and uses both rhymes in a limerick, which is as far removed from an immortal ode as Invercargill is from the North Pole, to say the least, well, it’s most inconsiderate. And anyway, I think perhaps we’re very lucky not to lay ourselves more open to poets, because with them you never know quite where you are, and it is not altogether proved that they do much for a place when all’s said and done. I don’t remembering hearing that Shakespeare wasted any time looking for a rhyme for Stratford. And what rhymes with Dunedin?

But, as I was saying, it certainly looks as if this city is going to have something to be proud of yet. No, I’m not referring to the fact that there are plans afoot to provide us with fair theatres running simultaneously. After all, why shouldn’t we have four theatres—we’re a city. But have you been round to the Civic Theatre lately and seen the cute little vermilion and brown Scotch thistles decorating the bright green balustrades? At least they’re shaped like thistles, and in a Scottish community they are so symbolic, you know. And wasn’t it the 'cutest thing to arrange their colouring so, to put you off the scent of the thistle, you might say. Because of course everyone knows it’s the height of modernism to be obscure, and the essence or symbolism, and all that kind of thing. Only I do hope I’m not going to be disappointed, and that the ushers really are going to .wear kilts of the same tartan as the hangings and curtain. Oh, and couldn’t they sell haggis during the interval? If Sydney boasts of its harbour, perhaps it’s not without justification. And what’s to prevent us from going round asking visitors, “Have you seen our Theatre?”