WILLIAM AND DORA

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 31, 29 April 1927, Page 10

WILLIAM AND DORA

(Written for THE SUN.) DORA WILCOX, sweet singer of Maori land song, has carried off the “Sydney Morning Herald's” prize for the Canberra ode. It is noteworthy, too, that another erstwhile New Zealander. David McKeee Wright, of • Bulletin” fame, was second. It is some years since Dora Wilcox was in New' Zealand. The widow, then, of Professor Hamelius, a distinguished Belgian, I well recall how irritated she became with the obnoxious alien restrictions. Extraordinary as it may seem, we forced our best-known pdec to report at each and every police station where she visited. All the more vefnarkable, too, when the British authorities, in recognition of the splendid war services of this New Zealand-born woman, lifted any such restrictions. New' Zealand, even yet, is apt to frown upon the stranger. Perhaps our insularity has something to do with that. Nowadays, Dora Wilcox is Mrs. William Moore, wife of the doyen of Aus-

tralian art critics. Mellow, is the only w ord that can adequately describe William —mellowed and kindly, the possessor of a nobly chiselled brow that Gilbert delighted to model. And in his keen blue eyes the flame of youth is still burning brightly. William Moore is the young artists’ best friend in Syuney, be he painter, singer, or scribbler. For years he was the “Daily Telegraph’s” valued critic. Of late he has occupied the Sydney editorial chair of “Art in Australia.” His book, a history of the Commonwealth’s artistic development, is due later in the year. When last we met, William and Dora Moore had just returned from revelling in the old colonial homes of Tasmania. William had been gathering material for his book. When in Sydney, Mrs. Moore devotes a good deal of her time to the literary section of the Lyceum Club, of which she is vice-president. Her

home at Manly is a rendevous for Sydney’s writing and painting fraternity. New Zealanders, for Dora Wilcox never forgets that she hails from Christchurch, have a special welcome. Sometimes she may be seen quietly reading on the Manly boat, a surreptitious cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Dora loves colour. Depend upon it, her hat is some combination which forms an admirable background for her snowy locks. In all probability, too, she will have some kaleidoscopic effect on her bag. Dora and William Moore, happy mor_ tals, wander through life hand in hand. A thousand common interests bind them. Their friendship is something rare and beautiful to see. Maybe you will see them on carnival night at one of Sydney’s bestknown dance halls —Dora, her brown eyes deep with the wisdom that only the years can bring, watching the throng through horn-rimmed pincenez, a sedate little figure in an Early Victorian gown. No art exhibition is complete without the Moores. William, upon whose shoulders the sympathetic fingers of time are still as yet ever so gently pressing, will pause for a moment, notebook in hand, to consult his wife. For the world at large to Dora Wilcox holds many interests. To quote Rupert Brooke, for her it is a lawn Spacious and full of sunlit dancingplaces, And laughter, and music; and among the flowers The gay childhearts of men, and the child faces. —ERIC RAMSDEN.