As One Woman To Another

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 32, 24 February 1928, Page 11

As One Woman To Another

My Dear Elisabeth: ) "JAP SHAN BARGS!" This is not a Russian oath nor the wail of a lost soul. ’Tis but a eryptie inscription that lately caught the eye of the wayfarer. Pondering its meaning, after long travail I reached unrayelment. No announcement this of warring submarines or midnight marauders; merely a jog to the consciousness of the passing pedestrian that Japanese Shantung silk was going, going cheap. To what base use is put the sweetness of the tongue of Shakespeare’s England! Alas, that so many decently educated and worthy people positively prefer words that are ugly, phrases hideously contracted, sometimes with a little American slang thrown in for luck, the whole combining to produce a truly terrible tour de force. -Exceeding English in character, and admirable in skill and sincerity, are the painting of Gyneth Richardson, now on exhibition at the McGregor Wright Gallery, in Lambton Quay, Wellington. Clear and cool are these lovely landscapes, with their gleams of sunshine, and of a eolour and draughtmanship that make one marvel, reflecting that a few years back this young painter, little more than a child herself, sat sketching bouncing babies at Orien- tal Bay. Among many poems in paint calculated to convert some of us into kleptomaniacs, was a harbour in Cornwall-whither sooner or later wend their way most people who paint-very ‘lovely in gentle colouring of blue and cream and buff; also a Lych Gate at Panhurst, small in size and low of tone, thedrawing of a striking fidelity. An Old Market in Gloucestershire holds great appeal, its singular clearness of atmosphere calculated to bring peace on the hottest of hustling days. Two sketches of St. Ives ravish the eye; whilé a. small painting of Henry James’ house, at Rye, is correct, precise, and gentle as some of his own lovely sentences. A russet and blue street in beautiful Sussex attracted many lovers of that country we call Home, nostalgia for which has found jerky expression from a modern poet:

-_ If I might see you yet! See you onee more and for a moment forgetSee you once more and then (England, England!) Before I remember again, Die! , Towards the clamorous presentday penchant for harsh streaks and stridency, so exasperating to the taste of many people, Miss Richardson shows no tendency. This artist will go far, with her concentrated vision, her talent and her youth. Only as yet is the dawning of artistic life in this Dominion: infinite possibility lies in the future. The generation now in the first flush of endeavour and tentative achievement mill hew out its own niche in the building of the temple, and it is not difficult to predict that the work ,of Gyneth Richardson will hold high place. Appreciation of beauty is a gift of the gods, a bounty from the fairies to the baby in its cradle; a subtle emanation of personality, some wireIess of the spirit, vouchsafed to a few, denied to those of denser perception. It may be that this clear outlook, combined with the capacity to work in its light, is the highest form of sanity. In a strange, frank book recently published, "Reluctantly Told," by Jane Hillyer, are some illuminating passages. The writer suffered a mental breakdown, and tells the tale of her unhappy illness with truth and courage. Simply and plainly she sets forth the causes that led to it, chief among them being an unhealthy habit of introspection, that morbid attitude of mind that feeds upon its own disability, limitations of environment, and blows of circumstance. With force and clarity she traces the course of incipient melancholia, which culminates in the darkness of mental disorder, for a time reason apparently being in shreds. Gradually, however, through wise restorative treatment, aided by a love of the "good brown earth," little growing grasses and "flowers in the crannied wall," came health of mind and body, and joy in the life of the normal world of work and nature and

friends was restored. Of the making of books there is no end, but surely this revelation of intimate experience is unique. Laments of eloquence and sincerity have been said and sung for that great soldier whose spirit passed from our world to the plaudits of his. fellow-men and the love of many regiments. "Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the sea," ‘William Penn reassured’ his generation. And now that the tribute of the trumpets is stilled, the Last Post ‘sounded for Haig of Bemersyde, it is hoped that his Great Memorial will materialise in Homes for those ‘ex-service men whom he so loyally held in mind. Not in monument, not in tablets, should be the memorial to this modest and noble-hearted soldier: but a Roof, and Food and Shelter for those who are greatly in need: We owe more tears To those dead men than time shall see us pay. And we owe more than tears to the living who fought for us and many of whom have played so gamely a losing game. I am told that many of our own men are in need, discharged by the Government, with no pension, no work, no nothing, except a remembrance, now turned to bitterness, of the tumult and the fighting that: are past, the waving banners, the cheers and the promises of 1914. Words, words! | One who recently traversed the roads of Otago and South Canterbury laments the ugliness and inadequacy of some of the war memorials. By contrast, Oamaru to some of its trees has attached name-plates; part of an admirable scheme to beautify the town and at the same time accord lasting remembrance to those who rest in "silence and eternal sleep." A Celtic Cross of grey granite, well placed at the corner of a road near Timaru, is arresting and beautiful; and the Bridge of Remembrance in Christchurch a big conception. Dunedin’s tall column commands admiration in its austerity and beauty; while some of the smaller

memorials here and there strike a simple and poignant note. In a large warehouse In Christchurch is to be observed an exquisitely carved. tablet, the roll of honour enclosed in imperishable brass of rarely beautiful design: and in the Training College of the Cathedral Town, halfway up ‘the staircase glows: and glimmers a | ‘Window, the clear and shining col- | pitas literally throwing a light upon ‘the path of those who climb, on which is inscribed two lines from Laurence Binyon’s great tribute: At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them. All of which goes to show how slack, how lamentably apathetic in the erection of a War Memorial, has the Capital City proved itself. Your

ANNABEL

LEE