“Whisky-Ruled Mentality.”

Another Open Letter to Mr. Vogan.

Dear Mr. Vogan.—The old ruse of dragging a herring across the trail often succeeds, and it is said that the best defence is a strong attack. I think both must have been in your mind when you penned the letter which appeared over your name in the P.I.M. of 22/2/33.

I can quite understand your getting “hot under the collar” at a mere trader questioning the truth of your statements, but you most certainly made a very bad choice of the dis tricts open to you when you wrote: “Bishop Newton can go with safety where nine out of ten of the modern reach-me-down business men would be knocked on the head in 24 hours.”

You neither uphold your statement, nor withdraw it. The readers of the P.I.M. will draw their own conclusions.

However, I am pleased to note that you appreciate my giving you the opportunity of “gassing” and that I “have your forgiveness.”

Anyone in these days of depression who can raise a wholesome laugh is a public benefactor. You qualify — however unintentionally—when you say my “witty criticisms are really a defence of whisky-drinking.”

Now, I’ve been called a “wowser” scores of times during the past 50 years, so you can quite imagine the change it is to be accused of the re verse. Judging by the shoals of leg pulling chits that are coming down the Bay, Samarai has not missed the joke, and I’m sure you won’t grudge it to the writers.

Like the Scotsman who was given claret, we are, I’m afraid, not getting any “forrader.” I suggest you stick to your text — Was your statement re this Division true ?

Is such a thing as a sober, straight forward trader, or plantation manager, unknown?

The first you made as a definite statement. The second, you imply over and over again. Wandering away into references about “dear old, wise, selfish Lord Chesterfield,” “flash bare knees,” “Eve, and her apple,” “the Dexters of the new generation” (who —by the way—isn’t guilty of the crime of youth, but about the same vintage as yourself) will never prove you right or wrong.

Faithfully yours,

Henry Dexter.

Milne Bay, Papua, E.D., 11/3/33.

Mr. Dexter’S Dexterity.

Mr, Vogan teas shown a copy of the above letter, and replies as follows: As I have not Mr. Dexter’s good for tune to be able to live peacefully in the pleasant coconut glades of restful Milne Bay, but have to travel about all over the Pacific, my correspondence is some what overwhelming. I am writing a book, also; and replying to inquiries that reach me from all over the world.

Mr. Dexter’s attack upon my view of the curse that whisky is, in the Tropics, reminds me of a funny little god-son of mine, who was “quite cross” with me when I last went to see certain old friends of mine who have produced him, “Dexter (we will call him) is very naughty this morning!” stated his pretty young mother. “Something he ate last night at the children’s party at Mrs. Milne’s, has unsettled his little tummy, I fancy!”

Sure enough, that same afternoon, my little god-son was almost his own bright, affectionate self again.

I have written for over 600 news papers, and several books; and no one is more painfully aware than I am, of how prone one is to error. But, in demonstrating against the damnable effect of whisky upon young men trying to live and work in such a climate as that which has produced Mr. Dexter’s explosive attack upon my ability as a writer and observer, I am seconded by the example of most men who have succeeded in the climate of New Guinea—as we called all of the island before the stupid and meaningless word “Papua” was invented by a witty foreigner.

True dexterity is not evinced by find ing fault with opinions merely; but in bringing new and valuable suggestions before a waiting public. I hope to meet Mr. Dexter some day on friendly terms. I am sorry to have touched him on a raw spot! But one cannot write a description of, say, “whisky-nog,” without introducing the spiritual por tion of it.

When I first went as artist-corres pondent to the wilds of Northern Queensland for the “Illustrated London News” in 1887, dear old Plummer, the doyen of newspaper men in this country then, said to me: “You seem a young ster who will take advice from an old

hand! Now, you will, where you’re going, either have to drink whisky like a fish—or be a total abstainer! If you’re an abstainer they’ll laugh at you.

But in twenty years’ time you will be able to laugh at them —if they’re still alive! ”

Of course, some of the old hands will bring forward cases like that of Boyd— son of Dr. Boyd of sugar-cane fame; and brother of dear old R.M.B., partner with the Whites of Newcastle, at Lucinda Point. Boyd drank at least one bottle of whisky a day, and often two.

Yet, when I first saw him at Twofold Bay, where he retired from Viti Levu, he was digging his garden at 84 years of age; and he read me a paragraph in the local “butter-wrap” without his spectacles. But altho’ this seems an argument in favour of alcoholic poison ing, he might (you never can tell!) have lived until now, to second my argu ment with Mr. Dexter, had he abstained to, say, half a bottle a day!

With a friendly and sympathetic wave of my dexter hand to your amusing correspondent, I must really get on with my European letter. Thanking you for your much appreciated permission to publish this screed in your admirable “P.I.M.,” which I hear of from all parts of the Pacific and South America.

I am., etc.,

Arthur J. Vogan,.

Sydney, April 15, 1933.

To the Editor.

Your correspondent, Mr. Vogan, seems to be a bad “guesser.’’ He re cently wrote something about the diocese of Bishop Newton. When his; error was pointed out by another cor respondent of yours, Mr. Dexter, Mr.

Vogan calmly ignores the correction and says that Mr. Dexter’s letter is “when analysed, a defence of heavy whisky-drinking.”

I can read plain English as well as the average person, but neither I, nor a dozen other persons to whom I have shown the letter in question, can find, a single word conveying the meaning that Mr. Vogan says he can find in it.

I’ve known Mr. Dexter for many years and relatives of mine have known him

for nearly a quarter of a century. Mr.

Vogan could not have made a worse “guess” had he searched the whole of the Pacific.

How Mr. Vogan—who pays flying visits to this Territory—can claim to have more knowledge of the conditions here than a man who spends 365 days a year among the natives, is another puzzle.

Mr. Vogan writes: —“The only value of old fogies, like myself, to later arrived humans is that our experi ences may serve as guidance.”

Surely it were better that guidance should be founded on truth.

I am, etc.,

Oldtimer.

Samarai, 18/3/33.