This Freedom!

Some Reflections In Superannuated Retirement.

(By “William Goat”).

EVERY now and then some simple Austral-Papuan gets up on his hind legs and bewails the fact that he is de nied the right to vote, the right to trial by jury; to Arbitration Court awards, unemployment relief, child endowment, preference to unionists, and every other social and political “right” enjoyed by his fellow-citizens on the Southern side of the Coral Sea.

If never seems to occur to him that, so far as his strictly personal liberties are concerned, he is free as the wind.

Colonial Office despotism—even its Papuan offshoot—is wholly benevolent.

What of New South Wales? And Sydney, her Queen City? The homing wanderer who has come to believe in the theory that Australia is the “freest” country in the world is startled to dis cover that, at almost every point where he attempts to live his normal life, he is thwarted by some footling law primarily designed to thrust tin-taber nacle moralities upon him.

Sydney, who once enticed her lovers with gay sorceries, wore vine leaves in her hair, and flaunted her saucy clothes with delicacy and grace has, within two decades become the dullest city on earth.

Her personality is that of the family pew-holder, the uncompromising pietist, the dyspeptic puritan who finds grace and beauty only in those things most depressing to the souls of men. The pleasures she offers to the visitor are the hectic amusements of the Methodist social; her public resorts are as provo cative as a church bazaar.

Virtue by legal enactment is the con suming ideal that enraptures the Syd ney of to-day.

Hence, her inextinguishable army of busybodies, with its passion for forming committees to discourage this and that; the irritating restrictions upon the hardy sinner who sees no harm in a “spot” or two after dusk; the wildly hilarious spectacle of Customs clerks become book censors; the stupid legal pottering about the length of swimming costumes and the lewd pastime of sun-bathing; the fiery controversies as to tea or cock tails for visiting broadcasters; the un ending argument concerning the wicked ness of folk who play games on Sun days. Hence, also, the frowsty Flossies who haunt the dark doorways of city buildings at night; and the horde of confidential gents whose “able ter win ready ter win and above orl, tryin’ tei win”, wheezed through loud-speakers, represents a means, of attaining riches without the necessity of work.

Hence, also, the dreary politicians who conduct the affairs of a great State as they would a village School of Arts; and the militant moralists and connois seurs, of naughtiness who, egged on by the silliest flapper press in the world, yearn hotly to flay alive all who refuse to applaud their sonorous platitudes.