* “ I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains." —Longfellow. ( From Ashburton Herald , September 25. ) There are not wanting signs that all life has not left the Ashburtonian mussel. One down, t’other come on. No sooner have one swarm of auctioneers hived off for fresh fields and pastures new than a miliar. Mr. Thomas Quill, too, has left the “ bar” and has taken to the platform. I have just left his first sale, having heard his introductory address (pathetic, crossed with pluck), and seen him decide the immediate future of an army of pigs and other live stock, and dispose of a miscellaneous assortment of general sella hies. My friend Tom has found his proper vocation, I can assure you, and I must compliment him. I had no idea he had such an auctioneering “ go” in him, and the crowd that heard his energetic urgency to-day seemed to be just as agreeably taken aback as I was. Then, Matson, Cox, and Go. have no idea that Ashburton is a sinking ship. They’ve put up an arrangement ’tother side the railway that looks big enough for St. Paul’s cathedral, and I have no doubt it will be more value financially to them and to this district than the said religious edifice will ever be. Last, but not least, youngest yet oldest (as an auctioneer) comes Friend Harrison, who still pegs away with unabated vigor and energy—his flag still flying, and his voice still clear. Long may all their flags wave and their tongues wag, their hammers rattle and their sale rooms be thronged with good people of Ashburton, and long may thu good people of Ashburton have plenty of money to bid with and buy.
Sandy is turning out his tartans, rubbing up his.dirks and claymores, and all his braw relics of the time when his “ foot was on his native heath.” I met old Donald Macpherson yesterday. He was full of the Scotch concert. That is, I was able tofindthat out after hisexcitementhad died off a little ; for he was so full of his national rapture that he couldn’t speak a word of anything but Gaelic for full ten minutes. When he came back from memories of the Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. Land of the mountain and the flood, he knew no subject worth talking of but the “ coancert,” and its attendant display of tartans, highland “ brawns,” plaintiff music, wild music, pipe “ springs,” and a language as ragged as the rocks. “ Eli, maun, 'bit it’s graun !” He forced two tickets upon me, telling me that now was my chance to get a seat on the hem of Heaven, for the upper choir was sure to sing to the bagpipes ! Captain Jackson Barry 1 How are the mighty fallen. The friend of Sir Julius and the pet lecturer of England on topics Zelandiac pelted with rotten eggs by a Timaru crowd ! Oh, dear. The Captain can’t bo led to believe that he is a great buffoon, but the smell of those eggs ought to keep him in mind of the idea that Timaru has of him. Mr. F. P. O’Reilly is “up” on the “ Art of Memory.” He has such a long memory that, like the Yankee, he has to tie a knot on the end of it to carry it about with him. But he has a tolerable stretch of recollection. He read over a play-bill a yard long once to me one day. An hour afterwards he repeated it in full, and not a word askew. Fact, I assure you. And on Tuesday he will bear out by his lecture what I tell you. Fancy a man remembering the terrible characters of the Chinese language as clearly as he does the twentysix letters of the English alphabet. Don’t promise anything rashly to Mr. O’Reilly, thinking he will forget. He knows not the meaning of the word. Chispa.
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