THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 134, 8 June 1932, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear M.A.T.,—Re your par of June 3 concerning famous gold specimens obtained at Hill End, N.S.W., the correct names of the discoverers are bcycrs and """BIG NUGGET. Hoitermann, both Germans, and the value is •riven variously at from £10,000 to £20,000. Mv mother lived next door to Holtcrmann, and her reminiscences of the famous held, particularly of the struggles of Beyers and Holtcrmann, would make interesting reading to a "eneration that knows not what a gold rusn means. Bevers, as you stated, became a pauper, but" a dishonest lawyer made restitution on his deathbed, and Beyers became rich again, then again a pauper. Holtcrmann also had Parliamentary ambitions, but went to Sydney after his defeat and built a mansion at North Shore, which earned the title of "Holtermann's Folly," finally ending up as a pauper and sharing the same fate as Beyers and many of> the golden men of old. I have a photograph of the famous specimen, witn the discoverers (including my uncle) standing behind it. The value is given and a photograph of the claim inset. —T.A.C.

"Monte": You know of the Dunmow Flitch —that quaint old custom at Dunmow, in Essex, of awarding a flitch of bacon to the married couple who have not had EGGS IS EGGS, a domestic difference for

three hundred and sixtyfive days, which, of course, includes Sundays. Now this prize would never be won if l the competing couples included eggs —hen or duck —in their dailv sustenance. Like the popular song, ".[ Do Like an Fug With My Tea," but it is too wearying and'the cooking of the embryo chook creates more bad feeling than a submarine or a Fokker aeroplane did in the. Great War. Of course, I get the egg —sometimes drinkable, sometimes hard enough to spoil the best denture (I love that word). On Sunday I told the sharer of my home and the depression that I would cook the darn thing myself. Took the egg saucepan, filled it with cold water, and, when it had come to the boil, put the edible gift of the domestic hen in the water, set my watch for four minutes, and as a further check turned the egg-timer upside down. Time was called, and with tea and bread and butter I sat mo down. Egg cooked just right; only a little care needed; so simple. My wife said nothing, only smiled in a tired way. I tca'd on bread and butter. Out of ten eggs in the basket I had chosen the only duck egg. I loathe duck eggs.

Politicians, preachers, pressmen and protagonists, dipping into the stream of English pure and undefilcd, come across words they pet thereafter on every CONCRETE. unsuitable occasion.

Among the pets, which include "overhead charges," is "concrete." Heading diurnal literature, one knows that one may have a concrete church, a concrete road, a concrete understanding or concrete proposals. Jean Crapaud, faced with the shocking ordeal of> mastering limpid English, would be at a loss to justify the fact that a man could either make a concrete bridge or a concrete proposal. There is, of course, some email relation between the two, for a concrete bridge is most assuredly based on sand, and concrete proposals are frequently built on the same. Concrete proposals infer amalgamated thought, suggesting that men of sand (in the American sense) have unified their piercing intellects for the benefit of mankind. Mr. Smith (or Jones or Brown or Robinson) is in error in assuming that any proposal he can make is a concrete one. Mixed thought is as necessary to concrete proposals as mixed sand, pebbles, cement, lime and what not are necessary for a concrete road. One understands that while at Ottawa our statesmen will make concrete proposals. They will, it is believed, carefully study the Vancouver concrete bridge before doing so. We want something stable, eternal, monolithic, colossal.

The restoration by an English soldier to a New Zealand soldier after sixteen years of a Bible picked up on the field of battle recalls

vividly the even more reTHE LOST BOOK, mote past and more ancient Bibles. One lias never been able to understand the attitude of the. numerous colonial soldiers who brought Boer family Bibles back during the years 1899 to 1903. It is possible the idea was less one of loot than of salvaton of the volumes, for it often happened that the house which had contained the. Book was burnt in the way of business, and thus the house's chief treasure was saved. These old Bibles were often of stupendous size, and one has frequently wondered how in a day when transport was so precarious and there were no mechanised wagons Fernleaf got his Bible from the farm to the. base and from the base to the farm in New Zealand. Such a book almost invariably contained the vital statistics of a family through the generations from the time of the voortrekkers, and in many cases the entries had been begun in Holland, thus making the records priceless to the owners. During the last few years conscience has pricked some of the casual collectors of rare Books, and many have been returned to families or officials in South Africa. There remain, however, in some Now Zealand farmhouses Dutch Bibles which Mrs. Cockey and the children cannot read and names of ancient Hollanders and Africanders they cannot possibly have any interest in. Perhaps grandpa, who nobbled the books in the far-off days, will send them back even yet.

Dr. J. S. Elliott, the Wellington medical ! man, is possibly remembered by others besides 1 his fellow medicos for the unique and inspiring address he gave at a niediSOME PICTURES, cal conference some time since. The absence of any kind of bullswool made it a treasure. Dr. Elliott's habit of getting down to essentials is the result of an incurable curiosity. He wants to see how the wheels go round, and he is as keenly interested in the bit ofi Crown Derby in a patient's house as he is in Luke Fildes' celebrated picture of "The Doctor." Ho quizzically notes that the doctor in the picture is resting Jiis elbow on the dying child, a thing no doctor would do, and that the medicine bottle is far too large. He notes also that the doctor has too much hair and has a beard as well —things few modern medicoes are guilty of. Luke Fildes, who came to his death at an advanced age in a niotor smash, chose himselfi for the figure of the doctor and evidently refrained from getting his hair cut and his beard shorn. By the w-ay, in an excellent movie seen in New Zealand there was included a remarkably faithful tableau with living people, of this celebrated picture exceedingly well done by Americans. Another picture known to many and which caused doctors to comment was "Sentence of Death," which showed very movingly a doctor with a young man patient —of a high born and notably intellectual type, no doubt marked down for eminence. The grave doctor is presumably telling the unfortunate T.B. lad that he is doomed. The medical point of objection, of course, is "Should a doctor tell?" Perhaps you don't remember the picture of Lord Roberts sitting in an African farmhouse, nursing the farmer's little girl? At the door stands at attention a young officer bearing a dispatch. The great P.M. is saying, "Can't you sec I'm busy?" Artisticallv'the picture was good, but the idea of a * field-marshal neglecting his business in a critical matter infuriated military opinion. The picture was withdrawn.