THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 47, 25 February 1935, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

New Plymouth, one of the most charming rural towns in Oceania, has had the wettest spin of its career. People who used to think

it an adventage to bob IN DEVON out of the office in Currie STREET. Street and catch a trout

practically at the back door are now dubious about having lovely little creeks burbling within sound of the typewriters. The time will come when urban streams must be controlled like a taxpayer or a New Zealand citizen who dares to laugh in the presence of a policeman. New Plymouth previously had its moments —particularly when the "Waitara wind" blew and the homing citizen could lean bard against it and not fall down. On occasions when creaks were behaving themselves a fog would take over the elements, and the midnight citizen would select a companion to go home with hand in hand. So palpable were these that a Navy searchlight thrown on Carrington Road would havo b-en <-qial to one rush'ight in a pannikin of water. New Plymouth J, score of years ago was on occasions slithery. There was the case of the midnight citizen who, going to his home through Pukekura Park —a gem of the first water—slid down a clay bank into the lovely lake and with some difficulty ultimately arrived home. On his arrival a wifely voice sleepily said, "That you, dad?" and dad said it was. "What sort of a morning?" "Oil, not too bad —just a bit damp." (Snores.) "You did get wet last night!" said the housewife in the morning, gazing at some garments. "By Jove, so I didi" aaid he. "It must have been raining."

Watching the local population with its walking stick, best tie and liard-hitter taking a fill of Sunday, and observing the ceaseless roll of motor cars with BETTER DAYS, their occupants worshipping the sun, one felt that the old world is going very well nowadays. Time was in Christendom when by far the large majority of the people would be working for the master seven days a week, all the week round, including Sunday, when the commercial pietists would f >ra y into their hats and declare "The poor ye have always with you." Time was when the British centurion said to one, ''Come and he cometh," and to another, "Go and he goeth," at any time of the night or day, Sunday or Moonday, Woden's Day or Frie's Day or Saturn's Day. All that has happened to give us blessed Sunday is that there has been a rush of brains to the head of a person here and there who wondered why work weeks were seven days long and fourteen hours each—and who has induced his fellows to view the thing from the same point of view. Sunday as a rest day hit the toiler in his imagination so keenly that he agreed to have licensed houses closed on some part of it and for generations suffered thirst, or walked his regulation miles to qualify him for Sabbath irrigation. So great was the relief in the old days when Sunday became a holy day (and a holiday) that the emancipated toiler imbibed too freely on Saturday and the physician dealt with a copious crop of "Saturday night arms"- on Sunday morning—the temporary paralysis induced by the freeborn who had lain with an arm for a pillow for long, sterterous hours. Rather better days now, don't you think!

The London "Times'' recently published a remarkable birthday number covering its illustrious and unique career. "The Thunderer" is noted world wide for "DAM HARD." the solemn authority of

its dictum, permitting itself only rare smiles. Still, in olden days it was occasionally racy, even in Bow Street. In July, 1834, it reported the case in which Monsieur Eustache, a celebrated French chef and gastronomies 1 author was charged with disposing of "red game"' before August 1. Sir Roger Cresley, a member of Crockford's Club, deposed that he saw grouse served, but did nor, partake. "M. Ude (with a genuine French shrug): Veil, my dear Sare Rojer, vat is all dis to me? Certainment you must know dat I don't know vat do devil goes up into de dining room. How de devil can I tell veder black game or vite game or red game go up to de dining room ? . . . Charles, Marquess of Queensbury, sworn: T was a member of the committee at Crockford's, but am not now. 1 I was at Crockford's on the 19th; find dined, and grouse was served at the table. M. Ude: But my noble friend (great laughter), as I said to my friend, Sare Rojer, I know noting at all about vot vent into de room. I never sawed it at all. . . . Sir F. Roe: Whether yon know it or not, the Act of Parliament makes you liable. M. Ude: Upon my honour, dat is very hard. Ven 1 got de summons I remonstrated vid my Lord Alvanley, and he say, 'Oh, never mind, Ude, say dey vere pigeons instead of grouse.' 'Ah, my lord,' say T. "I eajmot do better dan call dem pigeons, because dat bird is so common in dis house.' (Loud laughter.) Sir F. Roe, who appeared greatly to enjoy the scene, said he should certainly put the lowest penalty—namely 0/. M. Ude: Veil, I shall pay de money, but it is dam hard." Lots of people looked at the Franconia with lumps in their throats and wished that they had lumps of gold in their pockets on recent mornings. A great, THE SILENT smooth, white ship or a SHIP, great ship of any other colour appeals to the longing, the imagination and the pockets of everybody—except perhaps to the people already on board. Here is a ship capable of stacking away half the population of the city and their gear, including their bungalows done up in bundles of weatherboard and marked, "Not Wanted on the Voyage.'' And yet as far as the wayfarer is concerned, such a ship is merely an uninhabited castle of mystery. Where do all the passengers and ships' companies go when great liners lie alongside the wharf? Barring a gentleman of sunburnt appearance and with folded arms, there appeared to be not a soul aboard except a white-coated man looking out of a square iron door. With a long experience of gazing at liners lying at wharves, one never remembers one of them thronged with passengers gazing at our local marvels, once the ship is tied up and settled down. Very likely there is some unwritten law among the opulent which prevents them indulging in vulgar staring—perhaps they find nothing to stare at, having seen a building or two elsewhere. Harbour passengers gaze with avid interest at these splendid links with the faraway world. All eyes were on a rare sight when an American liner came in a few days since. In a cosy out-of-door spot a family party (presumably of millionaires) were taking their breakfasts, complete with bustling stewards. It was so rare a sight that people wondered what they were having for breakfast. ' The innumerable others were presumably encased somewhere in the ship oblivious of the charms of the ferry boats and the fine tin sheds that line the near shore. THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. It is indifference to beauty that begets pessimism, and despair.—H. A. Vachell. In this world with starry dome, Floored with gemlike plains and seas, Shall I never feel at home, Never wholly be at case? —William Wat&ou.