LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 146, 20 November 1874, Page 2

LOAFER IN THE STREET.

(From the Press.') The last week was a stirring one, eh ? The races and the show, and the opera, and the concerts, and the balls. It’s too much at one heave. It throws people off their balance. I’ve repeatedly seen people thrown off their balance during the race week. I suppose you think the races and show are topics I can enlarge upon. If so, you make an error. The reporters use up the matter too much. When you give sixteen columns on the Agricultural Show, what can there be left for me to say on the subject ? I may, however, call to your mind the time when, owing to the sickness of your pastoral reporter, who fell ill through taking one glass of sweet sherry, I volunteered my assistance. I was not a success ; at least, so you said. According to your account, you had to draft my pigs from the thoroughbred horses, and my dogs from the fat cattle. As it was, I offended one small-minded man, because I said his thoroughbred horse would be an ornament to any sausage shop if he only had a little more condition on him. Then there was the case at the same show, of Blenkin’s store pig. You recollect that unhappy circumstance, how Blenkins came to me and assured me that his store pig was second to none in the show, how he assured me that it was a real genuine store pig; how that pig subsequently appeared in the prize list (through a clerical error), as a symmetrical ram with a beautiful, lustrous fleece, and how Blenkins punched my head and said he had done with the Press for ever, politically and agriculturally. I’ve never respected that man since. Let us leave the show. Let me make a passing allusion to the happy manner in

which your sporting correspondent gave his tips. He is a nice fellow, and I know I shall please him when I say that there is an honest old man in my neighbourhood who disapproves of racing on principle, but who makes a living by laying steadily against the tips, and is happy. I like people to know when they are appreciated. I never have been.

A friend of [mine in the sunnyregions of the South recently went to solicit an overdraft, He got it. He immediately asked all the employees to drink, and they acceded. Whether the employees subsequently got shaky on their addition, and mixed up credits and debits or not I cannot say, but the manager didn’t think highly of the proceeding. The next time my friend went to the bank the manager said “Mr Blank, when you requested accommodation the other day, I acceded to your request, as I said at the time, with much pleasure. But when I gave you an overdraft, I certainly did not anticipate that you would give my clerks an over draught also. This is a world of humbug more or less. Rather more I should say. This may have occurred to you before now. It occurs to me frequently. If you should feel like wishing to make it strike you again go and flatten your nose against a photographer’s window. Go in if you like and see a friend under the operation as I did lately. I went with Bladdlctrips. I pitied that man from the bottom of my heart. The operator led him to a chair and posed him. When he was fixed I looked at him. His neck, or rather the back of his head, was in the usual vice. Canals of perspiration were coming down his cheeks. His hands—and they are hands too—were fearfully conspicuous, and his feet seemed anxious to depart from the rest of his body. Some men pose easy. It poses other men to attempt it. Bladdletrips is of the latter order. I never like to see any friend of mine in pain for long. The pleasure palls upon one. So I turned away and examined the gallery of portraits. Miss Winkler, resplendent in silk, opulent in tresses, and with a cast of countenance like St Cecilia. That's how she looks in her photo. In reality she has only about three hairs on her head, and a face like a Pawnee squaw. She wears I should say nineteen in boots, and has immense lying powers when the characters of her friends are brought up. This don’t appear in her photograph though. Here we have Benslopper and Mrs B. together “ looking like “ Mr and Mrs John Anderson my jo John.” Like Mr and Mrs J.A.M.J.J. “ hand in hand they go,” in the photograph; but here the resemblance ceases, because instead of “blessings on his frosty pow,” Old Binslopper generally has it with a broomstick or whatever implement there is handy, and then he comes and tells me he has had words with Mrs B. I could go on a lot more on this subject, but it is enough to say that a photographic warehouse gives one the impression of a race of beings having mostly nice features and store clothes, whereas it is far different outside. There is a deal of the ideal about photography. In a quiet and sequestered village in this province or close to it, the people decided on having a school. The contractor for the school buildings and the chairman of the school were friends. The chairman was also a road-maker, and the contractor for the school buildings had to pass his work for payment. It will be thus seen that both were contractors, and both had to pass each other’s work. In regard of passing the work they agreed to act friendly and on the square to each other. The chairman of the committee got his road passed and got paid, but when the contractor for the school buildings came for his money or the usual percentage, the chairman said he had a high and lofty duty to perform, and he could not see his way to parting at present. Sic vos non vobis with a vengeance. The Australian papers have taken up the subject of simplicity and inexpensiveness in the burial of the dead. In South Australia they have formed a Burial Reform Association. Christchurch is very strong on associations of all kinds. We like them. They seem to do us good. An association similar to the one mentioned above would be an acquisition, Mr Mort’s letter, published in one of your recent issues, is very exhaustive. He does not believe in funeral trappings and heathenish tinsel. In the passage where Hamlet alludes to “ the customary suits of solemn black, together with all forms, moods, shows of grief,” he very plainly gives it as his opinion that they are not of much account. When Mr Tennyson tells us that

“ The little port had seldom seen a costlier funeral,” than that of Enoch Arden, I don’t know that the reader comes to the conclusion that the little village grieved any the more for him, because the undertakers’ orders were to spare no expense. A crusade against the Mould tribe would be a good thing. I’ll tell you what ’ll happen. We shall read these 1 letters on the subject, and keep saying to each other, How sensible they are I and how the idea suggested ought to be followed out —and keep on doing exactly as we have been doing before. I have been once or twice to the Hospital lately. When I visit an institution of this kind I like to observe things. I observed that the Hospital was well managed, at least I thought so, and, from what 1 heard, a more kindly Galen than Dr Parkerson never stepped. I looked over the visitors' book, and, judging from its pages, the institution is not very popular with the ladies of Christ* church. One cannot be surprised at this. sick man, perhaps in great pain, is not IVxely to be over-much struck with the Be t 0 £ a bonnet or the good taste of a Polonaise. A church is a far better show. r 5 om) an( j ladies get credit for piety mto the bargain at a very small cost. I c’an see this myself, and i I should never dleam of suggesting any Christchurch |?.uy going into a place where there would be no one to admire her dress. I trust, if I have ever been properly introduced to myself, I should never think of any ladies so far demeaning themselves. They might, however, contribute a few flowers to the various sick rooms of the Hospita l , and an occasional bundle of discarded linen for bandages and such like would not, I have every reason to believe, come amiss. I am sorry to hear from the last report of the Acclimatisation Society that the Domain Board have thought fit to take steps to remove all the cover for the pheasants and hares in the grounds of the society. I can quite understand that the hares, injudiciously turned out by the acclimatisers so close to the Botanical Gardens, would do consider- ■ able damage, but why the pheasants should; lose an opportunity of making their nests on. that account is beyond my comprehension,. Both institutions are excellent in their way,., hue it seems a pity that they should clash.

The session of the Church of England Synod is passed and gone. I am the least bit shy of speaking of their doings at all. In the first place, lam scarcely an authority in ecclesiastical matters ; and secopdly, were I to make any mistake the parsons are the very people of all others to show up my shortcomings to a community which, however Christian-like, is always delighted to have an opportunity of finding fault. There is one point, however, in connection with their recent proceedings which I wish, in my humble manner, to applaud, and that is the report of the committee respecting the stipends of the clergy. In a burst of generosity the committee recommend that the minimum stipend, with residence, be £260 a year, and without a residence, £3OO. It is a popular belief that a parson of any denomination can live, keep a largo family (and they always do have large families), dress as agentleman, and subscribe to everything, on a nominal salary. I understand this is a mistake. The day is gone by for not providing gold, silver, nor brass, and judging from what congregational collectors inform me, there is a chronic doubt in the minds of many most excellent Christians if even the most excellent i; workman is worthy of his meat.” On these grounds I feel glad that the Synod have recommended a salary for their clergymen, which is at any rate equal to that at present obtained by foremen carpenters.