THE SOLEMN HALF-HOUR.

Mataura Ensign, Volume 9, Issue 642, 11 February 1887, Page 7

THE SOLEMN HALF-HOUR.

By Silas Sneli,,

GUY FAWKS DAY. The fifth of November has passed; for proof of this statement we refer you to any respectable calendar. That great day, upon which, as boys, we were wont to hold high carnival, damage our complexions with gunpowder, and spoil our beauty in divers other ways with deceitful and complex explosives, has glided by without a single disaster of a refreshing character, without any jubilee or fire- works display worthy of casual mention. Is this the way to treat the memory of a noble, philanthropic, and illustrious man? Has the name of Guido Faux been handed down to posterity to be received with indifference and well-bred decorum ? Civilization is sweeping away all those fine old institutions which our fathers delighted to honor, and we do not " would we were a boy " any more ; there is no fun in being a boy these cold times, when one can't blow off his fingers with a toy caunon, or frighten his little sister into a fit with a guy that is plainer in the face than a disfigured nigger. No longer is the effigy of the late Guido patrolled from door to door on the memorable fifth, and his fame kept green in the hearts of the people by conflagrations and c ackers. Such is the fickleness of fame. We are almost persuaded to cast aside our blushing honors, and sigh no longer to pass our name on to futurity. Often as a child we thought we would live a noble, useful life, and dynamite a few parliaments, so as to be beloved by the people, and have our works sung in rhyme down through succeeding ages ; mit fame is fleeting, and fickle humanity already lets the day of the great and zealous Faxix, the man who established a glorious precedent, the right of the peopl- to blow up the parliament, pass without feast or festival. Henceforward, we shall regard posterity with scorn. In the time of our youth, Guy Faux Day was dearer to the heart of the coming man than anything else we can remember. No boy of proper spirit would forego the tumult

' set him up high ;" and the fifth of November must have been the proudest of times for the spirit of the departed Faux. Nobody else had done so much for the small boy as he, not even the inventor of tea meetings and picnics, and he was beloved Jike a brother. At night bonfires blazed Mi his honor; rockets, crackers, jumping- jacks, squibs, all united in a grand pyrotechnic display, and all went merry as a pantomime. How exhilarating it was to stuff explosives into keyholes, and be pursued a mile by irate old men. What fun to unite a nervous feline to a bunch of crackers, and watch how excited and unreasonable the cat became when the fireworks began to exhibit. Gone are those days which to us were so dear, and a shallow generation forgets the lofty soul who stood to sacrifice himself for the public weel, and offers no inducement to the man who would emulate him to-day, and dissolve our inane Parliaments with nitro-glycerine and gun-cotton.

and excitement of the sth of November for the fear of a father's vengeance, or the joys of a world-renowned circus. He would earn, beg, or steal the wherewithal to crown that day with its pristine splendor. Eor preceding months, he would garner combustible material from the picket fence of a neighbor, from the ornamental trees, and the family wood-heap, and store it out of the sight of man. He became close and miserly as the time drew nearer, sticking out for a high price for every little service he did his mother, giving her fivepence to mind for him and cajoling her into paying him sixpence back, just to make his money even. He invested his horde to advantage in miscellaneous fireworks and gunpowder, and he made him a little cannon out of gaspipe, and for the time being was as happy and as dangerous as a boy could well be. And the Guy ! What stoical cynic can look back without a thrill to the happy time when he stuffed his Saturday suit with shavings, and hawked the effigy high and low, beseeching the population "to remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot," and to contribute small change towards the glorification of the sainted Guido ? Every time we recall those careless days a tear is shed, and a sigh is heaved, because it is a well known fact that "old times come again no more." We do not venture to say that Guido was faithfully or creditably pourtrayed in those plaster casts of countenance, or that his elegant figure was aptly reproduced. It is hard to catch the expression of a good bust and well-shaped legs when moulding them in old clothes, and almost impossible to call a deep, thoughtful glance from an eye which is only a hole ; or make resolute will, tender feeling, and classical beauty shine in a physiognomy composed of paste-board. We fain would have had his goodly proportions more artistically depicted, and the pose of the figure mox*e striking, more commanding, and less like a dissolute dead-beat in the last stage of inebriation. The face was frequently cadaverous, even devilish, but the fault lay in the artist who sculptured it, not in the hearts of the people. The people sang that tender refrain, " Guy, guy, guy,