Round THE Corners

New Zealand Mail, Issue 741, 14 May 1886, Page 17

Round THE Corners

There is one peculiarity of colonial character, or shall I say the character of some colonials, that calls for passing notice. It is fetich worship, Yes, fetich worship is prevalent in these Antipodean parts. And the name of fetiches is legion. Men set them up and bow down to them in accordance with their (the worshippers) particular idiosyncracies. There is not a colonial institution, of any kind, that is not a fetich to someone or another. I won’t call names and abuse those who so worship, because the impulse to bend the knee is so subtle, and generally permeating* that everyone is more or less under the influence. Neither will I draw comparisons (this time) between the various kinds of fetiches, because comparisons are invidious, and ire-exciting, and some of the wooden images might come knocking at my door in retaliation. But there is a kind of fetich that I am going to denounce. Firstly, because it is safe to do so, the fetich being far removed, and, secondly, because the worship of it is so demoralising that, let the consequences be what they may, I must speak out. There is a fetich in the Old Country, mostly residing in the city of London, the aim and object of whose existence is to sit in censorship on the colonies. Sometimes it is in one place and sometimes in another. It very fre - quently appears in the guise of an oracular article in one or other of the newspaper organs of monetary circles. Again, it appears in an editorial of one of the city dailies, and anon in a sapient outpouring of one of the noble army of anonymous press cerrespondents. These people sit in judgment at a distance, and yet they write as if they were to the manner born, and knew every inch of ground in the colonies and its capacity, thoroughly understood the people and their ways, and could tot up the value of colonial increment for the coming decade. They ope their mouths, and as a rule no dog barks till the fetich worshippers assemble at the shrine and commence an admiration whine. The fetich generally denounces colonial ways, but particularly colonial borrowing and spending ways, and in the frankest manner, and using choice English, points out their sins of commission and omission, and how they are going to the devil all the while, and are pretty well past redemption. And then the disciples of this particular fetich get hold of its utterances and industriously retail them. Thusly is the way of the dear creatures :—“I say, so and so, did you see that article in the London Times, or in Money, or that correspondent’s letter in the Mail ? My word doesn’t it show us up. That’s the estimation we are held in. We do get it. Just my opinion, too, of the position ; they are the men who can see through us, eh ? Right, too, we are a lot of d—d fools ; don’t know what we are doing,” &c., &c., &c., ad nauseum. Now this is the kind of fetichism that I have a down on, and will not stand. What ! my bully boys, who have stood by the Colony all these years ; never mind if we have spent borrowed money, we have that, we have ; and, to use an auld auld Scottish toast drank wi’ the last pint stoup over nicht, “Here’s mair i’ the marn.” Just so, we’ve borrowed over night, and we’ll borrow again next morning, when the necessity arises. Meanwhile, are we going to allow a scribbling wiseacre in London, or Philadelphia, or anywhere else, to push U 3 from our stools. Didn’t we make those stools, and have sat on ’em all these years, and on the whole have dona remarkably well, and have great cause

for self-congratulation ? Who, I should like to know, what is best for us—we, ourselves, or the maq at a distance ? We are of a race which has a happy knack of managing its own affairs to Advantage, and we are not going to discredit who went before us. Let people at a distance talk and write, and howl if they like. We will contemptuously thrust our tongues in our cheeks and go our own ways. And the man who thinks more of the fetich I have been describing, than he does of the land that is feeding and clothing him—even if it be but a blue shirt and a damper, Julius, my hearty ! —had better clear out.

I have to regret missing an admirable sermon delivered quite a short time since by one of our manly divines. It was upon the “ courage of convictions.” Ah, my reader, what a threevolume dissertation there is in those three words. If they could only have their way; if they were only enforced; if folks would only entertain them, what a different state of society would prevail to be sure ! Tuft-hunt-ing, hypocrisy, and backstairs crawling would go by the board at once. Courage of convictions associated with tolerance ! Heavens, what would not be effected by their aid ? Men would look fearlesly and honestly into each others eyes and speak without fear of offending, and truth would indeed prevail—that is, what we regard as truth. At any rate the spirit of truth would receive liberal entertainment, and the slimy paths of conventional deception would be closed for ever. We should na longer say one thing while meaning another, nor regard the ends as justifying the means, too, too, often quoted to excuse something akin, to rascality. There are, of course, some convictions which are ra i ically bad, and as a rule the persons who hold them have the courage of them. But if only a tithe of the good convictions were expressed, the world would be immensely the gainer. Preach away, parson ; some of the seed is sure to find a congenial resting place.

The Caledonian Society has had another meeting and, carried away by love of country, a proposition, inter alia, was made to provide fitting reception for poor new cham Scotchmen arriving—just as if a new chum son of Caledonia wasn’t up to the weight of any old colonial. We can’t teach these “ children of the mist ” much. They come here fully fledged, and don’t want any patronising. The feeling is creditable in a certain sense, for there’s philanthropy and good fellowship in it ; but still, all well wishers of the land we live in will echo the remark of the broad-minded Principal of the Wellington Boys’ High School (some call it the College) when he hoped that the day was near when English, Scotch, and Irish would be blended in a National whole. May perdition seize such differences, I say. Do we not all drink at the same spring, and feed on the same pasture ? Are we not, shall we not be, New Zealanders? Well, as for the Caledonian Society, it is a fact that Scotchmen having once escaped from “ home fit for a poetic child ” never return to it—to stay. Those who have a grip of New Zeal nd, especially, know better.

Well, well; I never heard of such an outburst of trade jealousy as that of the Evening Stump over the blessed typhoid business. The Stump was really “ ropeable,” and absolutely ate its own words in beastly sort. ’Twas a display of horrid gluttony on the part of the leading column to swallow, holus bolus, the two columns of report published in another place. ’Twas done though, without a wink, and a self-laudatory article on the glorious deed appeared next day. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the whole thing was vomited forth soon to be returned to on a future occasion ; ’twouldn’t be the first time the Stump has done that. As for the Times, it pursues a level even course in the public interest that must tell in its favor in the long run.

So there’s to be another dock built at Dunedin, a veritable mammoth this time. Well, the hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling that have been pitched away into mud and water in that locality is astounding, and yet they haven’t done. A mania for harbor improving seems to have seized the otherwise douce Dunedin bodies. I notice that lunatic Lawyer’s Head canal project is under course of revival. Not only is it a scheme of more than doubtful probability. of accomplishment, but its utility is even more problematical. Economy is being preached from end to end of the Colony, yet its first principles are not understood, and it seems to be there is no desire to understand them. People will not try to do without that which is not absolutely wanted. But the curse of crude ideas is on them, and, like a child crying for a new toy, they would fain have all that their hearts con- j ceive, whether the conception be wise or foolish.

So the Auckland Tobacco Manufacturing Company is to be wound up. Another enterprise busted! And the cause? Was it bad management, or has the lordly working-man, so termed, again cut his own throat by exorbitant wages and time demands ? And this brings one to the subject of the labor riots in America, and the demand for the eight hours’ system in that great country. I am sorry for the riots, but am glad of the eight hours’ agitation. I believe in enjoying life myself, and everyone else doing the same but then it would be childish to pay too dear for that whistle. Eight heurs’ work is enough for any man, under proper conditions, but it won’t do j for Tom, bootmaker on this side the road, to restrict his labor to eight hours, when Jack, the other side the way, works ten hours, and so by increased production is enabled to undersell Tom. Eight hours in the Colonies, eight hours in the Old Country, ditto, ditto, all over the Continent, would be a very good thing : indeed, for the world then, [the real working world, would be on equal terms. But until \ the eight hours’ system is general, with a reasonably uniform rate of remuneration for labor, the more liberal a community in time ! and wages, the more it is placed at a dis- , advantage. Asmodeus. j