Echoes of the Week.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1057, 2 June 1892, Page 23

Echoes of the Week.

[By “ Scrutator.”]

Hats off ! let th:re bo bowed heads in the presence of that greatest of levellers, King Death, who h»3 robbed New Zealand of one of li6r most able, mo3t patriotic sons. Douglas Hastings Macarthur could never be termed a popular man ; hi 3 manner was not conciliatory—in the old days in Feilding people called him * Black Jack ’ —but ho was a hard-working, well-meaning man, one fitted specially to organise, to administrate, to rule ; one who, although aßtrong partisan, could, when the proper moment came, put patriotism before party. Head of a great enterprise, he did muoh to found the fortunes of a great district. Some people have said he was a ‘hard man,' but let it be remembered that he was an agent, and agents cannot always do aa they like. As a scribe who, in another place, most con. sistently opposed Mr Macarthur as a politician, I would here record in print that as a man he was the best of good citizens, and a patriotic and unselfish servant of the public. Poor ‘Mac,’ the last two years of his life were years of constant suffering. He was haunted ever by the knowledge that the fell disease from which he suffered must sooner or later claim him as a victim.

For impudence and ignorance combined, commend me to some of the 'baser sort of Opposition papers.’ Poor Mr Macarthur n hardly in his grave than his decease is made the pretext for falsehoods ab ut a gentleman who was his moat prominent political opponent, Mr Arkwright. We are told with that unblushing effrontery which is such a strong point with the Opposition press of the * baser Bort ’ that Mr Arkwright ia afraid to ‘ face the music.’ This, if you please, is written of a gentleman who proved himself, at the last election, one of the most plucky of politicians, who, on more than one question, openly made public views which ho knew full wed would lose rather than gain him votes, a gentleman who is respected throughout the whole of the Rangitikei as being a high* minded manly English gentleman of the very best stamp. As a matter of fact the real reason Mr Arkwright is not standing for the Rangitikei seat lies in tho fact that, on account of his family’s health ho has leased a villa in one of the Riviera towns for a long term, and that he cannot possibly be in New Zealand again before October. To stand for a seat at present, without any possibility of being present to interview the electors, would bo the height of folly. And yet a contemptible lag of a paper has the impudence to say that Mr Arkwright ‘ dare not face the musio.’ The expression coining from the source it does will make the Rangitikei people ‘wink the other eye.’

A truce to politics, however, a sorry subject at the best of limes ; let us turn to other topics. Very'soon after these lines appear ia print we shall be welcoming Lord and Lady Glasgow. There will be blowings of trumpets, beatings of drums, booming of cannon, waving of banners, and all the rest of it. And so it should be. A new Governor we do not have every day, nor a really good excuse for a public fAe. Besides which, first impressions are always the best, and the Empire City, which was not treated over well by Lord Onslow, would faiu establish herself firmly in the favour of the new gubernatorial party. Therefore, welcome my Lord to Wellington, aud may ws see much or you and your family, and—echoes the Wellington tradesman - much of your money. Never mind Christchurch. What with nor’weaters in summer, and sou’easters in winter, it’s a wretched place for climate. Never mind Dunedin. Thore’a too much snow there, and then it suffers from H. S. Fish. Never mind Auckland its muggy and moist, and Shera will want to fight you for precedence as” senior member. Never mind these outside places my Lord. Stick to Welling* ton the windy, make Government House bright and lively this coming season, and thereby earn oar eternal gratitude. An up-country friend, who has been spending a few days in Wellington, sends me the following : —‘ Dear Scrutator—ln your Wellington papers I occasionally see laments as to people leaving the Colony, the continuation of the exodus and so on. Sometimes, however, the departures may be considered to be of benefit to the Colony. On Tuesday, last week, I was interviewed “on the beach” by a gentleman who owns up to the curious cognomen of “ Hoop Iron Jimmy.” The last time I caw him he was shearing for me at Inland Patea. Latterly, however, so it appears—l quote his own statement —he had been “on the bend,” and he solicited the loan of a “Colonial Robert” with a pathetic expression which denoted the existence of a most serious drought in his interior. The next day he again accosted me, and, to quote the slang of the day, I “fell” again for another shilling. Ou Saturday last, he met me a third time, and, in almost tragic tones, asked for half a crown. This necessitated an explanation, which he gave me as follows : —“ Well, you see, sir, I’ve had enough of a Noo Zealand j winter up at In’and Patea, and wants a j change. I’m a.goin* ‘to jump’ the Waka- ! tipu this afternoon, and it 11 cost me f.mr booze 3 to square a stoker, and then there’s sixpence for one last ‘ loDg ’un ’ to put mo stomach right till we get well houtside the ’oads.” I gave him tho half • crown, and I sincerely hope the Union Company will forgive me.' I shall now watch the Sydney Morning Herald to see whether that sapient organ wil chroniole the fact of ‘ Hoop Iron Jimmy ' stowing away on board the Wakatipu as another proof of capitalists being driven away from tho Colony of New Zealand by the * iniquitous legislation of the Eallance crowd.’

The giddy new chum is sometimes very amusing. By the lonic on Sanday there arrived a young gentleman whose ideas as to New Zealand and Australian geography are certainly of the most vague and elementary character. Instructing the head waiter at a city hotel as to the disposition of hie luggage, be said—‘Look here, old fellow, just keep this bag on one side, I’vo brought it out for a friend of mine. It’s for his brother, who lives at Ballarat, and I’m going to send it up by the first train tomor.ow !’ Fact, Explanation followed, and that dear young innocent is now enquiring what’s the best way to B6nd a bag to Ballarat—not by train.

I’m afraid the following is a bit ‘ chest, nutty,’ but I am assured it is true. If it isn’t, it is still a good yarn. He was a most proper young man, belonged to the Y.M.C. A., the Mutuallmprovement Society; ho never smoked a cigarette in his life ; he didn’t know Dawson’s Perfection from the * Galley ’ brand ; he wore flannel next to his skin, and he never, well, that is, hardly ever, winked at a pretty girl. And ho boarded a Newtown tram, and next him was a ‘plump and pleasing person,’ After a while the lady began to Btart at intervals, and after every time she started, sho glared indignantly at that very good young man. tie was astonished, but said nothing. More startings, more indignant glarings, and then finally, a wild shriek and the following: ‘You disgraceful scoundrel, will you be quiet?’ In vain did our young friend aver that he had done nothing ; Bhriok followed shriek ; the car was stopped, and the conductor made a severe investigation. The lady excitedly oried : ‘ This scoundrel keeps on pinching me,’ and it looked about 20 to 1 that the good young man was to bo banded over to a policeman. Suddenly, however, the conductor spied something on the seat between the aggrieved dame and the presumably Daughty young man. It was a crayfish, a live one, which had escaped from the good young man’s ‘kit,’ and had been guilty of the pinchings which had caused so much trouble. The Jady looked foolish, the good young man was vastly relieved, and the crayfish was once more consigned to the kit. Then the car went on its way, and once more peace reigned.

What is a ‘long puli'? At first one would think of tugs-of-war which have been ‘long puff ’ indeed, so loDg that people get tired ef them. But the ‘ long pull' I refer to is a new invention of the British brewer. A writer in tho Yorkshire Weekly Post gives the following information :—What is a ‘long puli’? Not the long pull of the Cornish proverb ns to steady, energetii and systematic co-operation, but the long pull of the publicans. It means, in brief, that when a pint of beer is asked for a pint and a half is supplied. This odious practice has, in the prevalence of the ' cutting ’ so common everywhere, sprung up not only at Leicester but at Leeds, and at both plaoes it has been very strongly condemned as inimical to the principles of honest trade. The Major of Leicester, in the course of some common - sense remarks, referred to the question the other day, and at the last meeting of the Leeds Offlicence Holders, Mr Staines, the preaid nt, quoted the remarks with approval. Some thirsty souls may be attracted by this ‘ loDg pull ’ system, but in view of the wretched beer supplied on draught at so many establishments a short pull would be infinitely preferable. ‘Oh, monstrous! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack !’ And a gill of really good ole before a pint and a half of that adulterated liquor so readily supplied at some ‘ tied houses ’ fir the benefit of poor oustomers, and that also of the owners of the houses.

And now, having taken [a par. from my Yorkshi e contemporary, I will give tho Post a par. in return, and that, too, both about a Yorkehireman and about ‘a loDg pull.’ Cricketers, all and sundry, remember burly, good-hearted, genial George Ulyett, the Yorkshire professional. Of him the following story is told, but I do not think it has seen light in Wellington. It was at Ballarat one blazing, burning, scorching Australian summer Sunday, and Ulyett and Scotton, there on tour with team, went for a ride. Five miles out, perspiring and correspondingly thirsty, they ‘spotted’ a pub with no small enthusiasm. A woman stood at the door, and to her spoke George. ‘ Say missus, hasta gotten ooy good yale i’ t’ hoose.’ * Oh, yes, sir, we draw So and So’s host treble X.’ * Height you are missus,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘ tha’ can bring us out a couple o’ quarts apiece, and if we like it, we’ll cum in and ha’ sum,’ That * some ’ is, I think, perfectly delightful. If George gets thirsty nowadays in Yorkshire he ought to appreciate the innovation of a long pull.

Max O’Rell intends writing a book on Australia. Glad to hear it. If it be half so shrewd, so witty, so eminently readable a production as ‘John Bull and His Island,’ as ‘Friend Macdonald,’as ‘Cousin Jonathan,’it will receive a hearty welcome. But when the genial little Frenchman says ‘ I am going up ocuntry, I shall be better able to study the traits of the Australian people iu a little bush town of say, 200 people, than in any of your b'g cities,’ surely he is hardly right to base a description of ‘ Australian life’ on his experience at Mugga Mugga or Jackamandera. To narrow down national character to that shown in one horse townships, where one pub, one store, one blacksmith’s shop, etc.,etc.,represent the ‘insti tutions’ is just as unfair to the colonies ui to describe Australia from the pavement of Bourke atreat, Melbourne, or Pitt street, Sydney. If Max is to give us a really reliable, readable book on Australia he must treat of both city and country life. Christie Murray intended to do so, but his intentions, though * weli roea it,’ were never carried out, and his papers in the ‘ Fortnightly ’ were as irritatingly inaccurate and ignorant as the productions of Trollope and h'roude. Max O’Rell is generally very commonaense, ban surely he does not think he can paint Australian life properly from so narrow a stand as that afforded by a small bush township of 200 people,

It is an old saying, and not altogether an untruthful one, that there is nothing new under the sun. lam reminded of this when reading in ‘The Inventive Age,’ a’Murkan production, a description of an entirely novel parlour gime. Of course, we all remember the ‘pigs in clover ’ puzzle, which was so popular two or three years ago. Those wicked little marbles always kept getting into the wrong grooves, but we used I to have good fun in getting them finally into the little box in the middle of the board. This novelty, according to tho Inventive Age, is entitled ‘ Ihe Office Seeker’s Delight,’ and it should have a very large sale amongst the members of the present Opposition who can beguile the many—verymany—weary hours they may have to wait before they are in office by studying American politics according as they are represented in ‘ The Office Seeker’s Delight.’ The puzzle consists of a ciroular box having compartments opening into the centre ring to represent the ladder of ambition which the office seeker (a ball set free in the inner ring called the lobby) must achieve. These compartments represent the coveted honorß, starting with No. 1, which is State Senator, and ending with No. 12, which i 3 the White House. The conditions for mounting from one office to the other are hard and the way is devious. Tho officeseeker must first enter No. 1 of the arched openings, and, to be promoted, be must roll up the inclined blocks iu the compartment, drop down into the lobby 7, suffering a fall in his fortune, and at tho same time committing himself to the tender mercies of the lobby, which of course tends to harass him by leading him continually in the wrong direction, then through No. 2 and up the incline therein, fall off again and endeavour to enter No. 2 and so on, the game not having been finished until he has accomplished the circuit of all the officeß. Should he enter the wrong office, or, after being installed, roll back through the same entrance, he must begin all over again. The aggravating tendency of the de. moralised office seeker, after having found himself in the lobby, is to roll into the first office door near at hand, and it is only by careful and skilful manipulation that one can run successfully through all the compartments without violating the conditions.

Sir Patrick Buckley, most genial and p lar of politicians, has been congratulated all found on the well deserved honour paid him by Her Majesty last week. An Oamaru paper devotes a whole column to reminiscences of the newly created knight. Would that space permitted me to quote the whole, but for to-day one story must suffice. The Oamaru writergo3sips &3 follows:—Sir Patrick Alphonsus Buckley is a true son of Erin, who delights, or did delight before the cares of office devolved upon him, in a good j *ke, and many racy anecdotes are told of him. In the Resident Magistrate’s Court of Wellington, when he was a comparatively young barrister, he invariably afforded a good fund of amusement for all present when he had a case in hand, and he especially delighted in ‘ taking down ’ anyone in authority of an autocratic bearing. One case in point comes to our recollection. A number of sailors belonging to an American barque ware charged with refusing to obey orders. The men had actually refused to sail in the vessel, and gave as their reason that her rigging was rotten, aud that she was not in a sea* worthy condition. The captain, in his evidence, denied the accuracy of the men’s statement with the utmost confidence ; but he had rot calculated on the trouble that was ia store for him, and the fun that he was to provide for all and sundry. Mr Buckley defended the insubordinate crew, and, after a few preliminary questions in cross-examiuation, he queried, with a merry twinkle in his eye, and just the most fascinating suspicion of tho * brogue.’ 'You’re quite certain, captain, that the statement of the prisoners tl at the rigging is unsound is not tue?’ ‘ Yes,’ cani9 unhesitatingly from the captain. l Of course you are prepared to swear that there isn’t a rotten rope about the ship ?’ The captain again replied in the affirmative, and then came thß fun. ‘ Now, captain,’ said Mr Buckley, in an insinuating manner, ‘there ia just one other little question that I would like to ask you, and I want you to give me a plain answer, as I know you will do—“ yes ”or “ no.” Have you been aloft to examine the rigging ?’ The captain was thoroughly nonplussed, and looked appealingly first to the Magistrate and then to the Inspector of Police. ‘ Come sir,’ said Mr Buckley, ‘ the question is a simple one. Have you been alotc to examine the rigging ?’ There was no escape, and tha witness had to reply in the negative. With well assumed indignation, Mr Buckley said, ‘Then, how dare you come here and swear that the rigging is perfectly sound ? You’ll just step down from that box and go and examine the rigging.’ The case was adjourned, and the Magistrate (a retired naval officer), Mr Buckley, the Inspector of Polioo, and all concerned, marched to the wharf where the vessel was lying, and were, of course, followed by a large number of people. It was rare fun to see the unhappy Yankee skippar mount the rigging, and amidst the jeers and laughter of the crowd, tremblingly pass from yard-arm to yard-arm. No one enjoyed the fun more than did Mr Buckley, who kept it going by constantly pointing out that there was- ‘a little rope there that the captain had not examined.’