Echoes of the Week.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1060, 23 June 1892, Page 23

Echoes of the Week.

[By “ SCRUTATOR.”]

Parliament opens to<-day, Thursday. 'What is there in that?’ says he who thinketh not. To whioh the oynic answers, ‘ What is there not in it.' It means that for several months a number of gentlemen will meet daily to waste their own and other people s time in endless discussion, whioh too fre. quantly will come to nothing save to show what amount of “envy, hatred and all nncharitableness ” can be contained in an M.H.ff.’s mi-ad ; it means long weary hours of listening to long wearying speeches, fondly believed by the majority of the speakers to be equal to the finest orations of Demosthenes or Cicero, or to be more modern, to the choicest oratory of a Gladstone or a Balfour ; it means long hours and hard work for a score or more pressmen whose earthly burden is made more than ordi. narily heavy during session time ; it means columus upon columns of alternate virulent denunciation or fulsome praise in the papers; it means the printing of tons upon tons of Parliamentary papers and returns whioh about one man in a hundred ever reads, and that one man only beoause he is reckless enough to risk insanity.’ All this and much more did my cynical friend say.

But there aie two sides to every question. All the time is not wasted. Far from it. There is much good work done both in the open Houss and in committee ; mnch careful study tn private ot the questions whioh are to be publicly debated. Many long, weary hours do our members, or, at any rate, the majority of them, spend in considering the best _ means to equalise the burden of taxation ; to do justice to those who have wrongs ; in seeking how best to push forward the great work of settlement; in trying to make the life of our colonists healthier and happier, aod in seeking to further the geueral prosperity. That there are envy aad jealousy at tiroes, is quite possible ; no legislative assembly ; no religious assembly in the world is, or ever was free from human faults, but of downright hatrod there is surely none, or if there be, it is too cleverly concealed to be ever apparent on the surface. No, it may be fashionable to Bneer at, to belittle the New Zealand Parliament, but taken all round it reflects credit on the natioD, does much real solid good hard work, and may be compared with advantage with any colonial legislative body in the Empire. Let us hope that there may be this session a miaii i.um of purely party wrangling, and a maximum of united endeavour to do the very best work for the Colony. Let the members remember that * brevity is the soul of wit,’ and that what the country wants is work and not talk. Please out that last sentence out, my parliamentary friends and paste it in your hat 3. When you look into your head coverings, a 3 is your wont when Mr Speaker says prayers, ponder over my words and • act accordin’.’

* Can a lion roar if deprived of bis naans ?’ This question is being asked by those of our legislators who have arrived in town, and with no small degree of ,anxietyias to the answer. The appearance on Lambton quay of that well known personage, ‘ The Buller Lion,’ divested of the hirsute adornments which have hitherto hidden a portion of his classical features. For some oicult reason the political celebrity in question has seen fib to stagger his fellow politicians by no longer appearing ' bearded like the pard,’ but presents to. the casual observer the clean shaven countenance of the followers of Thespis. ‘The Bullsr Lion,’as it is well known, has recently made a short sojourn on the Continent, whence he has returned, more iu love than ever with the Swiss Referendum, his ancient flame : perhaps it may be that the fashion with Swiss legislators is to abolish the beard. Sad indeed would it bo for the House were it that the Lion had lost his old oratorioal powers through the loss of his beard, for he can roar to some purpose at times, as both sides of the House know full well. But though Samson was shorn of his strength at the time he was shorn ot his locks by a wily woman, I cannot believe the cbosen of the Buller can lose bis old powers of roaring A wag to whom I expressed some slight anxiety on this score laughed at my fears, declaring it as his deep seated conviction that nothing short of the Lion losing his head could ever stop his famous roar. Wh ch was cruel perh-ps, but doubtless very true. May he never lose either head or roar, for the first contains some real good common sense, and the second is rarely offensive.

Apropos to curious deals at whist, which formed the subject of an ‘ Echo ’ last week, I notice that in The Field for May 7th, juet to hand by the San Francisco mail, the very eminent authority, ‘ Cavendish,’ has some, thing to say on the subject. He answers the question, • What is an extraordinary deal at whist?’ as follows : —‘The auswer is simplicity itself. Every deal is equally extraordinary. The odds against a named combination of fifty-two cards being dealt to four named players, and against at the earno time naming the turn-up car.! are

697, 331,590,951,354,306,910,056,719, 9dd to I.’ He continues :— ‘ The above may be taken as accurate, the result having been verified by several persons versed in the art of cnnl tiplying, and the method of calculation having been submitted to different mathematicians, and haviug received their approval.’ Cavendish nasd not have taken such trouble, as the average whist player would be quite v.i b-g tn accept the figures as accurate—or any other figures, were they as many and awo-inspirjng a 3 those he quotes.

H@ regrets that the veracity of the four gentlemen who held, or alleged they held, the now famous handß at Brighton should have been impugned. ‘By all means,’ he say b, ‘ let them have the credit of having

done what is done every deal by those who are playing at whist, viz., of having distributed fifty-two things into four packets of thirteen each, with a result which they did not predict,’ and concludes by telling a story which is worth quoting : ‘An old member of the Portland C ub once said to us during a rubber, “It is very extraordinary. I had the same hand t«ico running!” Did we call him a liar? No. We went over the two hands together ; it happened that wo both had good memoiies, and then the hands were easy to reoolleot. So far as we could remember, the two hands were identical. The result wa3 the same, two by cards, each hand, and the same suit was trumps, and—no, you are wrong thcie —the same card was not turned up. And, a 3 the lato lamented General Pattle used to observe, after telling his celebrated snake story, which nobody believed, “Ibis is no lie, sir 1” ’

Talking about cards, a friend of mine was playing cribbago a few evenings ago with two Aucklanders. One of the latter turned up two pairs iu bis crib, and thereupon exolaimed ‘Halloa, here’s four for “ Morgan’s Orohard.’ Asked by my somewhat astonished friend * What on earth do you mean by “Morgan's Orchard”?’ the auswer came promptly * Oh, vve always call two pai s “Morgan’s Orchard” in Auckland.’ Asked as to the origin of the term, neither he nor his fellow northerner could give an oxplana. fcion. My friend suggests that some of my readers might be able to eluoidatc the mystery. They do have some queer ' crib ’ terms up north, for in the saloon of a Thames bound steamer I once heard a pair of kings entitled ‘ Hellaby Bros.’ As kings are often known to colonial cribbage players as * butcher*, and as Hellaby Bros, are famous meat salesmen in the northern capital, the reference was easily explicable. But ‘ Moigan’B Orchard! What are the why and wherefore?

Mr Rudyard Kipling may not, as his jealous critics deolare, be capable of turning out a great work, a strikingly original, well sustained novel, for instance, but he is surely the prince of short storytellers, and of writers of stirring, pungent, thought-com-pelling verse. He hits out hard-from the shoulder mffiis ‘Story of the Bolivar’ at the ■Coffin Ships,’ those death traps which brave old Sam Plimsoll denounced so courageously, and in bis * Barrack-room Ballads ’ just out, be espouses the cause of Tommy Atkins in no halt hearted way. He draws two pictures of how Tommy is treated —in time of peace and in time of war, and his vigorous verse ought to drive the moral of his song deep down into the heart of the British public. In Franco, Italy, Germany, all over the Continent in fact, the private soldier in uniform is treated with exceptional favour. For him are cheaper bacoy, cheaper liquor, and above all unimpeded entrance —in uniform -to all the places of public entertainment. But in England the sight of a red coat is forbidden in the more respectable bars and restaurants, and in the higher priced seats at the theatre. That is, of oonrse—the English are so snobbish when the red coat is not that of a commissioned officer, and this grievance of Tommy’s Mr Kipling takes as his subject.

His rhymes are so crisp, the points so neatly put in Tommy’s own homely lingo that little excuse need there be for quoting them. TOMMY. I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, The publican ’e up an’ sez, ‘ We serve no redcoats here’; The girls behind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again, an’ to myself 8 O, it’3 Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an' ‘ Tommy go away ’; But it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play ; O, it’s ‘ Thank you, Mister Atkins, when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adu’t none for me ; ' They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, _ But when it comes to fightin', Lord ! they 11 shove me in the stalls ! For it's Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ . 'Tommy, wait outside’; But it’s ‘ Special train for Atkins ’ when the trooper’s on the tide, The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide ; O, it's ‘ Special train for Atkins ' when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, maltin' mock o' uniforms that guard you

while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an they re starvation cheap ; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers ivhen they re going large a bit Is five times better business than parading m full kit. Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, and ‘ Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul V But it’s 1 Thin red lines of ’eroes ’ when the drums begin to roll; The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it’s ‘ Thin red lines of ’eroes ’ when the drums begin to roll. You talk o’ better food fox us, an' schools, ' an fires, ' an all : We'il wait for extra rations if you treat us rational ; Don's mess about the cook-room .-lops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, 'an Tommy that, an * Chuck him out, the brute ! ' But it's ‘ Saviour of'is country ' when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please, An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool —you bet that Tommy sees ! Just so, ‘you bet that Tommy sees.’ That others besides Tommy see also ia proved by the difficulty with which recruits are procured for the army. The lecent committee cn aimy matters, presided over by Lord Wantage, brought to light Tommy’s numerous grievances ; the miserable mean dockings off his pay, his inferior food and a boat evils which need rectifying.

Until the army is made more popular young Englishmen of the right sort wi 1 not enlist, and the wrong sort are not wanted. Mr Kipling’s inirthßomo and yet sensible ventilation of one of Tommy’s principal grievances will do much good, much more perhaps than could have been effected by a score of heavy articles in the reviews. If the rest of ‘ Barrack.room ballads ’ are as good as that entitled ‘Tommy’ the book should be well worth baying.

A few copies of Mr George Augustus Sala’s new venture, 'Sala’s Journal’ have reached Wel'ington. The pries is a penny, the paper, printing and general get up very, very poor. But one doesn’t look for great outward beauty in a penny weekly, but to the literary matter it contains. After a ouroory glance through Mr Sala’a new paper, I confess to a feeling of disappointment. It appears to be a sort of attempt to combine ‘ Household Words ' —as it was in the old days—Tit Bit 3, Modern Society and Mrs Beeton’s Book of Cookery, and the combination is not over attractive.. But there apDears to he an almost unlimited demand for penny weeklies, and as G.A.S. oheerily congratulates himself upon over 100,000 copies of the first number having been sold, his ‘ speo.’ may turn out a good one.

Mr 3 G. A. Sala is herself a practical journalist, and has just published a very chatty volume of ‘ Distinguished Persons I Have Known.’ The book has been most extensively quoted at Homo. Two stories about* Labby ’ are worth reproduction here. The first is of the Eton days of the now celebrated Radical member for Northampton, and ia as follows : —lt happened That one fine morning Henry Labouchero having more time and money thau he know what to do with, determined that instead of treating his chums, to ‘ do the town alone. He accordingly dressed himself with great care, and feeling a sort of epicurean Robinson Crusoe, sallied forth to the largest hotel in Windsor, engaged there a private room, and ordered the water in his most lordly tone to bring him a bowl of punch. Necessarily the waiter stared at the small boy, only the punch came. Next, what was young Labouohere to do with the stuff ? ‘He opened the door and poured the whole of the punoh into the basement of the cupboard. Then, after waiting a few minutes to see whether the obnoxious liquor would make inroads upon the carpet, the pattern of which was that of golden c;owns on a regal blue ground, he raDg tho bell again, and on fclia waiter reappearing, our hero, in more authoritative tones, ordered another bowl.’ The waiter stareikwith an ‘expression of terrified amazement.’ But the second bowl came, and went where the first had gone. Young Labby was exultant—- « He took great care, however, never to go to that hotel again.’ If the rest of Mrs Sala’s stories are as good as the above, the book ought to be well worth perusal.

Sheridan’s Mrs Malaprop, with her famous blunders, such as: ‘As headstrong as an “allegory” on the hanks of the Nile’ has a latterday prototype in a Feilding lady, who is constantly getting off some remarkable saying of the Malapropixn style, her latest having reference to the Bruce-Stevena contest for the Rangitikei seat, and running somethirg like this : —* Well, Mrs SoandSo, do you know I am that put out ovei this affair. You see, there’s no woman’s “sufferings,” and I did so want to have my name placed on the “eleotrical roll,” because then, you see, I could have taken part in the “ champagne.” ’

Of newspapers it is well known that New Zealand has fully her share, but as a rule there is little originality in their titles. We have not so far imitated the Yankee in this respect, but if a paragraph in cue smart little Feilding Star bo correct, the Colony possesses one journal with a title equal in originality to anything ever evolved by the fertile brain of She Yankees. The Star says :‘ A letter from Sir James Hector in the New Zealand Cockchaffer will be published in our next issue.’ I have hunted iu vain for th"e New Zealand Cockchaffer amongst the Mail exchanges, but in vain. Perhaps it may be a new Opposition paper started in Mr • ruce’a interest in Feilding ; but as tho Star is itself a staunch supporter of Mr Stevens’ doughty opponent, there should hardly be room for another such champion. Perhaps—and this is the more probablo supposition —what the St=r meant to say was, ‘ A letter from Sir James Hector on the New Zealaud Cockchafer will be published in our next.’ That demon comp, again, eh ?

It was at Mr Kennedy Macdonald’s book sale last week—a very good sale, by the way, substantially proving the convenience of sales in the evening—and a volume of cartoons by Tenniel, the Punch artist, was tiie lot on offer. The assistant held up the book, but the cartoon at which the book opened—a cartoon showing a large lion—was torn in half, and the torn half fluttered down on to the table, * What have you got there ? ’ quoth an onlooker. ‘ A lion, sir,’ said the assistant. At which answer there ohipped in a well known legal gentleman, ‘No it’s not, it’s a lyin’ here.’ T. K.M. jocularly reprimanded the punster, and added, ‘ That’s the first time I ever beard you make a pua, Mr D , but I’ll forgive you.’ Whereupon came a short oaustic quip from another legal gentleman, an M.H.R, by the way,* And in this case Mr Auctioneer, ‘to forgive is Macdonald ’ and “to err is Devine.”’ Which was not at all bad for ‘ Waitotara.'

The man who writes letters to a newspaper and tells all his friends not to mention the fact, generally ‘gets left,’ to use a slung phrase, for in a very short time everyone knows the writer, notwithstanding his no in do plume. A few clays ago this kind of an amateur wrote a letter to a Wellington journal commenting on the overcrowding of our railway carriages, and making charges of incivility against the guards. Now, there are guards aud guards, and it has not yet been my lot to meet with the uncivil ones, not on the Wellington and Manawatu

line at any rate. However, this is just by tho way. The letterwriter of whom I have just spoken, was a frequent passenger to Khandallah, and the guards on the company’s line were waiting for him in a mild way. A few days ago their chance came. Mr Growler had bean attending an auction sale of glass and chinaware and had his purchases carefully packed in a case, whioh he with some difficulty stowed away under the seat of a first-olasß carriage, while the official looked on and ‘ winked his other eye.’ Presently guard comes through the car and, addressing tho gentleman, said, ‘I am afraid, sir, you are breaking Rule 00, which says merchandise must not be carried in the passenger cars, bat must be put in the luggage vans. As you may be aware, sir, complaints have been made that the carriages are overcrowded, aod if yon will allow me, sir, we will remove the package.’ To this Mr Growler objected. He ‘didn’t want fehle things broken,’ etc,, etc. Then said the guard with a twinkle in his eye, something to this effect -Our porter? are the very essence of carefulness, they handle the driving wheel of a pug mill with the same oare they would a snowflake, and the handling of passengers’ effects is only entrusted to men who have served an apprenticeship on the line.’ To end the matter a porter with a blue coat and white buttons, removed the box, and then came the unkindest out of all. * The company,’ continued the guard, who could not help ‘rubbing it in,’ ‘only allow Iliiib of luggage, and your case is overweight. I must charge you excess,’ aod amidst the laughter of the passengers he collected the excess, and thanking Mr Growler with a grace that would have done honour to a Chesterfield, left the carriage. *Mr Growler ’ is now rather doubtful whether it pays a man to ‘ have a slap at those confounded guards in the paper 1 dontcherknows.’ On the whole ho is inclined to think it doesn’t.