Echoes of the Week.

New Zealand Mail, 21 July 1892, Page 23

Echoes of the Week.

BY ‘ SCRUTATOR.’

A correspondent sends me the following : Scrutator’s idea of what would happen to a press representative who lifted his voice ‘not wisely but too well’ in the House of Representatives is a good guess. A few years ago the editor of one of the best known provincial papers in Great Britain was in the Strangers’ Gallery of the H mse of Commons during a debate. On hearing a contention of which he disapproved, he called out loudly ‘bosh.’ Inspeofcor Denniog and his myrmidons were pub into motion, and the excited gentleman was removed, and his admission as a spectator ever afterwards forbidden. He also lost his billet on the newspaper. But the irony of fate i 3 seen in the fact that the late cables record his second election as- a member of the body he had so grievou dy insulted.

I am afraid that the pretty little suburb of the Lower Hutt contains a few people who come within the * mean man ’ category, for at the annual meeting of the parishioners of St James’ there appoired on the debit side of the balance sheet the tell-tale item, * Defaced coin, 14s 6d.’ Buttons are bad, very bad ; nuts aro bad, but defaced coin is worse, in th«.t it ia so very disappointing. L'o tot up your collection to so much and then find the coins wou’t pass muster at tbo bank is enough to make even a parson—well, say naughty words.

Henry Ward Beecher used to laugh ove' a story he used to tell of how he was onee * had ’ by a smart but unscrupulous Yank. He was a stranger to Beecher, but the latter noticed the earnest attention with which he followed every word of the preacher, at the close of the sermon his emotion being apparently so great that he had to wipe his eyes. Whilst iu the vestry shortly after wards Beecher was hardly surprised to see tbo stranger enter, and flafctored himself that he had come to thank the preacher for his discourse, or to solicit some more direct spiritual comfort. The man, however, who was poorly clothed, opened up a pitiful tale. He had been muon affected by Mr Beecher’s words, he felt himself a new man, he was converted for ever from a life of sin, &0., &0., but he had made what was to him a very serious mistake. Under an impression that it was a one dollar note, he had put a ten dollar note into the collection plate. On g )ing to hia home, which was close to the church, he had discovered that he bad taken to churoh a ten dollar note instead of one representing a single dollar. He was a very poor mao, and although he would cheerfully give a dollar, a donation in error of ten dollars was too serious a mistake. He really couldn’t afford to give so much, and would it be asking too much to have the nine dollars change refunded. Mr Beecher was quite affected. The deaoon who had taken the plate round remembered the ten dollar note having been given, and had noted the liberality of the donation from a seemingly poor man, so the nine dollars were handed over and the strangerdeparted. The next day when the money was banked, I grieve to relate the tan dollar note was pronounced by the toller to be a ‘wrong ’un !—a cleverly executed forgery. Mr Beecher used to say that he registered a determination then and there that never on any occasion would he consent to change being given out of the collection plate.

But the boot is sometimes on the other leg, as in the ease of a young clergyman who reoently scored very heavily off one of his parishioners. He had entered into the holy state of matrimony, and presents were numerous and variou3. One of them, donated by the parishioner aforesaid, was a largo plated teapot of a moat palpably Brummagem origin, and worth perhaps ten to fifteen shillings. Whether as a joke, or with deliberate intent to deceive, the donor had taken off the pri e tioket which had originally been attached to the article and had replaced it by another bearing the inscription ‘ First quality, price £4 103.’ Recognising the wrotched character of the gift, our clerical friend was quite equal to the occasion and promptly betook himaalf to the shop of hi 3 parishioner (who w\ 3 a tailor) and spoke to him thuswise : 1 Look here, Mr , it’s awfully kind of you t > give me such a beautiful and co3tly present, but do you know my wife and I have three teapots already, aud really I’m too poor a mm t> h-ve such a magnificent piece of plate on tny table. With my limited st.pond, and the heavy expenses eouneoted with furnishing, I’m rather short, aud if you wouldn’t mind making me a nie-', new, blaok suit and taking baca that very expensive teapot you would be doing m 3 a real service.’ The tailor was hoist with his own petard—l mean teapot—aud seeing that the clergyman waa smarter than he had taken him for, made the best of the situation, took back that ‘ very expensive teapot,’ and, I am glad to say, made his pastor a really handsome suit.

Oar own Mrs Malaprop distinguished herself again one morning last week. She was discussing the eruption of Mt Etna, and expressed a fervent hope that ‘the poor people living near the mountain would not be overwhelmed by the ova !

The awful cyclone at Mauritius is hardly a subject for jest, but there is an element of humour in the story told by Mr Beaaut, the famous novelist, of a ourious incident which occurred during a cyclone which Mr Beaant experienced when he was a Professor at the University of Mauritius some years ago. ‘An nufortunate clergyman, a very popular resident of the island, was caught up and whirled around, and might have touched the sky with his head had he not fallen out before getting very high.’ He broke his leg, and afterwards people used to call him Elijah —why, Mr Besant pre« tends he doesn’t know—which used to make him very angry ; though surely ho should have been proud at being likened to so great a prophet.

The dreadfnlcalamity which has overtaken the town of St John’s, in Newfoundland, has created much sympathy throughout New Zealand, aud it is to be hoped that the appeal of the Bishop, who was himself burnt out, for funds to rebuild this churches, may meet with a liberal response. But one old lady, who suffers somewhat from deafness, was sadly nonplussed last Sunday in a certain Wellington ohuroh. Notice was duly given from the pulpit that ‘the collections next Sunday will be devoted to the relief o f the sufferers by the disaster at St John’s.’ The old lady had apparently not heard of the Newfoundland conflagration, and so when she got home grew quite indignant at the projected collection. ‘ What on earth have we got to do with St John’s. Why, I’m eure those Presbyterians are rich enough to help themselves.’ She had been labouring under tho delusion, dear old soul, that the St John’s referred to was St John’s, Willis street.

Last week I had au * Echo ’ referring to the modern craze for pugilism, and the advantages and disadvantages of pugilism as ‘ a profession.’ This week, a good natured correspondent sends me a translation of a Frenchman’s description of an English prize fight. It is taken from a novel by a Monsieur Conti, and while not so humorous a production as the descriptions by Frenchmen of our two national sports ‘ le fotbal ’ and ‘lo crickette,’ is sufficiently curious to merit embalming in this column. M. Conti i«, 1 am afraid, hardly to be considered an authority on British sport, for he makes some of his characters proceed to ‘ Les BigLnds,’ there to vary grouse shooting with ‘ fox banting and horse racing, but it is with his account of a typical prize fight that I have to do. He says : ‘Although la boxe, which was formerly a public amuseraent, has been for years prohibited in the United Kingdom,’ be writes, ‘professional boxers can always be got together in England for private matches Ignoble contests these ! The two men faca each other, examine eaoh other for one brief moment, their eyes flaahing out, their features contraced, then down eomo the fists, bruising each other’s bones and pounding each other’s flesh to jelly. All round excited gentlemen livid with emotion, are betting wildly, feverishly, cheering frantically, until one of the champions sinks down in a swoon. Then comes an entr’acte. Goblets of gin or whisky are held out to the two brutes, and drained by them at one draught. They wash off the blood running freely over bumps, and cracks, and swellings, over strains and sprains ; one spits out a tooth, another pushes back an eye which had started from its orbit (!). The damaged jawß being repaired as well as can be roughly done, the struggle recommences, fierce, savage, made keener by shouts of encouragement, yells of enthusiasm, mad betting ; all this spurs on the antagon’sts, revives th ir failing strength, stimulates their pride.” Here is the final scene : ‘Poor Jack ia lying senseless on the ground, felled like au ox, his hands one mass of blood, his face like pulp, his upper body like a network of red rivulets streaming from nose and ears and mouth, &c. A ghastly bundle soon to be placsd on Borne vehicle aud carried away He and his adversary, however, after beiug swathed in bandages and tied up like mummies for a few weeks, will probably be all light again.’ The account ia dramatic enough in all conscience, and ha 3 a flavour of blood about it which would delight those wh ) like Mr Rider Haggard’s stories, but those ‘goblets of gin’ are a little too much for the reader to swallow. The French novelist ia surely as imaginary in that detail as was Mr Grubb when he alluded to the awful consequences t} athletes of eating beef steaks. With this exception, however, I am told that the description is by no means iuaccurate.

Sometime ago Mr Gladstone had something to say about the relative power possessed by the platform and the press. If I remember rightly .he considered the platform was of the two the more powerful. If Sir Charles Diike’s complete victory at the Forest of Dean over his oantankerous oritic Mr ‘Review of Reviews’ Stead can be taken as a fair criterioD, then certainly the platform beats tho prees. It is not stated who was Sir Charles’ opponent at the election, but for months, aye for the last two years, Mr S.ead has bitterly opposed Dilke in print. Nob only did he belabour him in the * Review of Reviews.’ but he carried his attacks into other magazines and pipers. No man was apparently so politically killed—on paper —as Sir Charles, but, lo and behold, when the real test comes, he ‘bobs up serenely’ with a majority of over 2000 ! ‘ What about the boasted power of the press aft«r thid ?’ So many will say, but bo it remembered that such venomous abuse as that of Mr ‘ Small Gal Stead’ defoa’s its own ends, and it Would be an insult Co respectable journalists to infer that because Mr Stead has failed to drive Sir Charles Dilke out of politics, therefore all press criticism of public men is powerless.

The question of whatiea fitandproperspace of time for a juryman to devote to his lunch haa been agitating the minds of some of the ‘note' writers in the English weekly papers. It appears that Mr Justice Wright presided over a court in which a juryman, when the time for lunch was over, was cou spicuous by his ahsenco. When taken to taffi for having kept tho court waiting, the culprit actually dared to propound the terrible heresy that ‘ half an hour was not enough for lunch.’ The Judge, however, held a differeat opinion, and fined the man £lO- - the business of the day waa over tho explanation was tendered that the man w»3 a foreigner and did not understand instructions. This the Judge could easily understand, aud so he remitted the fiae.’ But the affair had raised tho question whether half au hour is really long enough for lunch, the majority of the opinion on the subject appears to be that it is not. What do my readers think ? Certainly it is a very bad thing to bolt one’s food, and until all jurymen can be guaranteed to possess perfect teeth or very small appetites, perhaps it will bo fairer to a somewhat illused brotherhood

to make the time an hoar. Mr Gladstone, it is said, owes his absence from ill-health to his perfect digestion, which in its turn he owes to the fact that he deliberately chews every morsel of meat he eats no less than twenty times before he swallows it. Now, if the G.O.M. is drawn on a jury to whom the half hour rate is applied, he will either have to break his rule and ruin his digestion or risk being pulled up by the Judge. By the way, a Q 0. In court when the Judge inflicted the fine made a witty but some* what cruel joke. *Ah !’ said he, * the gentleman has had his dinner, and now the Judge has given him his dessert.’