PASSING NOTES.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 7647, 21 August 1886, Page 4

PASSING NOTES.

(From Otago Witness).

Unless the question pending in the City Council is the impeachment or attainder of John Barnes, one hardly sees to what end the portentous proceedings of the past week are tending. We have now three voluminous reports ou the causes, occult and visible, of the Dowling street accident. The chairmen of committees have reported, the city surveyor has reported, his Worship the Mayor has reported. The three reports have been printed, by order, in the city newspapers, at the public cest—good for the city newspapers, but not so good, one would think, for the citizens! Cvi bono? This municipal memorandumiad, making confusion worse confounded, whither does it all I tend? Is anybody going to be hanged? On

that inducement the public might perhaps be moved to wade through these incrimatory and recriminatory outpourings—not even omitting that of John Barnes, which, judged by a cursory glance, seems, by its numbered verse divisions and Old Testament style, to resemble a copious extract from the Chronicles of Gotham. Boiled down, these reports may be compressed into three sentences. The city surveyor says, »It wasn't me !" the mayor says, "It wasn't me !" and the chairmen of committees say, " It wasn't I we!" Let them toss up for it, then—the loser to have his choice between being hanged from the clock tower and being required to fill up the Dowling street cutting at his own expense.

The session is over, and terminated in a flourish of backhanded compliments. There was, as is the custom, a debato about nothing, and every hon. member expressed gleefully his caudid opinion about things in general. Major Atkin - sou thought that the Government had " sold their birthright for a mess of pottage " and had been a party to sundry "conspiracies." Mr Moss was generally severe upon Sir R. Stout, and stated roundly that he had " yet his spurs to win." The Treasurer spoke discursively—too discursively, most of his friends will think and complained principally of the efforts that j had been made to seduce his chief—our own Sir Robert—from his side, Mr Wakefield) I

Even the present " bad snap," to use an Americanism, may be extenuated if not justified. Man being by constitution a discontented animal, is prone to grumble at his lot under all and any circumstances. Thus, as there is no serious grievance in the air save the tardy approach of quarter day, I am overwhelmed this week by complaints about the weather. To repeat once more a very threadbare remark, I did not manufacture this weather, and if I did, could not have improved upon the present article. " The rain it raineth every day" sighs one correspondent. What would the man have ? It cannot rain more often than every day and all day, and under the present atmospherical conditions it cannot rain less often. So much I can clearly perceive without the least assistance from Captain Edwin or any other professional meteorologist. Therefore, why not ba content ? Life in Dunedin during the past week or fortnight has to the rightminded been full of pleasurable occupation and excitement. Most men have been compelled to put in some few hours a day in merely alternating their apparel, and at every necessaryceremonyof thiskind they should have been filled with increased thankfulness that Providence had supplied them with changes of raiment —three, six, a dozen, or whatever number they might need, per diem. Then, is not the promenade full of unusual interest this weather ? The wind may for the moment be straight ahead or on the quarter, but no man can predict with certainty the direction from which it will take him at the next street corner, nor how his umbrella may be pleased to behave at the critical juncture. He mutters a brief petition, and dashes round. He may weather the blast and he may not, but at anyrate all the finest qualities of his nature will be put sharply to the test and get exercise, which perhaps they need. There is further, speculation as to whether he will or will not be able to ford the next gutter, swollen to a roaring torrent, to say nothing of the supreme query as to whether the basement at home will or will not be flooded, and the maids iv hysterics. This weather, you may depend, is considerately sent to provide us with a topic of interest in view of the imminent close of the Parliamentary session.

That musical pre-Raphaelite—that apostle of the rennaisance in poetry—Mr Algernon C. Swinburne, appears to have been handling Mr Gladstone entirely without gloves, as is the way with men of rhyme when they grow thoroughly angry. "See," says Mr Swinburne, "the long tongue lick the dripping hand tlat smokes and reeks of slaughter." This is certainly vivid and

pictorial, and must have been the reverse of soothing to the great Liberal leader. Quite needless to ask who was the possessor of the long tongue that servilely licked the reeking hand of the Irish assassin. Mr Swinburne's chief (juarrel with Mr Gladstone throughout is on account of tile length of his tongue. He is a " man of words," an " old man eloquent," a

"tonguester." The poet's second complaint against the ex-premier is that he has neglected to become " extinct" long ago, and that when he has talked of retirement it was invariably to the accompaniment of a wink. " Many a year," says Algernon C. S., with natural indignation,

Many a year that priceless light of life has trembled, we remember, On the platform of extinction—unextinct ; Many a month has been for him the long year's last I —life's calm December. Can it be that he who said so, sayiug so, winked ? It is possible that he did, and the Gladstonian wink must have been gall and wormwood to his opponents, who were hungering that this "priceless light of life" should be snuffed out, in order that they might take office. Mr Swinburne's lines are splendid, as is usually the case, and their ferocity really matters less than appears at first sight. If Mr Gladstone's friends are shocked at the poet's denunciation of their idol, they must remember that to shock people is part of this poet's mission, and that he is the same man who, a few years ago, discoursed as follows :—

" They cry out, thine elect, thine aspirants to heavenward, whose faith is as flame; 0 thou, the Lord God of our tyrants, they call thee their God by thy name, By thy name that in hell-fire was written, and burned at the point of thy sword, Thou art smitten, thou God, thou art smitten; thy death is upon thee, 0 Lord. And the love-song of earth, as thou diest, resounds through tlie wiud of her wings— ' Glory to Man in thehighest! for Man is the master of things.'" Compared with this merciless raillery directed at something held by men more sacred than even the name of Gladstone, it will be seen that Mr Swinburne's latest effort is mild. He was in good humour at the time, and merely dealt XV. E. G. a friendly smack in passing, saying more n sorrow than in anger, " Why don't you shut your mouth ? and why, by all that's perplexing, don't you die ?"

A correspondent sends me the following :— Dear C.,—A friend of mine who thinks he knows and possibly does know something about music, discharged into my ears the other evening a jeremiad over the low state of the divine art in this city. His lament, as nearly as I can reproduce it, ran as follows:—

" We care nothing about music, really, in Dunedin. Witness the history of our musical societies. The conductor of ono of them has just been sued for £40 odd, cost of music aud hire of piano, aud has been left by tbe members to pay it. Not long before, he was sued for a big advertising account. The other society is in straits, and hovers perpetually on the verge of insolvency. A community in which musical societies cannot live cares nothing for music, since to get good music you must have societies. Amateurs must combine, co-operate, clubbing together their several mites of knowledge and taleut, and by workiug together educate themselves and each other. Personal vanity is the ruin of our musical societies. At every concert of the ' Choral' places must be found for a dozen or more of solo singers. To suit the capacity of these ambitious members the society is kept occupied with light ' cantatas,' the musical merit of which is little above that of a ' service of song.' The great oratorios are neglected. Once a year we have the ' Messiah.' When shall we hear a symphony of Beethoven's or Haydn's ? Never, in Dunedin. Our instrumentalists won't combine to form an orchestral society which might attack the great works of the great masters. Jealousy and vanity split them into coteries; they prefer to shiue at 'smoke concerts' and in striug quartettes. It is melancholy to see two or three hundred intelligent people going to a concert of chamber music every alternate Saturday afternoon, in the full belief that they are thereby showing their sympathy with art. Chamber music at the best is always mediocre art. They ' hear one or two good piano solos and three or '

four string quartettes. Unless the performers are cousummate artists —which ours are not—a succession of three or four string quartettes is a case for the police. After listening to 20 minutes of string quartering, I defy any man to tell one movement from another. Their squeaking, scraping, and fizzing suggests catscuts, sir, nothing less—a contest of enraged toms and tabbies. By way of variety you. have a 'cello solo. Only a very great artist can get solo musicoutofa'cello. The performance remindsme of Dr Johnson's saying about a dog's walking upon his hind legs. Tho wonder is not that he does it well, but that he does it at all. No, sir; music is pretty nearly dead in Dunedin. Atthe rate we are going we shall soon be capable of nothing higher than church choirs, volunteer bands, and ' smoke concerts' —worst bathos of all "

impetuous as ever, roso to the occasion with the

remark that Sir J. Vogel had "talked tho most arrant nonsense,"_that he was "an alien" and had behaved as such, that ho had " sunk to the tho lowest position any Minister had ever held in that House"; and that the Premier was a statesman " with drawbacks."

Mr Bryce was milder, He merely thought the Premier " peculiar," and opined that " tho Government should sink down on their kueesand apologise for tho session in sackcloth and ashes." To this indictment the Premier has replied by putting up the shutters and leaving tho cud of the matter to be chewed by constituencies during the recess. That they will not "chew up" the Government in the operation is his prayer—and ours of course.

Nothing too hard can be said of the weather wo havo been enduring for the last few days, but not even a week's wet north-easter can reconcile ono to hearing our climate accused unjustly. The following sentence is from an article in the London Spectator:—

There are hundreds of books about New Zealand, but just show us a passage in one of them mentioning that the first speciality of New Zealand is wind—an endless, remorseless, persistent blowing of air from the Pacific, which even residents never cease to notice, and which to uew comers occasionally makes life almost unendurable.

This sentence occurs in an article lamenting that books of travel are not sufficiently "impressionist"—in'other words, do not convey to English readers the first impressions felt by a visitor. The first and last "impression" of visitor or resident in New Zealand, it seems, is wind—"an endless, remorseless, persistent blowing" which "makes lifo almost unendurable." In charity to the editor we must suppose either that "New Zealand" is a misprint for "Patagonia," or that he has read something about themeteorological peculiarities of Wellington and supposes Wellington to be synonymous with New Zealand. If neither supposition is admissible, then we must fall back on the general fact that the world—the newspaper world in particular—is sadly given to lee-iu'. There is, however, one other possibility—perhaps what is running in the editorial mind is some confused reminiscence of Anthony Trollope's satire about the colonial tendency to " blow." It would not be the first time tbat a myth has grown out of a figure of speech,

This is a veritable jeremiad, whether justified or not by the facts my knowledge of art hardly enables me to say. If the writer will send his name and address I will forward it to Messrs Scherek and Barth, who would probably like to have a word or two with him.

There were high jinks at the Carnival on Saturday night. "Civis" appeared there in his own person, ascended the platform amidst thunderous applause, and made a speech. No authentic account of this unprecedented event having been published, though many erroneous rumours are abroad, I shall here set down exactly what occurred. Having on previous evenings pretty well explored all the other follies of the Carnival, on Saturday I ventured into the cave of the sorceress Caterwaula. That's where I made the mistake. No sooner had that gifted woman grabbed my shilling than she uttered a shriek which rang through the building from skylight to cellar. "Tou are 'Civis'!" she exclaimed—"you are, you are!" flinging herself upon my neck and holding me tight. Alarmed at her cries, a number of lords-in-waiting rushed in, followed by Alfred the Great, William the Normau, Robinson the dentist, and several Plantagenets Concealment was hopeless. My long-preserved incognito had been penetrated at last, and I resigned myself to be hoisted shoulder-high and carried into the presence of the Queen, seated in state on the platform, surrounded by her maids of honour, her beef-eaters, and her Leicester-an imposing group! Having been informed who I was, her majesty was with difficulty restrained from prostrating herself at my feet and clasping my knees. "This is too much happiness!" she exclaimed,—"But why, oh why, illustrious 'Civis,' didst thou write of the youths who flock to these our revels that they were 'young donkeys'?" "Madam," said I, "the term 'young donkeys seemed preferable to 'young asses' as being the softer, but at yonr gracious bidding ,t shall be changed. I w ;n make it wild asses,' which is scriptural" "Nay prithee," interposed the Queen, "it shall stay as it is. The words of ' Civis" cannot be mended Quod scripsit, scripsit." [Queen Bess, I was pleased to note, bid not forgotten her Latin] "Bnt, good 'Civis,' " she continued, "speak to the multitude, whose impatience will not much longer be restrained." Turning then to the crowd, and hushing them into silence by a wave of my hand, I spake much as follows • ift'p? o nL PJ°f e' Wt have c <»ne bither night after night, at much personal expense, drawn by an irresistible desire to revive our™ ing recollections of Magnall's Historical Questions. (Tumultuousapplause.) Blforeonr eyes has passed the long and glorious na geaut of English royalty. >rantfccTeeii£ ) We have seen Queen Elizabeth, with subhmi superior^ to chronology, succeeding her <Z successors and receiving at her court James I Charles 1., and Charles 11. (delirious, charing)" We have seen her exchanging court bows with Henry VHI.-toucbing example of domestic hs six wives, like aPresbyterian elder gointrto kirk at the head of his family on a SX-7 We have seen the crowned heads of ten centuries threading the mazes of a Scotch reel, Edward, the Confessor k.ckingup his heels with Catherine of Arragon, and Bloody Mary jigging it with Bily the Norman. We have ffi e ttTese lad.es of the Elizabethan court, who are as good as they are beautiful-(- You darling !" W several maids of honour)-sacrifici D g their val™ able time at the call of charity aud^rel^on to youngoß6B^ Ph th6m °a thebr^ts of

But here the constantly growing applause became a continuous roar, and the sentence was never finished. Thereupon, preparing to take my leave, I turned to the queen, fell on one knee, squaring the other into a seat in the manner of a bottle-holder at a prize fight, and extended my arms if to em „ brace the whole assembled court. Nothing' now remained but to submit myself to the embraces of the mob, whose excitement was growing dangerous. Thrice was I carried in triumph round the hall, and then under pretext of wishing to make another speech, I got them to set me down on the counter of the refreshment stall. Once free, I sprang across the counter, upsetting in my passage a tray of sandwiches, three waitresses, and the coffee urn; in another moment I had gained the door and made good my escape. [N.B.—This account may be regarded as strictly true in every particular. AU others are to bo rejected.]

Civis,