SOCIAL TOPICS.

Otago Witness, Issue 1903, 24 July 1890, Page 38

SOCIAL TOPICS.

By Cigabbtth.

" God made the country, man made the town"; but for all that the town is the nicer to live in. The country is all very well for lovers to spoon in, for artists to paint, and for poets to rave about, but as a place of residence for an ordinary nineteenth century mortal it is monotonous in the extreme.

Of course it is very nice to hear the birds singing in the morning, but that does not prevent the cats squalling through the night, for these sweet serenaders are quite as plentiful in the country as in the town ; and though you may have your milk fresh from the cow, butter fresh from the dairy, home-made bread and new-laid eggs, yet these creature comforts do not atone for the dearth of letters and newspapers, the scarcity oE water in summer and the insufferable dulneps and monotony of being cut off from intercourse with your fellow creatures. Those who are born and bred in the country are more likely to find it congenial than town-bred people, and yet many country lads and lasses leave their native hedgerows to seek their fortunes in the city ; and it is not to be wondered at, for there is a fascination in cities that is not to be found in the fields. And where does the fascination He ? Not in the cities themselves, but in the human beings, whose habitations they are. The life and stir and noise and excitement going on in cities have a charm of their own ; there are living, breathing souls on all skies ; the air is alive with the thoughts and speech of thousands; every minute brings frosh faces into view ; there is action going on all round ; and thus in the crowded streets, rubbing shoulders with our fellowmen, life seems more real than when it creeps slowly by through fields and country roads, where the days are filled with ever-recurring duties, and the weeks and months marked only by seed time and harvest. Besides, country life is not half so poetical

as people imagine; It sounds very nioe to grow your own strawberries and cream, make your own butter, and all that sort of thing, but strawberry beds want no end of weeding, and it makes one's back ache dreadfully; and cows are really, not half such picturesque creatures as they look in the fields, and it is hard work milking even half a dozen ; and as for a dairy, it is a most tiresome place to keep clean. Then if you have horses, they want as much looking after as children, so that on the whole the country, like a great many other things, is not half so good as it looks. Country folks themselves do not often go into raptures over their life. It is the townsfolk who rave most about the delights of ruralising; bat though they may rave about it, very few would exchange - their city life for the moßt beautiful sylvan dwelling. But then it is one of the peculiarities of human nature to be always wanting what it has not got, and when ifgets it to tire of it immediately. No doubt if the moon had fallen down at our feet when as children we cried for it, we should have still gone on orying when we found it was only made of green cheese. A thoroughly contented person is a rara avis. Peace and contentment are supposed to reign in the country, but it is merely supposition, human beings are the same everywhere ; and there is an an average quite as much sin going on in the country villages as in the big towns; and »as for "profiting by Nature's teachings," and being " elevated by her moods," that is all nonsense, for if you wantjto find a good specimen of an idiot you must seek for it in the country. Most of the lunatics that help to crowd the asylums are gathered from the country. Sometimes it is a lonely shepherd who for months together hears no voice but his own. He wanders oub at night among his flocks, and looks up afc the starry heavens and away over the great deep, and an awful sense of solitude steals over him. His soul cries aloud for fellowship, and for answer the wind sweeps by with a moan. He looks at the illimitable space above him, and feels he is but an insignificant atom. He grows morbid ; his mind turns in upon itself for comfort, and finds none ; by and bye the strain proves too great for his poor humanity ; that mocking fiend called madness steals away his brain, and cruel solilude has done its work.

Even Socrates, that great philosopher, did not love the country. " The fields and the trees can teach me nothing, but the men of the oity can," said he, and Lonfellow agrees with him, for he says : —

Glorious indeed is the world of God around u», but. more glorious the world of God within.

But all this will seem rank heresy to those who love their country homesteads, Nature's true lovers, who worship her in all her moods, and who wonder how anyone could prefer the close and crowded streets of cities to the green fields and fresh breezes of the country. Well, " What is one man's meat is another man's poison," and it is a good thing we do not all think alike. What would become of all the different religious sects if we did? There would be hundreds of parsons thrown out of employment, Christians would begin to love one another 1 and if anyone can imagine a more astounding state of things than that, let him speak now, or for ever hold his peace I