ETCHINGS FROM THE EMPIRE CITY

New Zealand Graphic, Volume X, Issue 6, 11 February 1893, Page 134

ETCHINGS FROM THE EMPIRE CITY

BY TB6 RirreGRRTIG IDE.6R-

Before a Queer Curtain.

The curtain at the Opera House (our leading theatre) groans audibly as it rises to display the drop scene behind it, and then one wonders how the cultivated audience in front can patiently endure Mother Seigel and her syrup, Mother Somebody else and her abominably effective remedies, not to mention the Mexican Restorer, and the tricopherous of the New York man, bound infallibly to prevent your hair falling cut if you aren’t already getting bald, and quite as useful as any known remedy for preventing you from looking venerable until you desire to appear so— i.e., when you can’t help yourself. In the centre there is a small bit of New Zealand scenery, like the emerald in the appalling shirt front of Jackson the pugilist, and all the rest of the front looks like a vast hoarding. I have seen this theatre quite full, on various occasions. What struck me most about the audience was, the equanimity with which they endured this incongruous display of the virtues of such incongruous wares ; the De Vere like impassiveness of the dress circle, and the almost total absence of any rough boisterousness on the part of the pit. Uncles and Aunts and Caste were the two last peiformances of the Holloways, who have just left us, Max O’Rell taking up the running. The former piece is called a comedy : it is really a prolonged farce, very amusing in some of its situations, but affording no scope at all for the art of the actor. Caste, of course, everybody knows. But everybody has not perhaps seen the Polly and Esther Eccles of the Misses Deorwyn 1 Where, I wonder, do the Polly Eccleses of real life get to ; and what becomes of that inexhaustible fund of vivacity and exuberant spirits Polly (as expounded by Miss Deorwyn) displays on the stage, but which nobody dreams of observing anywhere else ? Where do the»e airy, fairy, witty, volatile creatures spend the day 1 We see Polly on the stage, full of humour, of merriment, of artless cleverness, of liveliest wit. Off the stage, however, she is the exception. The weariful woman is the rule.

lhe mention of Max O Kell suggests the Smythe and agent—the much-travelled Smythe. And a Seddon. very smart man too, if not so great a humourist as the Frenchman. Smart as Smythe is, there are a deal smarter men in this country : even at such a place as Kumara there is, or was, an individual who could

and did—beat Smythe hollow in the quality of smartness —an ordinary mining storekeeper dealing in picks and shovels. This man, whose name is Sam Pollock (he is in Auckland at the present moment) was, to be sure, not altogether alone in a business which Smythe won’t forget in a hurry. He hadassistance from another gentleman—a gentleman considerably smarter than Smythe and the storekeeper put together—no less a person in fact than Mr Richard John Seddon, who, at that time, was also a Kumara merchant, and I really believe Dick (as he was called then, as now, in those parts) was at the bottom of the sell that was perpetrated on Smythe—although, to this day he protests the contrary. Any way Mr Smythe came to Kumara with Charles Clarke and the Tower of London, Smythe being, even then, higher than the Tower. Kumara, in that remote period, was a-building : very little of a town was to be seen : there were some hotels, and stores, and a few other shops, and such street as the main street was then, was as silent as the grave, and as lonely, all day. It is so, always, now ; it has always been so—always been so, till sundown. So that, when Smythe arrived, about noon, at Kumara, the aspect of the place was not encouraging. After dinner Mr Smythe thought he would look around and see where * lheiush’was—see the multitude he had heard of. Mr Seddon accompanied him in his peregrinations, and showed Smythe dreary wastes ot pine trees, the trickling waters, and the various other natural beauties of the new diggings. The |M>etic mind of Smythe listened to the note of the bell bird ; but he asked Mr Seddon repeatedly where all the

people were? He (Smythe) was all the time thinking of a possibility of empty benches in the evening, and Mr Seddon, I do believe, was thinking of—well I don’t know, really, what he could have been thinking of. Anyhow, he didn’t tell Smythe where the miners were. But he did try to re assure the long travelled one ; and to cheer him, by expressing his confidence in there being a good audience on the two occasions of the Rev. Charles’s lecture, and even went so far as to say that he believed there would be £5O in the house the first night. • Nonsense’ says Smythe—‘ the place is a dreary desolation : I wish I could find somebody who would give me £3O for the takings.’ • Well,’says Seddon, ‘ I don’t know about that; but you will have a better house than you think.’ So in these frames of minds they strolled back to the township, it being then getting on towards evening, and sat down together in Gilbert Stewart’s hotel. Presently, who should drop in, quite accidentally, but Sam Pollock and—also in the most accidental manner—he broke forth in praise of the Tower of London— * I’m sure,’ said he, ‘ we’ll have a good house—l shouldn’t wonder if there was £3O in it, this very night ’ says Pollock. ‘ Will you give me £3O for it,’ asked Smythe. ‘ Well,’says Sam, ‘it’s not exactly in my line’ (and here he told a crammer, tor anything was in his line that was likely to return cent, per cent.) * not in my line ; but as I have given an opinion, I must back it.’ In five minutes the whole thing was settled and Pollock bought the Tower, for the two nights, for £7O. On each occasion the theatre was crowded, and Pollock cleared £5O by the transaction. ‘Where on earth were all these men during the day ? asked Smythe of Seddon. ‘ Why, down below, of course,’ said Seddon. ‘ And why didn’t you tell me that before ?’ asked Smythe. ‘ I thought,’ replied Richard John ‘ that every fool knew that miners worked below !’ I don’t think the overmuch travelled one ever treated a West Coast man with ordinary civility, after this.

_. ~ There is a creditable movement here, to perSir Harry ’ r petuate, in some suitable and enduring form, Atkinson. , . , ft > the memory of the distinguished soldier, statesman, and financier who, for so long a period, presided over the destinies of New Zealand. Some of us, no doubt, always thought that it was a misfortune for this country that his party did for such a number of years steer the ship of State. Nevertheless everybody admired the Leader, — who was, if the truth must be told, considerably more of a Liberal than a Tory, besides being a brave and honest man. As for the latter quality his poverty proclaimed it. He sometimes displayed a peculiar sort of crisp wit, just as Gladstone does (once in three years perhaps). I waited on him one time, about rating Crown lands. We were, in fact, a begging deputation. I said that the thing that surpiised us most of all, was the fact, that he, who was the first to see the necessity of rating Crown lands, should now propose to repeal that admirable measure? He turned his head sharply and looked enquiringly and steadily into my eyes. The bluntness of the speech seemed to tickle his fancy. Presently his countenance relaxed ; and a smile stole over his features as he said, ‘ When I make a mistake I like to admit it myself as soon as I discover it, and before anybody else discovers it. But,’ he added, with quiet emphasis, ‘it is very larely indeed that I do admit I have made a mistake.’ We saw it was useless to continue a begging mission with such a man. So we assured him that the whole system of social Government would infallibly break down : that the entire district would collapse, and that our boundless resources of trees and scenery would be undeveloped for a whole generation—and so bid the Major good bye

1 do believe I have Ah Ching on the brain. lnß ' Just a while ago Dr. MacGregor, Inspector of Asylums, went by. He gave a side glance and looked down (like Longfellow’s maiden fair to see) —and turned into Lyon and Blair’s booksellei’s shop in Lambton Quay. He was probably thinking of Happiness—the odd spells of happiness that the insane are supposed to experience now and then, while rational beings have to seek for such a

thing all their lives, never finding it. But I was thinking of Ah Ching. Thinks I, he will enquire for the very latest work on carpenlery, so as to be perfectly familiar with the most modern construction of window sills. W. P. Reeves passed along looking more profoundly anxious to buy a gridiron (and so do a good turn for humanity at large) than usnal. Heaven only knows how many things he was thinking of. But I was thinking of Ah Ching. Thinks I, there he goes ; he is thinking of how very little the New Zealand Times said about Ah Ching and how much better it would have been if it had said nothing—or else considerably more. On Sunday I went to St. Peter’s, and saw there many medical men. They pretend to be reading the gospel of the day, thinks I : they are really thinking about Ah Ching. The Rev. Mr Waters gave out his text : Matthew, something, sixth verse. He was thinking of the souls of Christian people. I was thinking of the fragile body of the pagan Ah Ching.