Things From the Empire City

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIII, Issue XXIII, 8 December 1894, Page 534

Things From the Empire City

BY TB6 RUTOGRRTIG IDGGR

Why Mr Tompkins Tyrrell Declined

There is a youth in the Nail, Screw, and Rivet Department, Tompkins Tyrrell by name, who came to the conclusion, two or three years ago that he was entitled, by

Promotion, reason of his transcendent talent and official ability, to promotion—and when a man feels that way there is but one thing to be done, namely, to bring his case under the notice of the Government, and to keep on bringing it as long as it has any legs left to travel to the Government on. As a Liberal Government happened to be in power when Mr Tompkins Tyrrell became aware that he was wasting a great deal of clerical sweetness on the desert and dreary air of Room No. 171, Top Flat, Government Buildings, it struck him that it wouldn’t be a bad thing at all to proclaim himself a Liberal and to post himself up in Liberalism—right up to the handle if possible. Mr T. Tyrrell at this time, you may be sure, had very hazy, confused, and mixed ideas as to the exact style of thing a real Liberal was ; but, anyhow, one can learn almost anything if one but try ; and he felt certain of getting somewhere near high Liberal water mark, by study and perseverance and intense application. So he laid in a heavy stock of reading matter, to begin with. He got together the speeches, bills, and writings of W. P. Reeves, Richard Cobden, Richard Seddon, Lord Macaulay, Julius Vogel, William Pitt, Robert Stout, Captain Russell, Dean Swift and Baron Munchausen. Also he purchased and meditated over the ‘Fables of /Eiop’—having frequently heard the story of the man and his ass mentionad in connection with true Liberalism : indeed, he had more than once heard it said that a real Liberal was a man who all his life tried to please everybody, and who never at any time pleased anybody, so that the end of him genet ally was that he carried his load of Liberalism on bis own back to the edge of the river and heaved it, with a heavy sigh, into the water —and he might afterwards heave himself in, for all anybody cared. And, to dissipate in some degree the gloom of these studies, he became a subscriber to the New Zealand Times. He read all those articles in the New Zealand Times, daily, and felt his mind expand more and more, in consequence. Further, he went on to declare that he agreed with every word that the editor, in those leaders, said, althongh (between you and me) neither the editor himself, nor yet any other mortal clearly understands one quarter of what the Neiv Zealand Times is driving at. However, that is wholly unnecessary. There are no such things as examination papers in Liberalism ; if there were, I really shouldn’t care to say what would happen. Very good—but we are all this time forgetting Mr Tompkins Tyrrell. He kept on, all the time studying Liberalism, reading Liberalism — meditating over the speeches and writingsand bills of W. P. Reeves and bringing his case under the notice of the Government. What he wanted was a more responsible position, better pay, less hard graft. He wrote dozens of letters to the Government, setting forth his extreme Liberalism and his multitudinous causes of complaint. He wrote to Mr Ward— introducing himself to that honourable gentleman as 'the well-known Liberal, Mr Tompkins Tyrrell.’ The Postmaster-General, in his short, rapid, and decisive way, said, ‘Tompkins Tyrrell? Tompkins Tyrrell? Never heard of the man-write and tell him the General Post Office Register is as chock full of names as a Union boat is of passengers at excursion times.’ He wrote to Sir Patrick Buckley. Sir Patrick Baid to his secretary, • Who is this O’Tyrrell ? Write to him and say that the Colonial Secretary’s Department won’t have a vacancy for the next twenty years—except somebody dies, which is very unlikely.’ He wrote to Mr Seddon. The Premier just glanced at the signature and he said to Mr Hamer, • There’s a man named Tompkins wants a job. Tell him he can get work with the cooperative parties at Eketahnna.’ This sort of thing went on for ever so long. And by and bye all the members of the Government knew peifectly well who Mr Tompkins Tyrrell was ! They took jolly good care to give Room 171, Top Flat, Government Buildings, a wide berth. They even got to be familiar with

Tyrrell’s clerical and by no means aristocratic or characteristic handwriting. At last Tyrrell worried Reeves, M’Kenzie, Ward, Buckley and Seddon to such an extent that the whole five of them made up their minds, for the sake of peace and quietness, and to get rid of a constant source of worry and annoyance — to do something for Tyrrel. And it so happened that precisely at this time an opening occurred, which, (the Ministers thought) would be just the very thing that would suit Tyrrell; and the billet (if you will pardon the word) was offered to him. It was rather a nice billet—in the Nail, Screw, and Rivet Department at Dunedin. Tyrrell wrote a very singular letter in reply ; he said he was quite comfortable where he was ; and declined with thanks the proffered promotion. Why did he do so ? That’s j ust what I want to know ; but the general opinion in the office is, that the study of the Bills, speeches and writings of W. P. Reeves, has driven the man clean daft.

A Slight Mistake.

The Criminal Sessions opened here a few days ago, before His Honor the Chief Justice. There was no address to the Grand

Jury on this occasion—His Honor, saw nothing worthy of comment in a few trumpery cases of small embezzlements ; the passing of valueless cheques for sums of no account, and petty thefts and larcenies. Anything like a sensational trial we haven’t had in Wellington for several years. And this reminds me—strange to say—of an incident that occurred a good few years ago, that had nothing at all to do with courts of trials. It was evening—it always is evening when anything truly sublime or supremely ridiculous takes place. It was evening : the train from Greymouth to Brunnerton ought to start in a very few minutes. A howling wind was blowing through the Grey Gorge, and there didn’t seem to be admirers to appreciate it. Nobody, ap patently, was going towards Brunnerton. One solitary and elderly gentleman was pacing up and down the railway platform in a meditative sort of way. There didn’t appear to be another soul about. Presently I grew impatient : I asked the elderly gentleman—whom I took to be the station master—whether he wasn’t going to open the ticket office and ring the bell ? He said : ‘ Young man you are labouring under a mistake. I don’t open ticket offices, and 1 don’t ring bells.’ I replied : 'No mistake at all, my friend ; no time to lose either : start the train like a good fellow.’ He then kindly informed me that he was waiting for the train himself : that he was Sir James Prendergast, Chief Justice of New Zealand.

The Wellington Public Library.

Having been considerably shaken by recent earthquakes, the Wellington Public Library Building has been strengthened by iron grips, bars and pillars, and is now re-opened after

nndergoing a thorough renovation. The public are slowly realising the enormous advantage they have in possessing such an institution as this is. The number ot subscribers is gradually increasing, and the number of free readers is already perhaps too large. For when a library and reading room of this kind is thrown open to all comers, it is in the nature of things that some objectionable persons, not always clean, or entirely sober, will assert their right to make use ot it —and very often they do nob know how to do so. So

that it sometimes happens that very recent periodicals and publications are in so dilapidated and maltreated a condition that very superfine persons—like myself for instance—would hesitate to take them in their hands. The Sydney Bulletin appears always to be in tatters, and to be in the hands of a man, who, I am qnite sure, is utterly unable to comprehend its brilliancy. Other illustrated journals fare scarcely better : some newspapers, too, are cut and backed disgracefully : sometimes whole articles are cut clean out of magazines. To stop this sorb of bhing, and have the word 'free ’ over the door at the same time, isn’t easy—it never is. All free libraries have to count upon this difficulty, and to try and cope with it. In Sydney a policeman is always on duty at the Sydney Library. Anyone at all like a loafer is told bo go home and have a wash, and brash himself up a bit, before he can be allowed to enter. But, notwithstanding snch drawbacks as I have above referred to, the library is an immense boon to Wellington citizens ana visitors, and is conducted in a manner perfectly admirable. The City Corporation have been singularly fortunate in their selection of public library officials. I have never met, anywhere, a gentleman more thoroughly acquainted with books, and the book world, than Mr Rowe, the chief librarian, is; and when one remembers that be is a born New Zealander, one can only wonder bow he obtained hie universal book knowledge.

Mr Jobson's Christmas Goose.

‘ Woodbine Villa,’ the residence of Mr Mark Jobson, at Thorndon, is (like most homes at this time of year) just at present in a somewhat disarranged condition. The usual pre-

parations for Christmas, have, for the time being, disturbed the internal domestic econony of the cottage. Painters, and general male and female renovators are about the premises i nobody knows precisely where to put one’s hand on anything that happens to be wanted. Misses Julia and Jemima Jobson have taken possession of the dining-room table, and the Wellington Post’s leading article against Mr Seddon of last evening has been cut into a most extraordinary scoop shape by those twoyoung ladies, and tacked on to a piece of very gauzy material, which I understand is part of a sleeve to be worn by Miss J alia at the Christmas dinner. Everybody appears to be busy atsomethingor other—scrubbing, cleaning, hanging up, or pulling down. The only being taking things easy at ‘ Woodbine Villa’is a very plump goose roamingover the back yard, and this goose has that satisfied, contented expression of countenance peculiar to all geese who happen, for the time being, to be pluming themselves under a prosperous sunshine. Jobson’s goose evidently thinks Jobson’s quarters the pleasantest quarters it has had during its short and varied life in this world ; and looks upon the Jobsons as the kindest people it has had to do with. Not so long ago it was caged up in a stilling narrow coop, on the deck of a steamer, with its head j utting up in a silly sort of way through wooden bars. A few days afterwards a man trundled it along Willis-street, holding it up by the legs and dragging its bill along the pavement. But now it has the run of a whole backyard, lots to eat, plenty of straw, and a Thorndon Lake to paddle in—in the shape of Mrs Jobson’s largest tub. X knew a youth in this city who recently lived in a fool’s paradise, like Jobson’s Christmas goose ! *He dwelt alone in a world of moan, and his soul was a stagnant tide ’ — until he met the gentle Eulalie. She treated him with all tender kindness, and strung him on and on —saying all the time that she cared for him only. And when she had got him fast, and had fooled him to the top of his bent for a whole year, she cut him smilingly and cruelly, and killed him stone dead 1