TOPICS OF THE WEEK.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVI, Issue XV, 11 April 1896, Page 408

TOPICS OF THE WEEK.

rilllE other evening there was a select though small 1 congregation of men in the smoking-room of a certain house in Auckland, and the talk turned for a time upon cooking. There certainly is a clear connection between cooking and at least one kind of smoking. 1 think it was that novel kitchen in the Gas Company’s office in Wyndham-street that started the talk. Some of the men had 1 looked in ’ to see what was going on, and one of them, who confessed that he had never been in a kitchen before in his life, waxed eloquent on the charm of that kitchen and the subtle fascination he had found in watching the cooking operations. ‘My wife,’ remarked a married man with a smile, ‘ strongly objects to the admittance of men to those cooking seances. She thinks that such a proceeding will not only tend to introduce discord into households, but will shake the autocracy of woman in the kitchen. She says that the husband will come home and grumble worse than ever at the domestic dinner, asking why the wife doesn't have some of the nice things they cook up at the Gas Company’s. Then if the dinner is a minute late he’ll quote the Gas Company again. “Didn’t I seeadinnerof 20 courses cooked therein halfan hour, and you have had all the dayto prepare a jointaud two vegetables and they aren’t ready yet.” Then on the strength of his having seen this dinner cooked, he will want to come into the kitchen and let his wife see how things should be done. No, my wife holds that cooking shows should be, like some of Dr. Emily Ryder’s lectures, for women only, and that if a man ventures to put his nose inside, he should be summarily ejected.’

Then I joined the couversation. ‘ Women are not good cooks,’ I said with a dogmatism born of deep study of the two subjects Women and Cooking—taken together and separately. ‘ They look upon cooking only as a means, never as an end. They cook that their men-folk may eat and be satisfied—the last they rarely are. But women have not the artist’s pride in cooking—in the work for its own sake. They are lukewarm in the doing of it—of course I allude to their mental condition, their physical could scarcely be lukewarm in front of the kitchen range. These remarks of mine are meant to apply to the woman of to-day. Of the woman of ancient times I cannot speak from personal observation since an accident of birth—in regard to date—has, I regret to say, prevented me from making her acquaintance. lam inclined to believe upon hearsay evidence, however, that she made more of her opportunities in the cooking line than her modern sister does of hers. To begin with, she had a horrid little hole to cook in if the dumb testimony of the kitchens disentombed at Pompeii are to be relied on, and 1 think I may confidently affirm that the gas stoves of her time were by no means equal to the affairs they sell in the Wyndham-street office. Then how handicapped she was in the matter of things to cook ! Fancy having to sweeten her vanilla creams and Charlotte russes with honey instead of sugar ! And remember that even the common garden potato was beyond her reach, it being then in America, patiently waiting for Sir Walter Raleigh to come and introduce it to European civilisation. Yet notwithstanding all her drawbacks, the greatest culinary triumph of modern days can win from us no higher verdict than “ a dish fit for Lucullus,” and the sort of dishes Lucullus took kindly to were prepared, we must presume, by female cooks, since men had their hands full fighting in those times.’

‘OK course,’ said a man from Remuera, ‘the men could have cooked the dishes still better.’ ‘ Don't give us truisms, my friend,’ 1 said severely. ‘ Of course we all know that anything a man cares to do he can do better than a woman. There is not a family man in Auckland ignorant of the fact that if betook in hand the cooking of his establishment he could, with little expenditure of time or trouble, produce an endless variety of capital dinners.’ ‘ Why doesn’t he take it in hand then ?’ asked an ingenuous young bachelor. ‘ There are reasons,’ I responded, coldly. * 1 know them, but, like Herodotus, would prefer not to tell. But, after all, the point we are discussing is not what men can do but what women don’t. I think I have partly fathomed,’ I continued with the pride of a discoverer, ‘ the reason why the ancient woman had more of the true inspiration of cookery in her than the woman of to-day. In the ancient Roman’s domestic pantheon there must have been one particular forth at presided over the cooking. Doubt less his image was kept stuck upon the top of the kitchen cupboard or some such place. The women cooking under the eye of this lar couldn’t fail to feel cooking a sort of religious duty, and we all know how zealous women naturally are in the performance of what they consider religious duties—witness to-day the zeal expended by our ladies

on church bazaars and tea fights. Now my idea is that if we could only get our wives and daughters to look upon the artistic preparation of food as a religious duty —a kind of moral stay by which they may keep their men folks in a Christian frame of mind at meal times, at least—don’t you think we should produce a salutary revolution in every house ?’ The others agreed with me, but they all seemed to think that there would be trouble in getting their women-folk to see the connection between kitchen and church. Alas, I fear me that the epic of cooking, when it appears, will be the production of a man, and he too of the alien Gallic nation.

SOME years ago a Chinese ambassador accredited to the Court of St. James’ wrote, on his return to his own country, his impressions of England. People in England, hearing of this, were anxious to get hold of the polished Mandarin’s book, anticipating from its perusal a good deal of amusement. In imagination, they enjoyed beforehand the flowery record of the wondering admiration and delight which the sight of the triumphs of Western civilization must have aroused in him. Likewise they were prepared to sympathise with the acute feelings of shame and envy which he must have experienced in comparing pushing, prosperous, goahead Britain with the land where progress sleeps. Fancy then their surprise on reading his impressionsto find them positively reeking with patriotic complacency. The steamships, the railway, the electric telegraph and everything else we include in the term ‘ nineteenth century civilisation ’ were to him as the freaks of madmen or the recreations of children. The railways in particular seemed to have moved him much mentally, not bodily. It is a good thing that railways have no feelings, for the withering contempt of this gentleman from China would have been harder to bear than even the furious anathemas of Ruskin of the golden pen. The ambassador’s opinion of England was certainly of the very meanest. He could not find a contrast between her and far Cathay that was not overwhelmingly in favour of the latter, and when the English reader came to the end of the * Impressions of England ’ he could only lay down the book and sigh to think that he was not a Chinaman.

I was reminded of this Chinese ambassador and his work by a paragraph I came across in a Sydney newspaper the other day. It seems that some members of a troupe of Samoans, who have been touring Europe under European management, were in Sydney just then on their way home to Samoa. Of course the enterprising reporter on the hunt for copy hastened to get hold of them. The fresh, unsophisticated impressions, which the sight of the great cities of Europe must have awakened in the minds of those simple untutored savages, would make capital copy for his paper, done into up-to-date journalism. How the roar of that great sea of traffic called London must have reminded the poor Samoans of the waves thundering on the reefs ofTutuila, only to accentuate the overpowering contrast between the two places ! What awestruck thoughts of England’s greatness must have surged up under their extraordinary pileofhairas they gazed on thepalaceoftheEnglishOueen, or stood musing among the tombs in Westminster Abbey, enviously regretting that they had no place like that in Samoa in which to put their mighty dead, and no mighty dead to put there if they had ! Then again, with what childlike untrammelled delight they must have wantoned in the sunshine and glitter of that gay city on the Seine—strolling about the Champs Elysies or pacing the Rue de Rivoli. With what ecstatic new sensations must their palates, accustomed to bananas, bread-fruit, and tacca, have responded to the tickling of the cooks in the Palais Royal! Unhappy ones! now on their way back again to Samoa and bread-fruit. The reporter felt sorry for them. ‘Alas! that simple newsman little knew how by Heaven’s grace those Samoans’ hearts were framed !’ To all his adroit interrogations, his insinuating questioning, those simple children of the forest and reef had the one answer given with a cheerful grin, ‘ London all right—Paris all ritrht— Berlin all right, but no place good like Samoa.’

TTAHE young lady in Punch, who calmly informs her -L aunt that her mother and she do not belong to the same set, has evidently some social experience. It is absurd sometimes, even in some towns as we have here, to find, if we venture at all out of our usual walks of life, that we are among almost total strangers. Mrs Jones may be very friendly with Mrs Smith, but the friends of one will be as heathens or Greeks to the friends of the other, and each will, metaphorically, turn up her nose at the other and consider herself quite a ‘ style above her in the scale of society.’ A shifting scale it is, alas ! Up to-day, beware lest you fall tomorrow, and then the friends that flocked round you at one height are lost to sight entirely, and sometimes not even dear to memory.

fTIHE recent bicycle races for ladies in Christchurch -L have raised a protest against this particular form of amusement for the gentler sex. It is urged that it is decidedly unladylike and unbecoming for fair damesand demoiselles to make themselves so conspicuous and attract such an amount of public attention. The dresses worn—l am not now referring to these races —by lady ’cyclists are not always very elegant, and as one man remarked theotherday,‘ Ifthepublic stopmenfrom wearing women’s clothes, why, in the name of decency and fairness, don’t they prevent these women from appearing in the streets in male garments ?’ The lady we were then looking at wore a very masculine costume—knickerbockers, tight coat, waistcoat, boiled shirt, stiff collar, and tie, capped by a hard hat. I have at last lighted upon a sketch of a lady cyclists’ costume which seems to cover all comfortable and decorous requirements. It is made by a London tailor. The skirt, which is divided at the back —a fact that you would never guess, for it hangs in disguising pleats—has an apron in the front, and is so cut that it is absolutely impossible it can shift either to the right or to the left, and it is in this that the great fault of most of the bicycling skirts can be found. A

woman has a yard of her skirt on one side, and a quarter of a yard on the other, and that way ‘inelegance lies, or rather sits. The skirt sketched on this page (but really the sketch of a bicycling skirt, no matter how well done, quite fails to convey its advantages or disadvantages) cannot possibly shift at the back, because it is divided, and it is so well cut that the primmest of prudes could not venture to cast a slur upon its femininity.

That the number of lady ’cyclists in this colony is rapidly increasing is very evident. Even in Auckland—which city has hesitated to take up this craze, probably on account of the numerous hills—there are several enthusiastic feminine wheelers. It is said that at five o’clock in the morning a few lady bicyclists steal quietly along Karangabape Road on their well-tired machines, keeping the usual little ohs ! and ahs ! and dainty screams of their sex well down to whispering point. It is also murmured that there is a ladies’ tandem bicycle in use at Government House. This is very likely, for the young ladies there are plucky, high-spirited, and fearless, and if the Princess of Wales’ daughters ride bicycles, why should not those of the Countess of Glasgow ? Once let this be known, and their example will be speedily followed by those of less degree in New Zea land.

A CORRESPONDENT writes : —‘The New Zealand - Times of Wednesday published an article from the New York Sun on the holidays of the world. From it we learn that we, of the Australian colonies, keep more holidays than any other country in the world. It is doubtful whether we should take this as a sign of greater prosperity, or if it merely betokens an excess of laziness in the inhabitants. It may partly be caused by the fact that our islands harbour those from all other parts of the world, and representatives from every* nation and race, who naturally try to establish their own national holidays, and invite us all to join in their merrymakings. Take, as an example, the Chinese. You find one shop closed on account of New Year’s Day, and a few doors further down the street an open shop invites you to enter and make inquiries as to what keeps him from joining his fellow countryman in his leisure day. There you learn that this New Year comes a fortnight later, and some one else is again a week further on. Now, this seems absurd, for granting that China is a large country, still it could hardly have taken so many scattered days to create, nevertheless the various districts hold their yearly celebration at

distinct periods, and quite independently the one of the other. Transported to our midst it is somewhat confusing, but we get accustomed to everything, even a multiplicity of New Year’s days, and sometimes feel inclined to close our shops also from pure sympathy and good-will. Again, referring to the New York Sun we find that the Queen’s Birthday, kept here with such steady loyalty, is almost entirely neglected in Great Britain and Ireland a fact on which I am not prepared to comment. In America they appear to observe their President’s birthday, and among ourselves we know that the Scots pay a similar honour to their hero Poet Burns, the thrifty Scot who never neglects St. Andrew’s Day, and whose celebration of the New Year is as enthusiastic and hearty as if it was the sole object and aim in one’s life ; but even an Englishman can hardly be calm where whisky flows so lavishly and the pipes make merry all the night.’

IS it not a ludicrous thing that the very sect in the colony which took to itself the fine-sounding title of ‘ Students of Truth ’ should so long have permitted itself to be hoodwinked in the most glaring fashion ? ‘ Students of Truth,’ forsooth ! What a piece ot theatrical mockery! Why, in the name of that Truth whose name they so flippantly usurped, did they not show their studiousness by a closer investigation into the claims of the man Worthington and his past life ? But I suppose it was heavenly truth they were seeking after, not the earthly commodity. They were prepared to shut their eyes to anything suspicious in the daily conduct of a teacher who when in the pulpit could talk so beautifully about the true, the just, and the beautiful. So long as his theory was attractive they cared not for his practice, which after all represented the mere fleshly side of the man,not his spiritual. The poor weaklings—for they were weaklings—drank in his comfortable doctrine—wishy-washy stuff it was in reality with a deadly effervescence on it that took the people. In a bemuddled spirit they flocked to his hall of mirrors and imitation marble, and in a dim sort of way thought they were nearer heaven than before. It was a pitiable sight. Now that their prophet has gone from among them under circumstances that leave no doubt as to what he really is, their eyes have been opened, and in impotent, half-hysterical screechings they declare their conviction, ‘ arrived at from an observation of his conduct in this city during a period of six years or from personal contract with him ’ that Arthur

Bently Worthington is unfitted socially, morally, and mentally to be the leader of any body of people, whether banded together for religious purposes or otherwise.’ Only after six years’ study under Arthur Bently Worthington did they discover this all-important truth with regard to their teacher. And we may presume under the circumstances that that was about the only truth they gotat. Well, I cannot pretend to pity them. If people will be fools the gods themselves cannot prevent it.

rpHE Salvation Army is not the only religious body -L whose members fail to agree on all points. Even in the realms of that high Esoteric philosophy known as Theosophy the disciples hold divergent views, and occasionally come to words, not to mention epistolary recri-

minations in the daily press. The Countess Wachmeister, who has been spreading the Divine Wisdom in Auckland with the help of a few local preachers of the same belief, has been drawn into a controversy with the Rev. Mr Neill, who it may be remembered has been prominent in matters Theosophical before to-day. Mr Neill, it appears, took exception to certain reflections which the

Countess made on the character of the late Mr W. T. Judge, the American gentleman who used to address letters to himself like Mr Toots, and declare that he had received them from the Mahatmas in Thibet. Now, it was

discovered that the Mahatmas were not in correspondence with Mr Judge whoever else they might be in the habit of writing to, and that unjust Judge was shown up. He was asked to repent of his forgery of the Mahatmas’ handwriting and he wouldn’t, and although the Theosophists were very reluctant to lose a man who had even said he had corresponded with the Masters, there was nothing for it but to ‘chuck him out.’ Judge went and founded a new society with other Mahatmas who would not object to his acting as their private secretary, but according to the Countess no true friend of Theosophy believed in him. In this, however, she must have spoken hastily, for the Rev. S. J. Neill declares that ninetenths of the theosophists in America, and many * in

England, Ireland, Holland, Germany and Australasia,’ believe in the late Mr Judge, and that for the Countess to attack that gentleman • displays a spirit the reverse of Theosophic.’ I wonder who is right. Cannot the Mahatmas give us some enlightenment ?

AN old Aucklander returned to the city by the Waitemata last week after a long absence in * foreign parts.’ He came on a curious quest. No longlost brother or sister, father or mother, did he seek, no friend of his youth, but he came looking for diamonds. And the most curious part of the story is the place where he hopes to find them. It appears that this seeker of precious

stones has been in the diamond fields of other lands, and after a careful investigation of the diamond-bearing soil has come to the conclusion that it is nothing more than the mud of an extinct mud volcano. In this conclusion I may say he is supported by experts and by the general formation of the great diamond fields. While turning this matter over in his mind our friend bethought himself of his old New Zealand home and the /luias of Rotorua, and like an inspiration there came to him the idea why should diamonds not be found where all the conditions of their existence occur in an active instead of a quiescent state. He could not sleep for thinking of it. He dreamed that he was diving in the mud holes of Whakarewarewa and bringing to the surface handfuls of Kohinurs, Orloffs, and Meat groguls. In his waking moments he saw stars all made of diamonds, and speaking generally, he realised that there was not only a brilliant but a real diamond future before him. So he hastened to New Zealand, and is now, I am informed, making arrangements for a thorough prospect of the tnudholes and geysers of the

Hot Lakes District. How he is to explore a mud puia with a scalding temperature, or to investigate the recesses of the great Wairoa geyser I am at a loss to know. I presume he will wear a heat-proof diving dress, but even then his work will be accompanied by no inconsiderable risk. If he should be successful, a new source of wealth will be added to New Zealand, and especially to Auckland, whose citizens will be able to perambulate the streets ablaze with precious stones.

IT has remained for Miss Dora M. Whitehouse, of Vassalboro, Maine, United States, to sue a dead man for breach of promise. Dora wants for establishing the precedent. This sum is not demanded so much for the novelty of the case as for the failure of Dr. Benjamin L. Tibbetts to marry her before departing this life. He was a successful physician, and Miss Whitehouse claims that their courtship has extended over nineteen years. She charges that he promised to marry her. As the doctor left an estate of /'io.ooo Miss Whitehouse is willing to let the case drop for one-fifth of that

OOME of our poloists come back with drooping spirits, kJ sadder and wiser for their recent experience. Have you, reader, ever read that spirited piece of poetry entitled ‘ The Geebung Polo Club,’ by Paterson? If not,do so, and you will not regret the time. Indeed, the whole book in which it is published, ‘ The Man from the Snowy Mountains,’ is well worth reading. The Geebung Polo Club is described as possessed of * mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash,’ and when they come to tourney with their town rivals—swells who ‘ took their valets with them just to give their boots a rub ’ — the contest was conducted with such fire and earnestness that ‘ a spectator’s leg was broken just from merely looking on ;’ and as one after another of the players sank down and died, still ‘ the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead,’ so it still remains a mystery unsolved as to whether science or dash is to be the principal factor in a winning game of polo. I have heard of no spectator at the recent tournament being injured in any way, so evidently the game as played there was not of the free, dashing style described by the poet. The last we hear of the Geebung Polo Club is the row of little gravestones, so we should be thankful to welcome our own teams home safe and whole, despite the disappointment attendant on their non-success.

MY remarks last week anent the Auckland ladies’ indifference to the Mothers’ Union, in which Lady Glasgow takes such a warm interest, have elicited the fact that matters in the fair northern city are not as black as I had painted them, but, alas ! only in regard to the apathy shown. The need for the Union is more apparent every day. The bright exception to the indifference I deplored is exhibited in St. Matthew’s Parish,where the Rev. Lyttleton Fitz Gerald has abranch of the Union. I hear that the Countess of Glasgow—the New Zealand President —proposes soon to give them an address, at which there should be a very large attend11 ce.