FLIGHTS AMONGTST THE FLAX.

Evening Star, Volume VII, Issue 1918, 29 June 1869, Page 3

FLIGHTS AMONGTST THE FLAX.

Oil for the mantle of some ancient philosopher, that 1 might look down with stoical indifference on the scene of suffering which presents itself to my view. Here am I perched on this bleak eminence, with “The homes of the dead” on my right, and the homes of the living (hut what a life) beneath me. The piercing wind whistles fiercely though the flax, and the rain falls down in torrents on my devoted head. Or, to speak more poetically, in the language of one of our local bards—- “ Bursting o’er yon flax-clad mountain, Sadly groans the dark brow’d blast : Fitful streams from Heaven’s fountain, Driving torrents, fierce and fast.” Now, however much I may admire the effusions of Ossian, I am forced to differ with him when he calls the streams that fall on this “doomed city” “fitful.” Sir, or Madame—but why do I say madame? women should attend to their household duties and not read newspapers—they are not fitful, they are constant, steady, outpouring, from the overburdened breasts of those sombre clouds, which seem as if they gathered from all parts of the world to take up their winter quarters over Dunedin. During the last week I have met with several new chums, who have asked me the question,—ls there ever any dry weather here '{ and I assure you they felt quite astonished when I answered in the affirmative. What a grand stretch of imagination, the “ Old Identity,” or identities, as the case may he, must have had, who fancied they saw something about this miserable hole to remind them of the i Modern Athens.” Their notions of nomenclature must have been very quaint, or they could have hit upon some more appropriate name, Slushington, for instance, or Mudbourough, or Sludgcvale, or Gutterhill, in fact 1 could mention fifty more suitable names than Dunedin. If it is not too late, might I suggest to our Legislators the atlvisabi ity of changing its name to one of the foregoing. I am not a misanthrope, my friend, there is not a warmer or more genial nature in existence than mine own, I would lay my life down freely to serve my adopted country or my fellow man (would it be corx-ect to say—or fellow woman), hut when I walk, or rather wade through the streets on those wild wintry days, and gaze on the cold cheerless aspect that everybody presents. My nature turns sour, and gloomy thoughts drive my finer feelings before them, and I exclaim with a celebrated (dog) latm scholar, “Elowissima, _ Aque Spoutisiina Mudissima humbuginises.” which freely rendered into, vulgar Colonial means—- “ Blow this wet muddy weather, it is a humbug.” Yet, my friend, a ray of light sometimes shoots through the gloom, the heavenly constellations are sometimes seen in Dunedin, and the citizens “make mer'y and rejoice,” for such sights a-e “ few and far between.” Apropos of astronomy, as I am not very well up in that occult science, will some enlightened friend tell me the cause of a strange phenomenon which I witnessed the other evening. I took my customary stroll out one night, and “ Whilst gazing on the moon’s light, A moment from her face I turned.” ami to my great astonishment 1 beheld a

diminutive Star assume the proportions of a Planet , I am sorry to say I have been blind heretofore to the sublime truths of nature. I have been too sceptical and too Independent, but when such a grand phenomenon is presented to my bewildered gaze, I am forced to exclaim with Shakspeare—

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, _ Than are dream’t of in your philosophy.

Since the above occurrence took place, much of my asperity has vanished, the path of life which had beret >1 ore seemed a dark one, has now become a whikv:ci]i, and the trumpet of hope rings through my breast like a finely toned hell. By the bye, how did the public meeting at the Masonic get on. I was up country at the time (out as far as Caversham) or I would have honored it with my presence, 1 trust the chairman was not a Fish out of water, as some evil-disposed persons are inclined to think. How is it the modem Demosthenes, the local Cicero, the latter-day Brutus, the irrepressible J. G. S. G., did not attend ? Inform me, my friend, has he collapsed ? Perhaps you will also let me know if all the shopkeepers who are now “selling off ’ are about to skedaddle ; and if they arc, ‘ ‘ Will they no come back again ?” Some verdant individuals who have (/one out to buy, assert that they have been taken in and sold. Now, I think they must be mistaken. If such is the case, why do people make such Indl-rushes to the shop of Moses ! Is it because he assures his customers that he is very fair 0 ! “Ah, my far-sighted friend,” I fancy I hear you exclaim, “what execrable puns.” Well, I acknowledge they arc wretched ; but I know you will pardon me when I assure you punning is a weakness of mine, which I cannot possibly get over. And now for the theatre. In my young days, Sir, I was a great play-goer; but since those hairs of mine have become tinged with silver, I have eschewed theatres and taken to moral philosophy ; yet now and then, when a new Star shoos lustre o’er the dramatic horizon, I cannot resist the temptation. My old propensity rushes back on me in all its force, and I rush, watch in hand to my uncle Davis, “who lives where hangs three golden balls,” to “raise the wind." That man must be very hard-hearted who could stay idling at home those long winter’s nights, when such a charming nightingale as Miss Anna Forde warbles on the boards of the Princess.’ Be not shocked by stiffneck'd saints, ye can oftimes learn a good sound moral lesson .at the Theatre, and now that we have an honest scribe amongst us, who will use the ‘ pruning knife’ with a fearless hand, the most fastidious Paterfamilias can visit with his family our “ iemple of the Muses.”

Nor is Miss Fordo “alone in her glory,” the stage of the Princess’ presents other attractions. (Pon t he alarmed, my dear gentlemen actors, 1 am not going to soft soap yon.) Praise to such an actress as Mrs Harry Jackson from pen of mine would he superfluous, and I am sure my encomiums could not raise Miss C ssy Mathews to a a higher position in the public esteem than she at 2>re.sent occupies. Mrs Joyce is also deservedly popular. But there’s Jenny Nye; how shall I pa nt her attractions,— she is a particular favorite of mine, and therefore 1 will not use dull, commonplace, prose to pour tray her eh rms. No, sir ! I will invoke the aid of the Immortal Muse ! So here goes : TO MISS JENNY NYE. Whenever I can spare a crown, I take a ram Me up the town, The Slav I purchase for a brown, And into it I pry. Then for the Theatre 1 beat, And in the stalls I take a seat, It’s there 1 always get a treat— For Jenny, thou art Nile. Thou art at home in every part So gay and graceful, neat and smart, A credit to the mimic art, But few with thee can vie. I often Ihinkit is an age Since Julia Matthews was the rage, Another Julia treads the stage, For Jenny thou art Nye.. That winning smile of thine gives birth Within our breasts to laughing mirth ; Man should enjoy this lovely earth, He was not made to cry. I scorn the wretch who would refuse To laugh well when the Comic Muse Stands represented in thy shoes, For Jenny thou art Nye. I long to see yon dance the “ fling,” When Fleury makes his fiddle ring, And when “ Some one to love ” yon sing, The hardest heart must sigh. For who is he would not respond To that appeal so warm and fond, My eyes fill up like any pond. For Jenny thou art Nyc. The Tragic Scene is dear to me, But Jenny when I gaze on thee, Burlesque is what I love to see, Where humor runs so high. Thy silv’ry voice rings in each ear, So sweet, so musical, and clear, "Where'er we roam to thee we're near, Fur thou art ever- Nyc. And now, friend of mine, we must part. The rain still continues to pour, and 1 am wet and weary. “ Now that’s all very fine, MrT., there’s no use your trying to shove that down our throats. You are no more up amongst the llax than I am. Yon are seated in some comfortable circle, with your feet on the fender, and a tumbler of whiskey toddy before yon, writing all this nonsense. You can’t c/idl us, old man I ” Incredulous mortal ! do you dare to doubt my veracity ? and if you do dare, how dare yon destroy the illusion ? I had hoped to he thought a second Uiogenes, but you, sir, have torn the veil from before the eyes of your less sceptical brethren. How do you know I am seated in a comfortable circle, drinking whiskey toddy? Yon must have been eavesdropping, sir—peeping through the key-hole or window ; hut I’ll be revenged, sir. I swear by the rosy-nosed god, before whose shrine 1 run at present officiating (there is another nobbier in the bottle), that I will not lay pen to paper for a considerable time. So yon, and your kind, sir, may wallow in the mire of ignorance, for it will be long ere you have another opportunity of storing your mind with the sublime words of wisdom which burst from the heart, flow from the brain, and fall from the pen, of Tom Taua'ern.