The Evening Star MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1873.

Evening Star, Issue 3298, 15 September 1873, Page 2

The Evening Star MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1873.

“ Wise men,” says Loud Macauley, “ have always been inclined to look with great suspicion on the angels and demons of the multitude.” The reason is, the multitude do not stop to inquire as to their doings, but rush to a conclusion upon the most incomplete and flimsy evidence. This is so true, that designing and crafty politicians, on the watch to damage an opposition ministry, seize upon every occasion to get up a cry. As some of our politicians and literati profess to think little about the men of the present age, it is perhaps as well to give them a slice of ancient wisdom to strengthen our views. Adopting a somewhat free translation of one of Seneca s sentiments, we say with him, “ Those who have little to grumble about, can bawl loud enough,” We see this illustrated continually. Scarcely a day passes but the Daily Times has a bawl, or perhaps we shall not exaggerate if we say a howl, about Mr Yogel, Mr Macandrew, Mr Reynolds, or Mr Bathgate. On Thursday there was a howl about Mr Yogel having abandoned the policy of “ the grand scheme.” The Times did a little of the dolorous on that occasion, and expressed the opinion that nothing can be more humiliating to Mr Yogel than “ the scheme on paper and as administered.” Really, Mr Yogel does not seem humiliated by what the Times so much deplores; neither does the Parliament, nor yet the Country. In fact, so far from that, there seems to be a sort of go-a-headism just now that tells of confidence and hope, rather than the depression consequent upon a sense of humiliation. But most marvellous is it that the Times should feel it a “ humiliation ” to Mr Yogel to abandon a policy it has used its utmost efforts to thwart. If it is abandoned, surely it should be a triumph to the Times: not a season for sackcloth and ashes. If Mr Yogel’s policy were wrong and he has changed it, the presumption is he is now doing right, according to the Times, and why any man should feel humiliated because he abandons that which is wrong and turns to that which is right, is somewhat puzzling to understand. But whether right or wrong, Mr Yogel is sure to be censured by the Times. Its conduct reminds us of a puppet fixed on a vane turned by every breath of wind. Such a plaything, with a trumpet in its hand, no matter which way the wind blew, turned its back to it and sounded its own wail. It had only one note. Just so is it with our contemporary on Colonial affairs. Six days a week that note is sounded. No matter what comes up, be it weal or woe, adversity or prosperity, postal services, railway workshops or railways, rise in wool or Native troubles, in soft breathings or in boisterous blast, that wailing hotels “ Vogel.” It turns its back on all that is prosperous, and sighs “Vogel”; it turns its back on all that is adverse, and in bitterness cries, “Vogel.” Nothing good in anyone that supports “Yogel” will our conteihporary see. Messrs Bathgate and Reynolds are members of his Cabinet; so it has turned its back on them, and at the bottom of the , list of motives for the opposition to which they have been subjected would be found the cabalistic word, “ Yogel.” A nice little opportunity happened for a shindy about the route of the Moeraki railway, and about something that in the first instance escaped the eye of the cynic of the Times— the workshops. Now was the chance : so the “ man drew his bow at a venture,” and because our City members are colleagues of Mr Yogel, they attacked him through them. Had the Times waited to know the truth, it would have been too late—the chance would have slid away. Had it believed what was said—that our members had done their best to have the workshops in Dunedin (which has proved to be strictly true), we hope even our contemporary would have feared the public shame that must have followed an attack so groundless. But the wind happened to be fair and blowing hard, so the puppet turned its back on the truth, and to the blast; and, though through some miracle, such as once occurred when an ass spake, the puppet’s trumpet rung out fortissimo, “Bathgate and Reynolds,” but it meant “ Vogel.”

Our contemporary, however, has a local note as well as a Colonial one, which it sounds when occasion offers. Not that the monotone is ever thrown away; but the Tit)m holds a position, accorded to some members of a Russian horn-band, in which, though each is supposed to represent only one tone, some are occasionally trusted with two. With regard to our contemporary, however, the pitch is the same; it is only the syllable that is changed. The Colonial wail is “Vogel;” the Provincial “Hagandrew.” Singularly successful as has been his administration, the wind veers the puppet’s vane round on eyery act pf

his,, and the back of the Times is towards the Superintendent. Through his efforts the San Francisco mail steamers had their terminus here, but the trumpet blindly roared out “ Macandrew.” Unluckily the note reached the American Senate and stopped the steamers. When through his influence the Port Chalmers Hallway was made, time after time its back was turned to its advantages, and the wind blew out the dismal sound “ Macandrew ” continually. It mattered not that very often the trumpet grew rusty and a false note, gurgling and muffled, was emitted. That is of small consequence to the Times. As the puppet systematically turns its back on facts, who can wonder that such insinuations are given utterance to as were published on Saturday 1 It is, however, refreshing to know that the public are now so accustomed to the shriek of woe as to feel unmoved even when it is most hysterically uttered. They hear that monotone “Vogel,” and laughingly say “It’s only the agony of the Times.” They hear three syllables instead of two, and when it says “Macandrew,” they say “ It’s only the Times turning its back on the Superintendent.” A town accustomed te the puppet’s note would miss it should some reformer deprive it of its tiny trumpet, just as the people of Eipon would miss the Curfew horn at nine o’clock. It serves as a warning to put the children to sleep, and for business men, under a sense of safety, to put on their slippers, draw comfortably to the fireside, play chess or cribbage with their wives and daughters,' light their cigars, and mix their whisky toddy; but it is too well known to serve as an alarm.