LYTTELTON LEGENDS, No. 7.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 359, 6 August 1875, Page 2

LYTTELTON LEGENDS, No. 7.

COUNCIL BUSINESS. If you have got any extra strong paper you better send us over some, else I shan’t be able to do any more Council reporting for you. Members have got to make such pointed remarks now, that common flimsy won’t hold them. If there is any such thing as asbestos paper, let’s have some of that, as things altogether are uncommon hot over here at present. There’s a Homeric poet hereabouts has been reeling himself lately. I send you a sample of his poetics, but of course we should not think of publishing such stuff ourselves. The wrath of Arl * * * and the stormy scenes Which Jacob’s son reports, and all the griefs That prey on the colossal mind of G e, Since first the sexton sent him in the sulks, I mean to sing. Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sat, with knitted brows As heavy as the Council’s overdraft. So sat they all. Then Nicodemus rose, And in prophetic words the Sage addrest “ Chalmers may fire away, the Mayor himself “ Look grim with rage, and Harvey melt in tears; “ But thou shalt flourish in immortal bunkum, “Untroubled with excessive intellect, “The wreck of grammar, and the gush of words. “Thou too, Paintides, loudest tongued of all, “As great Achilles round the walls of Troy, “Dragg’d at his chariot wheel slain Hector’s corpse. “ Shalt nine times round the block triumphant drag, “Not Murray’s carcass, for its weight is great, “ But empty pot of most resounding tin, “Past to the tail of yelping puppy bound.” DRAMATIC. Yes, the dramatic performance was a great success, and showed what many will not believe, that a Lyttelton audience will listen patiently to anything worth hearing. THE MITRE. The poor Mitre is gone to ashes, swallowed up by the devouring element fire. It was the last and only relic left us of Port Cooper twenty-four years ago ; the home of many a weary-footed traveller after doing the bridletrack, the first place of call for all strangers coming from the east, west, north and south of Goclley Head. It was the home of Hornbrook, the home of Cuff, the residence of Compton, his last poor fellow in this world. It was the establishment which afterwards belonged to Corporal George Scott, the home of Wheeler and Nurse, the house of Julian, likewise the home of the Savage, and last but not least the house of refuge for poor old silverhaired Burrell. The old man never left it ; although new proprietors came and left, Burrell always went with the property. Oh ! if the old house could but have spoken before its death, what romantic expressions of affection it would have expressed about the waiter, who had all through its changeful troubles been its true and constant friend. The Mitre was in its hey day at the time when the Royal Mail frigate Canterbury, 30 tons, Captain Bowden, did all the mail and passenger traffic between Lyttelton and Wellington, long, long before that foreign innovation steam commenced its career. But the old house is gone, and we shall not look upon its like again. The arrangements inside were all that could be desired, for, no sooner would you turn one angle than you met with another, which always hid you from the gaze of vulgar men, and left you to meditate upon your own follies and frailties Let us have something more modern, and I prophecy that the “ Mitre” will still maintain its prestige against all comers. FREDERICK DENHAM. Nicodemus welcomes you back again, and hopes you are restored to perfect health after your long absence. Lyttelton has missed you, Denham, missed several of your charitable actions ; for it has been said of you, Denham, and your partner, that both of you took far more pleasure in assisting others, than in assisting yourselves. You will see a good many strange things in Lyttelton since your departure in the Cardigan, lots of things you don’t know, and several you will soon find out. We have still the same doctors, and the same magistrate, but we have another President of that wonderful institution which is shaped like an inverted wedge. The old pump too, which stood on Norwich Quay, is gone—perdition seize it and its handle. Councillor G., it is said, got the pump for firewood, and the handle was in possession of the Council as long as Councillor K, was in power, The same sexton is

still in power, and in the same old methodical style which you have witnessed so often, makes use of the words “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” with an expression of countenance woe-begone in the extreme. We have not got the water laid on yet, but our Hydrostatic Minnihaha swears that nothing will prevent him from launching forth statements of fact, unincumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and allegory, and of worse come to worse, he is going to divert the course of the Avon with the mouth of it facing where the Mitre lately stood. The Claimant is a councillor now, Denham, don’t stare. Yes, and he is going to have the streets swept at £5 per street, as soon as the overdraft is paid, which overdraft amounts to something considerable just now on account of the Heavenly Road, on which it is said the money was frittered away. We have got a new town clerk, too; the old one left in company with Demon to look for fresh fields and pastures new. His cat was left as a sort of heir-loom to Packard, the only he did leave of a tangible character, by the way. There are hundreds of other things I should like touch on, but I shall defer doing so until another time when I shall hope to show you round. Ever yours, NICODEMUS.