LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 801, 16 January 1877, Page 3

LOAFER IN THE STREET.

(Irom the Press. ) Kumara is evidently a very civilised place now. I read the Kumara journal, and feel sure of this. There are, I should judge from the advertisements, about a hundred and twenty hotels there ; but the advertisement which pleases me most is that of Signor Natale Trabuco. Signor Trab runs a reading room, where " you will find all the colonial papers, writing materials, &c, and where pies, coffee, and pastry, are always ready." Thus you can write to Amelia Ann and munch pork pie simultaneously. Trab is a man of originality, and mindful of the value of time; Theatrical affairs at Kumara do not seem very high toned. I judge so from the following critique, which I quote verbatim :

" The Variety Troupe entertainment was well attended last evening, the principal attraction being the Italian whistler, who certainly imitates various kinds of birds in a natural manner, accompanying himself on the barrel organ. With this exception there was nothing new in the programme. The various singers and dancers were warmly applauded, as also were the gymnasts—Messrs Snodgrass and Long." The Winslow sports came off recently. I don't know where Winslow is, but mean to try and find out. The gentleman who wrote the report of this rising fixture for your contemporary appears to have made a very Berious error, and Mr W. Harris writes to correct it. It appears from Mr Harris' statement that the first prize in the men's race (over 40 years) should have been a pair of trousers, value £l. It's as well to be particular about these things. I quite feel for the winner of that race. For several days the general public of Canterbury were ignorant of the fact that he had a pair of trousers, but now, thanks to Mr Harris, we know he has got a pair. We know it for certain, and that they are worth £l. A good reliable paragraph like this is worth all your contradictory telegramß about a European war. I like looking in at a photographer's window. People look generally so much sweeter on paper than in real life. You may have noticed this. Why if you only exercise a little imagination you can nearly bring yourself to believe that your own familiar friend would never say spiteful thi»gs about you. Ho doeß you kuow, but you wouldn't think it from his photo. A young woman you kuow to be a short half step above idiocy appears in her likeness intellectual and perhaps truthful. I do like these photos, they are such first-class frauds, I came across a new item in photographers' galleries the other day. There was a display of Christchurch views with the name of the building or what not written underneath. The artist had his own views about spelling. I append the following quotations—" Goverment House—Tryangle—Police Deapot— 8t Michels Church—Public Libery. Of course an artist can spell how he likes, and possibly this one, like Mr Phoebus in Lothair, thinks reading, writing, and spelling very detrimental to high class education. I always said this was a go-ahead place. We keep rising up the rungs of civilisation fatitly. We have got a burglar or two somewhere, and some spuriouu liorins. I have not yei; had the pleasure of meeting any of the former; I have not yet been lucky enough to have any of the latter. I seldom have coin of any kind, not even bad. Money is the root of all evil. Good money is that much, but bad money is worse. You can get rnn

in for having it in your possession. Three friends of mine each found they had a bad florin in their possession. One lent his to a needy acquaintance, the second paid your runner with it and got the change. The third, who evidently thought, under such circumstances, it was more blessed give than to receive, put it in the plate last Sunday. All three are happy. " All the World's a Bink." That's what our Laureate calls his last poem. I don't know why he should arrive at such a conclusion unless, indeed, for the reason there are so many slippery mortals in it. As to the poem, I like it. I am given to understand that Mr Tennyi-on himself does not understand much of his own poetry. I should say our laureate must be rather the same. For instance, the following stanza is rather a poser—

•' Light-hearted cheerful days of youth In fancy's airy time, When myriads rink in rings of truth And memory sublime." I'm afraid the poem, too, on the whole has rather a tendency to encourage flirtation. The poet apostrophises Kate, Lily, Jonquil, Georgina, and a few more This is, as Mr Ward would say, " too mutchly," even in a rink. There are in the poem some pretty Tupperian ideas, thus—- " Faithful, upright racing men, Should counsel young and old." I hope the upright racing men, and this place is full of them, will bear this in mind. The poet informs us that his paternal ancestor was " a kind-hearted, thoughtful man," and one feels glad to learn of him that—- " Every time he courted rinking, He cared not for modes in winking,

(No wonder) Virtue crowned his worldwide thinking."

It's a nice poem altogether, and the device on the cover would attract anyone. It consists of someone's hand rising apparently out of the North Pole. The owner is unseen, but he is evidently tossing for some spinach, which is growing luxuriantly in space on either side of him. A very leary eye, propped up, so far as one can judge by a lump of Aurora Borealis, is observantly spotting the tosser. This device is perhaps one of the most poetic features in the volume. I hope the poem will find a place by the hearth of every Canterbury man and woman.

There's a professional man up the Colombo road somewhere who advertises himself as follows : " Teeth extracted and Well Borer." It is not quite such a happy combination as the Bangiora gentleman I spoke of last week, but he must be a man of versatile talents. Dentistry and well boring is a quaint conjoined brand. And yet I have known some dentists who could bore really well.

I remarked a while ago how hard it was to drag any new ideas into a racing preliminary. I find I'm wrong. Just hear this from a contemporary of yours up North. " There are some traits of horse-racing which cannot fail to strike the dullest imagination (Note by yours truly : This has struck me often). For instance, the ominous tranquility which prevails in early morning. The thundering roll of the stock-whip disturbs not the dreams of the unconscious slumberer, nor startles the innocent babe from his rest; the crash of a giant of the forest as it reluctantly gives up its grasp on mother earth, and leaves a ghastly lane in the ranks of its fellows as it approaches the ground, heralds not the labor of the sons of toil. . . . The eventful time arrives : small and nimble men, attired in various colors and gay plumes (fancy Bob Bay in ostrich feathers) prepare for the coming struggle ; horses arch their necks and pace the start. They are off ! There they go ! Doubt, certainty, and despair alternately predominates in the ranks of the betting fraternity. The red has it—no, the bluewell done the yellow. Go it Bill 1 hurrah I Such is a rough outline of what strikes the casual observer on a racecourse." A rough outline "Our own" calls it. I call it realistic*, in the first degree. Dining is one of the most popular institutions. We may, as old Froissard says, take our pleasure sadly, but we do enjoy a square meal. To us the dinner bell is indeed the toesin of the soul. We drink of course over everything ; but if a presentation is coming off, a regatta to be wound up, a friend departing, we dine over it. Feeding, we are told by a man who ought to know, outlives all other pleasures, and this being the case I think dinners ought to be studied more than they are. I have always thought the Board of Education should initiate cooking scholarships, but this is a question too humanitarian so to speak, for me to enlarge upon, when you tell me I'm to " cut it short this time." All I want to say is, if grief or joy, as the case may be, are to be associated with feeding, let us by all means do our level best to have the feeding fit for human beings. I have before me a bill of fare in which the following occurs—

BMTREES: Giblet pies Veal and ham pies. The " entrees" would possibly suit Mr Silas Wegg, but are enough to make the gastronomic friend of Pelham turn in his grave. Has Mr Morton observed this menu, and does he still keep his health ? I gather from a recent telegram that the Presbyterian Synod in Dunedin devoted eight hours to a discussion on the question of instrumental music. From the telegram it would appear that the Synod were not altogether in favour of music. Speaking quite as an outsider I feel sorry for the congregations. There may. as the resolution passed declares, be no definite command for the use of instrumental music, nor is it perhaps to be regarded aB an essential part of worship, but to put it mildly, it is a relief sometimes. One hears a Boanerges sometimes extending a discourse to threequarters of an hour which he could so easily and charitably have compressed into twenty minutes, and one can bear under the circumstances so much better with Boanerges if Mb choir is more up to its work than he is. I fancy one seeß frequent allusions to musical instruments in a book which may be considered a fair guide on such subjects, but the question is out of my line, and I only mentioned it on philanthropic grounds. From another telegram I learn that " the single girls are nearly all engaged." "O fortunati nimium," as the Latin Grammar says. I expect a tide of spinster emigration to Auckland will eventuate shortly from here, for theie are at least a score of maidens here who, if not engaged, would like to be perhaps. The gentleman who does the Press Agency for Ohristchurch, however, might wire to-morrow " Single girls in Christchurch are all married." We should have a point the beßt of it then, and give the young men here a chance.