LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1562, 20 February 1879, Page 4

LOAFER IN THE STREET.

From a perusal of the last report of the City Council I have come to the conclusion that I am not ambitious of the post of solicitor to that body. It would appear that this functionary, when he appears before his august bosses has to follow the example of “ the proud young porter” in the ballad of Lord Bateman, and keep continually “ louting low” to the Council. After which, having made a slight error, as it would appear, in drawing out an Act, he is told by Councillor Cass that “his work has been most disgraceful,” Mr Cass may be a new broom, and may in consequence sweep with that cleanliness which we are told is proverbial, but he sweeps in very bad taste, I had thought that, for real sweeping assertions, Mr Wilson could not be easily beaten, but a greater than he has arisen in the person of Mr Cass, who the other night asserted that all Press men were sceptics and infidels. I should like Mr Cass to know that, in my opinion (not speaking for self), there are plenty of journalists here who lay claim to no such distinctions as he seems anxious to press on them. Mr Cass, probably in a thoughtless mood common to philosophers of his stamp, has given expression to opinions which in his more sober moments he will regret. Mr Cass’ opinion of unfortunate Press men is probably formed on those careless scoundrels who somehow fail to do justice to the drivelling idiotcy with which he favors his hearers so often. Mr Cass is, I understand, himself a pillar of the Church to which he belongs, and is in the habit of addressing large congregations in feryid and impassioned language. As well might I say that a regular attendant at the feet of this very ungrammatical Gamliel would inevitably become, from listening to him, an habitual disturber of the Queen’s English. As well might I say that a man who, to the benefit of our profession, thank God, does nob know half the Press men in Christchurch, and who could assort they were all infidels, is not fit to take a clear view of any subject. In fact, I might nearly as well say that Cass, the inventor of a flattened world, is not the biggest flab in it. Cass, my friend, go and learn English—charity —and sense, if you can. You’ll find it a big job, but try—and keep on trying, and leave us

heathen alone. Between ourselves, I should be surprised if some of ub don’t give you a long start in the next world. Whether a Sunday performance by the Uncle Tom Company would prove an acquisition, or, assuming that it would, whether our public would stand it or not, is a very open question. Councillor Cass, who naturally looks upon the proposed jubilee in the light of opposition, thinks Uncle Tom on Sunday would not be a good thing, and for once I’m disposed to think he is right. It’s pleasant to feel we have Councillors who will thus look after our morals, but it’s not pleasant when they overdo it. Hero is Councillor Binstead, who, to the best of my recollection, never scarcely opened his mouth in the Council before, wanting to shut the bathing-place on Sundays. Mr Binstead is young to the business, and probably in consequence over enthusiastic, or else common sense might tell him that many people like to have a bathe once a week, whether they want it or not. Mr Binstead is too conscientious a man, I hear, to ask others to do what he would not do himself. Thus the only inference I can draw is that Mr Binstead don’t wash on Sundays. I don’t know what Mr Tremayne, who seconded the motion, may do. He can have the benefit of the doubt.

Mr Charles Bright has recently been lecturing on the following subject —“Can a man know certainly that his neighbor is lost ? And howj?” Oh, yes, Charlie, I think so. When a man shows you his book, the pages of which manifest that he has backed a lot of stiff 'uns, you can tell he has lost before the meeting commences. Similarly, when you see a man holding four tens (and not a bad hand neither, Charlie,) and you know that the other fellow has got four kings and an ace you can bet he has lost, and a fair heap to.” If you’d asked, Charlie, “ Can a man know certainly that his neighbor has won ? And how?” you would have slung out areally good conundrum to lecture on. Think it out, Charles.

“ Wanted, a reapectable person, to adopt a fine healthy boy, six months old. Must belong to the Protestant Church, and be in a position to give the child a good comfortable home and thorough education. The parties taking the child must guarantee to act the part of kind and affectionate parents towards him. The child being an orphan will never be re-taken. No remuneration. Apply by letter to Guardian, * Lyttelton Times’ office, Christchurch.”

The pleasure with which I give the above gratuitous advertisement is to some extent qualified by the feeling that my little effort to forward the views of tho advertiser will come a bit late, for it is now some days since it appeared, and consequently I have no doubt “ The Fine Healthy Boy” will long ere this have been appropriated. At my time of life I am not anxious to rush into new friendships, but I should like to know “ Guardian.” I should like to be intimate with him, that I might learn a little of his magnificent selfconfidence in a British Public—a confidence which goes far to ensure a man’s success in this country, and which, alas ! I have vainly striven for weary years to attain. Some men are born to greatness, some have it thrust on them. This is how Mr Ballance, the Colonial Treasurer, has it slung over him in a Northern Almanac, After giving a short history of his career, his biographer goes on to say, “ He had the celebrated racehorse Fishhook, and was chosen Deputy GrandMaster of the Independent Order of Oddfellows’ for the North Island." One is reminded of the lady whose epitaph sets forth that “ She was bland, passionate, and deeply religious. She played on the harp, and painted in water colors, and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” It is now just one year ago since a wearied looking traveller, evidently of the American persuasion, might have been seen entering—well, say any door of any business place in this metropolis. With the unerring sagacity of the practised book-agent he went straight for the boss’ room, and seating himself close up to his surprised and unresisting victim, produced a skeleton sample of his volume, and spoke thus—“ I wish to introduce to your notice an admirable publication entitled ‘ Our First Century.’ As you will observe, it contains the record of 100 great and memorable events in the history of that great country, the United States of America. In these pages will be found a full record of political, commercial, military, mechanical, social, scientific, agricultural, mathematical, botanical, metaphysical, criminal, acoustic, and theatrical events that have occurred in America during the last 100 years. Biographies are herein published of all the great historical characters celebrated in the annals of the Republic, men of heroism, statesmanship, genius, oratory, adventure, and philanthropy, the whole splendidly illustrated with life-like portraits and realistic sketches by the best artists of the day. I call your attention to the graphic description of that day famed in the phenomenal history of the world, for which philosophy is at a loss to explain—May 19th, 1780 —when the whole of the States, wrapt in a deep, black atmosphere for fifteen hours, gave the people the impression that the end of the world had come. Let me beg you to look at the history of George Washington, the man who never told a lie. You have doubtless heard that little story about his axe. Here is the ,declaration of independence when the eagle of liberty spread her wings, declaring with grandly enunciatory voice that all men are created equal.” I will observe that throughout the gentleman’s oratory there were no stops, though I feel confident your printer will reli- # giously put them in. He never made one, but he sold his book. He sold so many that, such is the depreciation of even tho highest-toned literature, you can, alas, now buy a First Century for 7s 6d. Such is literature. Such is book agents. A Chicago paper has lately been devoting a couple of columns to Herr Wilhelmj, a famous violinist. The prefatory cross-heads descriptive of the article are as follows : THE LITTLE PAGANINI. That Is the Title by Which Wilhelmj Was Known When a Mere Infant. But He Has Now Made His Own Name as Illustrious as that of His Predecessor. A Sketch of the Career of This Exquisite Torturer of Feline Intestines. Pretty name for a violinist! A friend of mine travelling down South recently found himself in company with a reverend gentleman returning from his honeymoon. On coming back to the metropolis of the province my friend naturally took up the paper of the day and among the advertisements found the following :—“The Rev, Blank, having recovered from his recent protracted illness, will preach to-morrow, &c.” The Rev. Blank was his travelling companion. I have heard matrimony called all sorts of names before now, some of them rather rough ones, but I never heard it called a protracted illness. On the whole, perhaps the reverend gentleman is not so far out.