THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2075, 18 October 1880, Page 3

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Looking over some of your back files a few days since, I came across the following: “ The postmaster at Lowther, who has filled the office gratuitously for some years past, has received notice from the Postal Department that he is to be reduced 10 per cent. ” The Government, judging from the above, mean to carry out their policy of vigorous retrenchment, but it becomes a perplexing question to the best balanced mind as to how they will square matters financially with the gentleman at Lowther. There is a gentleman—chief of a certain Government department —whose duties occasionally require his going around a good deal. Some time since he was visiting one of the Southern Island centres, and was conversing with a brother official. After various topics had been discussed, the visitor said : “ Now, what I’m going to tell you is in the very strictest confidence j in fact, entirely enter notes.” “ I beg pardon,” said the other official, “ but I don’t understand Greek.” “ Why,” amusedly answered the visitor, “ that’s not Greek; that’s French for

between ourselves. ” At the next town the “ chief ” was discussing matters with some other heads of departments, when the name of the gentleman who did understand Greek turned up. “ A very nice, hard-working fellow,” said the chief, “ but utterly uneducated. Why, will you believe me when I tell you he didn’t actually know enter nows was French.” And then the audience gradually went off into shouts of laughter, which the “ chief ” has probably never rightly understood, oven unto the present minute. That was a very laughable affair happened this week in Oashel street. We were coming round by the Al, when we descried old Spludgofoot standing under the verandah of Messrs Oaro. On nearing Spludge we discovered that bis face was wreathed in smiles \ of Bacchanalian origin ; further, that he kept repeatedly posing himself in the most sentimental attitudes, and kissing his hand to the well-known upstairs show-room of Messrs Death and Co. He lost no time in telling us she was beautiful, and directed our attention to the window. We then discovered that the festive Spludge had been kissing his hand to a lay figure—beautifully dressed, it’s true, but then she had no head. On painting this out to Spludge he seemed to realise the situation, and asked us over the way. “ Not a word about this, boys, please,” he said, but as I have since heard the story about a score of times, and Spludge has gone home to his broad acres, I could not refrain from mentioning the fact. It was a village school in the South Island. It was a school where the manners of the children were carefully studied. This is right. Young people who are brought up in classics, ’ologies, &c., should have a little style and form shoved into them to carry their high class education off, so to speak. At the school I speak of a reverend gentleman frequently puts in an appearance, and I understand takes a deep interest in the scholars. One of them had recently had occasion to write to the minister. With the beautiful simplicity of youth he addressed it to Mr Cluck instead of to the Rev. Oluck. For this he was sadly taken to task by the minister on the occasion of his next visit to the seminary. Turning to the most aristocratic boy in the class, the reverend gentleman said—“ Smike, how would you have addressed a letter to me ?” “To the Bev. B. Oluck,” promptly responded the boy. “Of course you would,” said his reverence, “ but then your mamma is a lady.” By means of that extraordinary invention, the telegraph, which puts a girdle round the earth in less than forty minutes, we are informed by your alert Auckland agent that

“Joe, the Now Hebrides murderer, under sentence of death, has been supplied with tobacco.” And reading this, hundreds of sweet boys from the age of five to twelve, that I see smoking pipes regularly will wish they were New Hebrides murderers for the time being. Everything you see has its bright side. A murderer gets his tobacco on the cheap. He was a young gentleman getting on in the law. It was getting pretty close to bis final examination, and though there may not appear at first to be any connection between the facts, ho had a cheque on an up-country Bank. This be forwarded for purposes of collection to a friend, also studying the law, in that locality. The amount of the original cheque forwarded was £3 Is fid. All he got back for it was £2 2s fid. This is how his friend accounted for the discrepancy : s d Receiving instructions ... 6 8 Collecting cheque ... ... 6 8 Paid P.O. order ... ... 0 6 Better herewith ... ... 5 0 Postage 0 2 19 0 Did that young man go around and use expressions familiar to the driver of bullocks ? Well, a little so, but he got round in the transaction like this, “ Well, it’s rather thick is this charge,” he said, “ but there’s one thing about it, in a few short months I shall be able to cha ft j the same.

A northern correspondent sends me a very funny account of a case tried in his rather out-of-the-way district. It was that of a party who, formerly a dominie, had recently taken to Press work. Whether the surroundings of this new appointment had mashed up his morals, or what, does not appear, but the fact did appear that he gat 30s, on what the law calls false pretences. The minions of the law ran him in, and he appeared before the local B.M. When the case was called on, the Bench was uncertain whether the charge should be “felony” or “false pretences.” Seeing a friend learned in such matters in the body of the Court, the B.M hailed him and obtained the desired information. The ease went against the delinquent, when the magistrate pronounced the following remarkable sentence on the criminal:—

“ Your sentence is that you pay the costs of this case, viz., four guineas. You shall not be imprisoned for more than one month after this sum is paid.” And so far the criminal has not been able to grasp his exact position. He seems, I understand, quite embarrassed.

A contemporary of yours, in a recent leading article, quotes the following from an anonymous poet:—

“ The printer —bless his noble soul, He grasps the mighty earth.” It’s true. I could have made such a poetic statement myself, and quite truthfully. Why a few brief weeks since I myself saw a printer grasping the mighty earth on a Saturday evening with both hands. It was just the only thing he could hold on to until the stalwart minion of the law grasped him, He was subsequently discharged with a caution. Bless his noble soul

The “New Zealand Church News” in scarcely the journal one would expect to find comic poetry in. And yet, glancing over the September number, I find one of the most extraordinary specimens of versification I ever read. I append one or two samples of stanzas, merely adding that the poet is supposed to be writing an obituary. sth. Seems a pity indeed that he hasn’t been laid By that Church he supported so faithful, Which modestly stands on the Halkett road, On the banks of the Waimakariri. 6th, We miss him so much both in school and the church. His example and presence so faithful, Or in aiding that creed, if assistance they need, A substantial and kind benefactor. 7th. No more will he sit as our Deacon in Church, So meek, so gentle, so thoughtful; Or tender his cheque if stipend’s behind, To quiet the demands of the parson.

Bth. No more will ho gaze on that bubbling stream. As it bolts o’er its bed to the ocean; Or scan 'cross her banks when heavy in flood, To behold her in troubled commotion ; 9th. Which often broke gaps in their Earnpards so strong, Cemented like rooks hard together ; Or swept them clean out by the force of her might, Dike a loaf from a tree or a feather. Was it not Colonel Bangs who, in “ Out of the Hurley Burley,” employed a sub-editor to write obituary notices of a poetical sort, who wrote, penned amongst others, that sweet lyric commencing—

“ Oh, bury Bartholomew out in the woods, In a beautiful hole underground. Where the ring-tailed raccoon sings hymns to the moon, And the straddle bug tumbles around.” Owing to becoming perhaps a little too

poetically personal, the genius above alluded to got the each, but if Colonel Bangs and his journal are still extant, the correspondent of the “Church News,” whose lines I have quoted, should be able to secure permanent employment on the staff. A short while since, three reverend gentlemen from their respective country districts came by invitation to dine with a town confrere. During the latter part of the evening appeared, as is not unfrequently the case under similar circumstances, a bottle of old whiskey and tumblers. The host and his guests, no doubt, had a good time. The domestic of the entertaining family is a leading star of the Good Templars. On the following morning she was coming out of the room which had been the scene of the symposium, carrying a tray on which were four empty tumblers, and, if the truth must be told, an empty bottle, when she met her mistress. “ Ah, ma’am,” she said, sadly shaking her head, “if this is the style of the shepherds, what are we to ■ expect from the flock?” Fact. ‘

The lecture given by Captain Jackson Barry on Tuesday night was certainly a very original entertainment. The egg throwing was however a mistake. True it is that the Captain must be a party of uncommon assurance to think that such a lecture as his is worth the price of admission. The public—and both here and in Timaru it seems a pretty larky public too—go simply for purposes of chaff. The much travelled Captain should not be offended at this, but I’m not surprised at his drawing the line at eggs. As “ Frank Fudge” justly says,' there is not much fun really in pitching eggs at an old man. The whole affair at the Hall the other evening was inexpressibly funny. The Captain’s English (surely the veteran must have had a quarrel with the letter H at an early period ot his career) ; his rapid exits when the eggs began to come ; his defiances and final exit were immense; but certainly one of the most delicious features of a very funny show was the speech of Mr Wilson, who took the opportunity afforded by being chairman to assure his audience that for fifteen years he had always received the attention of his hearers, from the fact that ho was considered one of the most fluent speakers in the colonies. It’s quite true, but for many years past we have realised the fact that Mr Wilson’s artesian-like flow was Vox et preeterea nihil. There is something very funny in Mr Wilson making the admission that such was the case under the circumstances. Ho no doubt realised that the Captain was his master in the gift of the gab. Barry is sometimes funny, Mr Wilson always dreary.