THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2142, 6 January 1881, Page 3

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

It was early dawn. The rays of the rising ■un fell gleamily athwart the Gothic windows of the old post-office, when a traveller might have been seen slowly dragging a wealth of length along Colombo street. His whole aspect was one of settled gloom, and from the voluminous wraps enveloping the lower portion of his face, it was evident that ho was gone wrong on the tooth question. He entered the portals of the Golden Fleece, where the genial skipper who runs the show was already, early as it was, in a position to meet any customer. Lots of people are thirsty in the sweet calm hours of the early morn. The skipper knows this, and is ever on hand to meet their views. The man with the sad teeth inquired whether he thought a dentist who resided in the immediate vicinity would bo about so early. The skipper suggested his going to see for himself. In three minutes the invalid returned, the dentist being still oouohaut. And then that agonised man squirmed and groaned all over the bar. At last he requested the landlord to let him ha ve a little scintillation of the Battle Axe family to lull the pain. The bottle being handed to him he filled out a good-sized tumbler nearly full and put himself outside of it with much celerity. Then with another deep groan of agony hoj said. “I am going to the dentist again, I’ll pay you for jthis when the teeth arc out,” The skipper, anxious as to bis fate, looked out of the door immediately after his departure, and in the far vistas of the street of Colombo he descried the form of the toothache client fast disappearing with the agiile step of the gentle antelope, and with his wraps and other paraphernalia discarded. The skipper has since looked upon a face-bandaged customer with distrust. Such clients now part before they leave for the dentist. A very exciting sound is the chime of the fire boll. The interest taken in conflagrations by the majority of your general public here is something extraordinary. If the bell sounds at two or three in the morning when members of the human race are supposed to sleep the soundest, hundreds arise from their beds and, struggling into their bags and socks, fly off wildly at the rate of knots to see some unfortunate man burnt right out. It’s a quaint taste. I never move myself. It’s a game I always paiis on. But there are men whose business entails their presence at these soul-harrowing scenes. These are the insurance agents. Sometimes it comes a bit rough on them. On the occasion of a recent fire, four of the leading bosses of insurance shows were enjoying' the hospitality of a very genial gentleman in Papanui. A report came up that Messrs Wiilkin and Co.’s stores wore on fire, and how did they start off. How did they, albeit all rather on the big side of condition, travel do wn that road ! And after all they might have stayed and finished a pleasant evening. These things sometimes make the chequered life of an insurance agent one of intense hardship and scorching anxiety. Whether it comes from the praiseworthy endeavors of the Local Industrial Association or what I know not, but the principles inculcated by that most useful society seem to have spread almost everywhere, and to the lite rary world as well other sections of tho community. No less than two Christmas annuals have been issued this month, written by local authors, and which have already secured a good sale. For a first start in this direction I think both volumes are very creditable, but as this sort of publication will probably be continued, I should like to have one little word upon one of the publications. The one I allude to contains a story in connection with the capital of France. It would be perhaps better on future occasions if the author was a little more particular about bis French phrases. In this story he is, possibly without meaning it, very funny. One of the characters is made to ejaculate “ n\a foi.” At least I expect that is what he was intended to say. But what he actually exclaimed in the novelette under notice was “ ma foie,” which I may add means “ my liver.” Could a recollection of the old clothesman Charlie in “ David Oopperfleld,” who continually made allusion to bis “liver and lights, gooroo gooroo,” have anything to do with this livery exclamation ? If so, of course my remarks as to inaccuracy fall through. Even then is there not something crooked about the Hotel de Louvre and La Grand Prix? French is a stupid sort of language anyhow. This high-class education here, which has wen such golden opinions from the unfortunate ignorant people who have not had the advantage of being educated in Canterbury, is already beginning to show its results. Only tho other day a friend of mine accoasted thiree four-year-old kids whose Sabbath amusement consisted in walking up against the stream of a fast-running Christchurch drain. Their garments were, as might have been expected, wet with a drainy grime, and my friend hazarded a remark to the trio that their mother would make it merry for them when they thought fib to return to the ancestral home. “ Take her all her time,” sai d tho smallest of tho three. Such fine independence of feeling in such small children speaks volumes in favour of the future of the rising generation. From present appearances the lot coming on after us will be a charming set to live amongst. There won’t be any ploughmen or low people of that sort amongst them, though, and what a comfort that will be.. Those who have perused any of the numerous accounts of the Eolly finale may perhaps remember that during the stay of the outlaws at Glenrowan Mrs Jones, the hospitable landlady of that hostelry, produced foil' the amusement of the high-minded outlaws a singing boy. The favorite selection of this youthful Blondel, wo are told, was “ The Wild Colonial Boy,” which was invariably encored by his audience. Thanks to a kind friend, I have been able to secure a copy of this sweet idyl, and I quote a few selections : CHORUS. “ Oh! come along, my honest lad, Together we will fly, Together wo will plunder, Together wo will die. We’ll gallop o’er those lofty hills. And ride across tho plains, Until wo are in slavery, Bound down in iron chains. It was at the age of past sixteen He left his father’s home, Grossed to Australia’s sunny clime, Bushranger for to roam. He robbed the lordly squatters, And their flocks he did destroy, And a terror to Australia Was " The WILD COLONIAL BOY.” As Jack rode out one morning, As he merrily rode along, Listing to a mocking bird Which sang song after song. When up came three mounted troopers— Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy They cams to try and capture The Wild Colonial Boy. “Oh, stand! oh, stand!” said Kelly, “ You outlaw plundering son.” " Oh, stand ! oh, stand !” You see they’re 3 to 1.” Jack drew a revolver from his belt. To handle that pretty toy. “ I’ll fight, but not surrender,” Said tho Wild Colonial Boy.” He fired at trooper Kelly, And tumbled him to the ground. And turning round to Davis, Received his deathly wound. And looking on those lofty hills. Ho bid them all good-bye. And that was how they captured Tho Wild Colonial Boy.

I observed recently through tho medium of your invaluable columns that a well-known Christchurch chemist was fined a sovereign for selling laudanum to a party who made such use of hia purchase that he will not require any more soporifics whatever. There is a very popular error, originating with the original authors of Mythology, that justice is blind. She ain’t though. The ways of the sweet goddess are in modern times uncommon to rtuous. This is not the fault of the officers who act on her behalf, but of the Ministers who frame the regulations for their instruction. There is more in tho verdict I have just alluded to than you might fancy. The law on matters toxicological is at present very uneven. A party, male or female, full of “ The whips ond scorns of time, Tho oppressor’s wrong, tho proud man’s contumely, Tho pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, Tho insolence of office,” &e., &0,, &c..

May wo.nt to finish up his life’s drama in one act, for a few ponce he can purchase the wherewithal from any chemist. I don’t say his course is correct, but ho want’s to pass oat. The chemist under such circumstances

is fined, but how about other vendors of poisons who sell stuff that kills as but far more uncomfortably than the poppies’ seed ? How about the Boniface (.) who sell poisons to those who don’t want to pass in their checks. There should be something in the Poison Regulations about him. The great question of the time is not “ what shall we do with our girls,” but how snail wo improve our drinks. It’s a more important one than you might think at first sight too. About the time these linos go to press Christmas will be unto us. The champion growler Jawkins declares as usual that the festive season here is utterly behind that of the old country, so much so that he bored with the whole thing. Perhaps there is some truth in the words of Jawkins. We are minus the holly, the snow, the waits, the chimes, and a heap of other things the English annuals have accustomed us to consider inseparable from what is called the festive season. The patching up of old quarrels, the slapping on the back business over which Miss Braddon’s best character, Sir Jasper Tennant, is so amusingly sarcastic, is carried out here in a minor extent; and the bills,another section of Christmas felicity, come in with even more regularity than in England. At Christmas, however, we are sup posed to bo so far as wo can a little liberal. While enjoying ourselves, and the old man means, as usual, to have a high time, we ought to remember those who have not equal facilities. For instance, I don’t think any of your readers will eat a worse Christines dinner (I cannot put things more forcibly to Englishmen) if they were to give a trifle to the Orphanage, the Reformatory, the Hospital, or any other similar institution. At this time, too, I always remind your reading public that a Christmas box to the postman is a wellspent tip. They deserve it. A more hardworking crowd don’t exist, and I hope their numerous customers will part them a nice little Christmas box. As f or myself, any little subscription you think fit to me will be most gratefully accepted, and I wish you and every reader of your valuable journal a most happy Christmas and a very prosperous New Tear.