ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 2163, 23 February 1880, Page 2

ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

“ Do you know what I’d do with yon fair youth, if I had my way ?” Artcmns Ward once remarked to a larrikin who was annoying him one evening at the Theatre, “ Why I’d order a funeral at vonr house for 2.30 to-morrow, and the corpse should he ready V' l am led to believe from this casual observation of the great humorist that he had a very pronounced antipathy to youths of the larrikin type, and I am not at all surprised at it. At Home they have the London street arab. and likewise the young coster who is fond of patronising the galleries of the East End theatres and who is prone to indulge in whistling and stamping accompaniments to the music, but the larrikin—an inlinitely more objectionable creature—is unknown; indeed be would never be tolerated. I wonder what A. Ward would think of the pit of the Theatre Royal, Tirnaru, could he visit it on the evening of a popular entertainment. The behaviour of the boys to be found therein is perfectly disgraceful and most annoying lioth to actors and audience.

“Beautiful for ever] Or every lady her own Madame Rachael!” Such Sir, is the unassuming title of a little work 1 am thinking of publishing shortly. I don’t mind confiding the secret of this little book to you, provided, of course, that it goes no further, in it will be found the receipc for preparing a “ wash” which is, I am informed all the go amongst the Parisian ladies just now. This wash is called “ Serky’s Tea ” and possesses the highly desirable property of “ preserving unimpaired the freshness and beauty of early youth” ! The Parisian papers are filled with the praises of this nostrum. When will people learn that the best “wash for the complexion,” is fresh, cold water, with the accompaniment of a cake of glycerine or brown Windsor ?

Here’s a scene that occurred not long since, at a township lying midway between Tiraaru and Christchurch. It was reported to me by an eye-witness. Scene : Breakfast room at Blank’s Hotel. Boarders seated at breakfast table. Tompkins, helping himself _to another egg, to Jones, who is reading the paper —“ Where’s Smith, this morning p” Oh, he got on the bust again, last night awfully bad don’t you know, expect he’ll got the sack this morning.” Tompkins (after a moment’s pause) : “ Think so P Serve him right, I’ll be shot if I don’t have a try for his billet !”

Brown and Eobinson, who were seated on the opposite side of the table and who have been trying to cough down the foregoing remarks, here draw their chairs apart, and discover Smith, the maligned one, who, having entered the room unpcrccivcd by Tompkins and Jones, is now seated in a chair at the back of the table, gazing with a ferocious expression of countenance at those gentlemen, who suddenly discover that it is “ time to start for the office !”

What a beautiful thing is sympathy ! Your readers doubtless remember the narrow escape experienced by a wellknown resilient and his sister the other day returning from the Washdykc. The horses bolted, and the affair might have terminated much more seriously hut for the pluck aml“skill of the driver. There were plenty of sympathisers hanging about when the buggy at length came to a standstill on its arrival in town, and someone in the crowd seems to have improved the shining hour by coolly appropriating a shawl-rug which was in the buggy. Anguish at the narrow escape of tlie travellers seems to have begotten mental abstraction, which no doubt led to the abstraction of the rug. The article was not missed in the excitement of alighting, but a search afterwards rcA’caled that it had vanished. This is sympathy of an altogether too active kind, and it should be reported to the police.

A harrowing story of a poor female stowaway comes from Liverpool. The vessel (a. cotton ship) arrived at the lastnamed port after a 47 days’ passage from New York. When the men were unloading they discovered this poor creature wedged in between the bales of cotton. She presented a most woebegone and emaciated appearance, having been unable to obtain either food or water during the whole of the protracted passage from her own country. Her head was flattened, and one of her legs twisted over her back. After a few days of careful nursing she recovered her appetite, but the poor cat’s beautiful glossy coat has disappeared, probably for ever!

Almost as pathetic as the death of little Paul Dombey, so beautifully related by Dickens, was the speech of a little Londoner the other day. He lay upon his little white curtained bed, very sick, and small wonder considering the amount of lollies be had been eating. Having transgressed, in this respect, his aunt had administered to him a little well merited correction, and now, as ho looked up languidly at the ceiling, he whispered softly, Uh I wish I had

wings like a bird ! ” His mother and aunt exchanged sweet, sad smiles. “ And why do you wisli you had wings like a bird, my darling ? ” gently asked mamma. “ ’Cause then I’d fly up—oh ever so high! ” the little sufferer replied, opening his eyes, “ and I’d take aunty up with me, and when I’d got up a long, long way, I’d let her fall down wop ! on the stones!” QUILP.