Random Notes.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 16, 15 July 1893, Page 12

Random Notes.

The good folks of Invercargill mayhap have been unaware that for some time past there’s been a chiel among them takin’ notes, or attempting so to do. His delay in publishing the results of his observations has been to some extent due to the lack of a sufficiently prominent coign-of vantage from which to observe and duly note the various idiosyncrasies of the denizens of the district. Hitherto the tower at Hall’s corner or the wat'ertower were the station points from which Southland’s faults and foibles could be brought under review. Of tliese the former rises to an altitude by no means sufficiently high, while the latter is too far removed from the busy hum of men, id esf, Dee street, to be fully serviceable for all the purposes of the observant critic of men and manners.

My hopes rose high when the fiat went forth that here, though ' we do wit possess the most southerly gas lamp, we were still to have as our very own a clock-tower, with real live chimes. “ Here at last,” said I to myself, “ is the point so long desiderated from which to look down upon the lieges of this southern landbut, alas for the frailty of human hopes ! What can one see from the tin-pot tower with which

the pai’simony of our Liberal Government has gifted us ? In despair I felt impelled to throw myself upon the well-known kindness of the sage of Makarewa and entreat him to aid my -helplessness by granting the use of his “watch-tower” from which he thunders forth his “ warning blast ” upon any and everything under heaven’s canopy. One thing alone deterred me from rendering our Southern Solomon the universal benefactor of mankind ! His watchtower, like the bow of Ulysses, which he alone could bend, can be used only by himself. Thrown hack upon my own resources, I am compelled reluctantly to take my station upontbe roof of that thing of architectural beauty and consequently of joy for ever —Ward’s Stores, whence the doings of all and sundry may duly be noted and likewise duly chronicled.

From my watch-tower, however, such as it is, I can just discern in the distance the pleasantly-situated village of Makarewa. It can boast the possession of a real live philosophical scribe and moral reformer who is regarded by more than one critic as an oracle. He has the good sense to avoid the writing of “ shilling shockers ”or treatises on ethics. He sends his numerous and meritorious contributions to the mighty Press, and to guard against any mistaken identity signs his name to every one of them. He deals with subjects as multitudfnous as the sands on the sea shore and of varying degrees of intricacy, from the moulding of clay to the most abstruse economic doctrines. His critics, however, seem to envy him. They are disposed to question his ability, aud are slow to give him credit for his boundless knowledge and wisdom. They regard “ the world as a stage,” upon which the sage of Makarewa is but playing a theatrical part. “ ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,” and were our oracle to travel abroad he would undoubtedly receive the applause to which his genius and his versatility entitle him. He can rest assured, however, that posthumous fame will follow him ; that when he shuffles of his mortal coil the applause of an admiring world shall extol to the skies the memory and works of a man who whilst alive was made a butt for the arrows of satire and sarcasm. Happy time when each bank, brae and brick in the neighbourhood of Makarewa shall be celebrated in song for its association with this poet, sago and philosopher ! “ ’Tis Avhen he’s gone, we’ll miss him ” —-miss that sound advice that has so often been given gratuitously' —miss that equable judgment so often directed to make erring men ti’ead the paths of justice and rectitude. In vain, ye critics, are your shafts sped to maim this giant in intellect, for future generations, while wondering “ how one small head could carry all he knew,” shall hold to “memory dear” the oracle of Makarewa.

Thanks to the courtesy of the secretary of 'the Teachers’ Institute I graced the recent Conference with my presence. Like my early prototype, the Spectator, I like not to make myself too prominent, hut rather, from a quiet nook, to observe the flux and flow of the various passions of my fellows and deduce therefrom the obvious moral. Hereafter I may return to scholastic matters, being as it is a subject of perennial interest. Here I may permit myself to compliment Mr Lurasden Selby for his able paper oh “ Irregular attendance.” The gentleman named spoke sympathetically and from the heart, as if the matter touched him nearly. His specimen parental excuse, “ Kep’ atome a taterin’,” was a good sample of an excellent species of literature, to which, no doubt, many of my readers (and admirers too, I hojoe,) can add choice examples. This subject suggests the following incident which may be new to many Southlanders, and is good enough to bear repetition : —ln Scotland, the evil of irregularity is perhaps quite equal in extent to what it is in New

Zealand. The i local truant officer, or some such functionary, in a village indefinitely placed in the eastern portion of the Land o’ Cakes, called upon a recalcitrant parent—-maternal, of course whose boy was, in colonial juvenile phraseology, “playing the wag.” This affectionate parent, like many local examples, had her excuse ready : —“ We’re puir fouk,” said she, “ an’ hae na muckle tae gae the bit laddie, sae we maun e’en dae what we can, an’ gie him his ain wull.”

It was Plato, I think, who declared

it his ambition to bring philosophy from its celestial abode down to dwell among mortals. While my ambition is by no mean# so lofty, I still hope to apply to the little faults and failings of the inhabitants of our own little corner of the mundane sphere, * the Jene torment uni of mild satire, whereby some little amendment may result to Her Majesty’s lieges here residing. Tho’ not exactly the voice of one crying in the wilderness, nor yet possessing the powerful, persuasive, eloquence of the Pantagruelean windy philosophers, I trust that there are few who will have occasion to apply to me the phrase of Lucan—■ “ Vox, et praeterea nihil ,” —-nor yet declare, that tho’ I may not, like Bottom, “ soar you gently as a sucking dove,” I may prove “ sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Thus making my bow to the large and influential reading’ circle of Southland, I may permit myself to be, their obedient servant, Vox.