Random Notes

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 26, 23 September 1893, Page 9

Random Notes

.In these days of femaley, franchise renown it is well to remember Virgil's profound remarK, Varium et muiabile semper e'st femina T7—an axiomatic utterance, well-Englished in Hamlet’s equally famous dictum—“ Erailty, thy name is woman.” This mutability of the female character was reccntly well illustrated in a lady-correspondent’s letter to one of the Otago up-country' bi-weeklies. The “ press woman ” referred to had <■ attended a sacred concert in the metropolitan city of the south, and thus gave her up-country readers an account of her impressions : —“After all there is nothing to be compared to sacred music. Miss ——’s ‘ The Soul awakening,’ was beautifully rendered. This young lady has a most exquisite voice. Miss — : — also sang ‘ Come unto Me.’ She tuore a beautiful white opera cloak, with feather trimming . Immediately after singing,” &c. Only a Woman could have penned these lines! The swiftness of change of thought is characteristic of Mother Eve’s mutable daughters, while the italics show that the ruling passion obtrudes itself both in and out of season. We may promise ourselves that legislators hereafter will devote much greater attention to sumptuary legislation than heretofore, now that the “ ladies ” are persons within the meaning of “ The Electoral Act of 1893.” Contributions are coming in thick and fast upon me, these being chiefly poetical! Hitherto I have complied w.th the evident desire of my contributors to have their effusions issued in all the glory of “guid black prent.”. But this week I draw the line, hvery claimant for room in this column must adduce some proofs to show that he merits my condescension. “ Rhyme and reason ” are both desiderated, and 1 can assure my latest poetical friend that he errs most egregiously if he considers that I have adopted as the motto for this column the words, “ Rubbish shot here!” To secure publication of their verses, correspondents must endeavour to reach a higher degree of excellence than the following, the first of some dozen similar atrocities : “ Dear Yox, on Saturday fifteenth I read your note on Prohibition, And I don’t believe a word you wrote, And will now give you my reason.” Were it reason, my friend, I might possibly permit you to meander over half-a-column, but certainly to such ear-splitting rhymes as you favour me with I must decline admission. Send your poems to one or other of our dailies, for, from recent productions in their columns, I opine that their standard of excellence is sufficiently low to freely admit your concoctions. The editor hands me the following brief note from my esteemed friend, Mr T. Buxton, for which I gladly make room in this column. My readers will duly appreciate the compliments which he addresses to me, and which are somewhat flattering : —■ TO THE EDITOR. Sie.—l see that I was lucky enough to furnish “ Yox ” with a peg to hang a note on last week. I always feel flattered when “Yox” notices me. But one item in this note reminds me of soldiers marching in funeral procession with arms reversed. He says when I quit this world I shall leave a hole. I have always been expecting to fill a hole, dug by some kind friend to put me in when the vital spark of heavenly flame shall have to quit this mortal frame, to save me from being mauled by those snarling dogs that “Yox” speaks of, who are afraid to encounter me while the • spark of heavenly flame is in me, exceptuuder assumed badges. It has been my misfortune to make holes all my life, and the one I am now making at Makarewa is of such dimensions that if “ Yox ” should come up here to make a night attack on my watch tower and fall into it, he would think that it was just here that Nature made the awful pause that the poet sings of, and that he had unwittingly' tumbled into it. It would not be Latin classics that would furnish his inspiration. It would be his mother-tongue, and the exclamation would be “ Thunder and pitchforks ! Where am I going to ?” So I hope he wont come, asl don’t want him hurt.— Yours, &c., T. Buxton. Thanks for your caution, friend B. Neither business nor pleasure calls upon me to make my way Makarewa-wards. Should I, however, do so I shall carefully avoid, at any rat* on a moonless night, that awful chasm of which you write so feelingly. - Yox.