Random Notes.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 47, 17 February 1894, Page 9

Random Notes.

Like several other ardent Shakespearian, I was delighted to see announced the revival on our local stage of one of the prince of poets’ most delightful comedies, and promised myself a treat in witnessing once more the wiles of the charming Rosalind, and listening to the shrewd wic of old friend Touchstone, thus renewing acquaintance with friends of years long gone by. I accordingly on Wednesday evening wended my way theatrewards, and was delighted to find a house filled to overflowing. It is not my intention to praise Miss Spong’s rendering of the charming creation of Shakespeare—that has been worthily done by our dailies. Here I may ask—Does the colonial playgoer appreciate Shakespeare ? I fear me that if I am to take as sample of the criticisms of the audience those remarks made in my immediate vicinity, the question above must be answered with a decided negative. When my eyes were fixed upon some of the most exquisite scenes im the forest, I was several times rather rudely awaked by some remark or other of a young colonial near—the said remark being duly emphasised by some sanguinary or sultry epithet; while several times the question was most innocently asked, “ When does the fun begin ?” At times, too, it was heartrending to sec some of 'Touchstone’s very swift and sententious utterances fall flat, while an audible smile greeted not a little that should have incited feelings far other. Well, well, Shakespeare is dead, as a spectator near me remarked, and lus works are not good enough for us enlightened colonials, who want something bright and lively (save the mark!), and are not content with those stale old plays ! Remarks not dissimilar in tone were heard further noi'th, during the production of Huchanan’s revised version of “ Tom Jones,” under the name of “ Sophia.” Such is fame ! The great writers of the past may have pleased their day and generation, but they are not good enough for the go-ahead young colonial who knows a thing or two more than these old fogies did. Will the next visiting company take advice from Vox, and stage the most screaming absurdities obtainable to

please the pitite and those of his kidney ? By so doing they will certainly deprive older playgoers of not a little pleasure, but they will more than make up that slight loss by securing the heartiest demonstrations of approval from those who pay their shilling to be shocked or to shriek.

1 suppose many pedestrians have, like myself, been not infrequently brought to a standstill on our footpaths during the last week or two by observing sundry mystical hieroglyphic marks on the said footpaths. “ Had the Anarchists arrived in the colony and adopted this means of vindicating their presence to the residents of Invercargill?” was the first thought which suggested itself to my mind, and my fears were by no means lessened on observing the many gyrations of the feminine portion of our juvenile population among the said hieroglyphics —innocent youth is ever found playing in close proximity to danger! My fears were, however, allayed on perusing the current Idler, wherein Barry Pain enlightens us upon the said mystery in these terms :—“ Some of the games of children are so easy that even adults can share them. Grown-up people, for instance, hare their little cricket and football imitated from the children. We cannot, armed with a pistol that has a strong spring to it, and hurts at five yards, pursue a small boy who, on the strength of an adornment derived from the interior of a cracker and a serviceable imagination, asserts that he is a bison ; but we do our best with deer-forests and other substitutes to catch the spirit of the thing. Yet childhood has some games which are as closed books to the adult. ’Enerietter, aged eleven, with her gown that was never meant for her, and her untamed Loudon manner, chalks mysterious lines on the pavement, under the wall of the Board School. Then Margrit comes along, and ’Enerietter and Margrit play for hours, the chalked line being part of the apparatus, and a small pebble the other part. It is mysterious, not understood of adults, but it is called hop-scotch, and is said by children to be a joy. Probably no one over the age of eighteen knows bow to play it, and the adult has nothing to take its place. Where the child has hop-scotch, the adult has an aching void.” Yow is the time for the adult of Invercargill to supply the wherewithal to fill the gaping vacuum. The hop-scotch fever (not anarchy) is strong upon our infant population, and doubtless ©ur daughters, from five to fifteen, will be all tao willing to enlighten us upon the said mysteries, to which their whole energies, morning, noon, and night, are devoted.

In aforegoing “par.” I hinted at a lack of what by some of the knowing ones is nicknamed “cultuah!” We have in New Zealand one or two papers who sneer at that eminently desirable characteristic of gentlemen. Notable among these is a flamecoloured production of the Cathedral City denominated Truth, which journal, however, claims no connection with the Temple of that abstraction usually found at the botton of a well. The said well, alas! proves not infrequently to be somewhat foul and muddy, in consequence of which unsavoury condition Truth occasionally suffers not a little. Our Bright contemporary recently attempted to comment on the periodical peccadilloes of Sir 11. Stout, in asking the question, “ Does another contemporary know a paper with which Rabby Stout was connected, which did not come to unmitigated grief?” Answering this question, our Trv th-iwi editor professes to know of one journal—not, however, “ the Dunedin Atheist paper which was done to death with profanity in a comparatively short time !” “ The good men do lives after them,” and though in ancient times, ten years or so ago, there did exist a Liberal (your biggest L, please, Mr Printer!) Lecturer of advanced type, named Tco, the good he did still survives, in a few out-of-the-way corners, in the pages of a very short-lived journal, yclept the Rationalist. Possibly if the “ We” of Truth placed the said journal alongside of Rabby’s somewhat inoffensive sheet he, in his modern converted frame of mind, might be able to make comparisons, and as the cultuahed Mrs Malaprop would say, “ Comparisons are odorous.” If a file of the said Rationalist is preserved in the office of Truth, we may possibly be able to account for the musty, fusty odour which pervades the pages of that journal, and I, in most friendly terms, urge our regenerated editor to “ expel the said file with a pitchfork,” and thus furnish means of adding to the pages of the journal whose fortunes he now directs some portion of those “ two noblest of things, which are sweetness and light!” Vox.