THE TOWN CRIER.

Thames Guardian and Mining Record, Volume I, Issue 19, 28 October 1871, Page 3

THE TOWN CRIER.

“ Quiou laeotanni thaka na benoca cuita sa rida na scitha onqo." —Cakabau’s Advice to uis Son. It must be a source, of congratulation to that part of the community who live by their wits to know how the law has lost its victim in the case of Bray. I always thought that Fiji was the best place to go to; in fact I have advised would-be swindlers to try that placo for many reasons, foremost among which is the hot climate. It is an undoubted fact that these scoundrels will have to go to a very tropical clime some day, that is provided that the very aristocratic gentleman in black has his dues, and I know of no better place than Fiji for acclimatising oneself. That our Auckland officials have been duped, we must all admit, and who is the cause of this ? The answer is simple enough. A man ; an oracle ; a lawgiver ; who is such a shocking bad caligrapliist that his signature cannot be made out, and is consequently taken for McLean, instead of the “ hidden treasure in a barrel of meal.” Racine, in one of his cantatas, has it—- “ I’m bound to drink all night, I’m bound to spree all day, From my creditors I can take flight, And in Hobart Town I’ll Bray.” There appears to be a nice distinction drawn between a man being drunk and and between him being in that happy state, accompanied with the disorderly. This is certainly a distinction without a difference, except as proved in a case this week.

A literary friend of mine informed me that he had seen the “drunkest” man he had ever viewed in his life, in fact, he was so far gone that his removal in a cart was necessary. His mate appealed to my friend thus : “ Itsh great shame-hic, to take him up ; hesh-hic shober as-hic I am.” But this man, fortunately, who was so sober, could stand

up with a little assistance, whilst the other had to be carted off to the lock-up. Things appear to have been rather •lively at Tararu this week. I_was one of the favoured few, though much against my wish, but still, I suppose, this is in tlie province of a Town Crier. We were refreshed at an early hour with a fine pugilestic display. And, mind you, this was no common affair. We had leading men in law, medicine, scrip, and drapery, to witness the grand set-to between “ Mick’s Young ’un ” and the “ Cornish Bruiser.” Your “ own ” is not very proficient in the technicalities or accomplishments of the P.R., but still, from what I could judge, the talent were not disappointed in the mill. It was most amusing to see with what Samaritan like care (?) one of your well known mining managers supported the “ Bruiser” on his kn«e, and from the careful and judicious manner in which lie plied, and eventually “ tossed up the sponge,” 1 should imagine that this early morning smashing was no novelty to him. The row (I beg pardon), the match, I believe, was the result of a slight altercation at a small ball given somewhere in Grahamstown a few evenings ago, and to show you how trifles cause a row, it arose merely from the fact of one man throwing a bottle at another man’s head. As some of the “friends of the movement” thought there might be some really good moral derived from a fair fight, the mill was postponed till the following day. I am bound to admit that the fight was all that could be desired, both men fought game. One round (No. 15) occupied 7 minutes, and was a splendid tableau vivant of the noble art. The “ scenes in the circle ” lasted 1 hour 21£ minutes, as taken by Benson’s chronograph ; and after one of the combatants had his arm dislocated, the company separated, having spent a most enjoyable morning. I was much amused to hear one facetious shareholder remark that he thought the Irishman was like a goldmining company. I suppose he meant the “ Sink to Rise.” I humbly ventured to suggest the “ Golden Ring,” but this “ shot ” didn’t seein to take.

I trust we shall have no more of these disreputable entertainments up here again, and I look to you as a Guardian to use your interest in suppressing them. Have you ever been to a “ Muffin struggle ?” If not, don’t go. I certainly was under the impression that “ tea fights ” were an institution for old women, but, for once, lam mistaken. The one I attended last Avcek was composed of young persons of both sexes, and I think I may venture to say the stronger sex prevailed. The tea is generally strong and good, and the conversation is often edifying. For instance, Avhat do you think of this : “Oh, Mrs. MacFiggins, how are you ? how are all the little Figginses ?” “ Quite well, thanks ; Adolphus has just got over the measles, and baby her teething. Noav fancy this, measles and tea cake!—they don’t go doAvn well, do they? Imagine your T.C. having to wash one dozen cups and saucers, because the ladies hadn’t brought enough with them. I felt very foolish, but I am told the friends of the cause think it an honour, and a labour of love.