Our Wellington Watchman.

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume IX, Issue 2848, 15 March 1888, Page 2

Our Wellington Watchman.

Is the aged Emperor of Germany alive? Is lie dead? If dead, when did he die—a few days since, as announced, or some, years ago?. Is the .Crown Prince alive? Is he dead? Has he cancer ? or was lie never really ill ? These are the questions that are still agitating all bosoms. • Is it possible, I ask, whether the theory of the good George Berkeley,' Bishop of Cloyne, is not, all said and done, the correct one, that everything is subjeciive or objective-I forget which—that nothing is real but the unreal, and that.tliere never was an Emperor of Germany to die nor a Crown Prince to suffer "cancer, and that Germany, "pelebrated pathologists," awl cawcevs

are alike figments of mundalie imagination ? If, however, these truly have existence, then, as the cable circumstantially recounts the death of the. Emperor and great improvement in the health of his son, may we not safely conclude that the son is dead and the father lives ? I think so.

But these cablegram men are slowly but surely filling our lunatic asylums. The average, matter of fact person with average nerves and no particular imaginative power to speak of, cannot stand more than a .certain quantity of these weird telegraphic mysteries. Many friends assure me that they have heroically tried to follow and make sense out of these curdling contradictions of cancer and no cancer, Ceasar dead and Ceasar alive and kicking, and that now reason totters upon its throne, and they wake in . the stilly night and get up and kick themselyes and demand of the. amatory but unresponsible torn cat enthroned upon the shingles, whether things are what they seem, whether they are awake, and, if awake, alive, or, plaintively enquire, with prior little Paul Dombey " Are we all dend, Floy ?" ' ;

And then consider what demoralizing effect these cabalistic cablegrams must have upon the gentlemen who jerk the editorials for our journals arid who, heretofore, having dwealt onlyin the pure serene light pf perfect truth, find; themselves suddenly launched upon a foaming sea of taradiddles. Fancy how they must have felt when, having spread themselves out in obituary notices of greasiest gush, tliey find by the next message that the corpse is not dead, and then—having carefully taken back every word of the oleaginous eulogy—are smitten by the intelligence that the corpse.is genuine.

Some years, ago, a godforsaken American invented a maddening mystery known as the 15 puzzle, strong under the blighting influence of which men faded and withered like Autumnal leaves, neglecting their families and avocations while they wrestled with the accursed connundrum. The German riddle has had the same effect, I fear, on the gentleman who grinds the leaders for our leading morning journal. Driven to desperation, he sat down last Sunday night determined to unravel the mystery or die. The result may be seen in Monday's paper. At an early period of his article, he got Bismark, the Emperor, the Crown Prince, Liberal principles, the Yankee yarn an "ingeniously constructed automaton, or some person skilfully 'madeup'to represent the departed sovereign," all mixed up in the most frightful confusion. It is whispered that lie , was found in the- morning trying to get his poor head between the rollers of the printing machine with a view to straightening out his brain, and that ever since ho entertains the touching delusion that he is Bismark, and the sole possessor of the secret of the maze of European diplomacy, but that Morell Mackenzie has changeddrim into an automaton, and and is running the whole system of New Zealand railways through the Lambton Quay office, and the Crown Princess of Germany is practising drop-kicks with his (the editor's) head. This is very sad, but the attack lias been coining onliim some time.

It is so seldom, Mr Editor, that yoit are betrayed into inaccuracy of statement that I feel some delicacy in correcting an erroneous assertion which appears in your issue of Saturday last, and which denies that the Prince of Wales and the great Sullivan met 011 friendly terms. In justice to the Prince I am enabled to state that Mr Sullivan did meet him and treated him with the utmost politeness and condescension. It is true that Mr Sullivan had demurred to meeting the Prince, feeling that lie must draw the line somewhere, but eventually his liberal instincts prevailed, and he not only met Albert Edward, but, as before stated, exhibited little haughtiness towards him, The following may be relied 011 as a strictly accurate account of the first interview: " Mr Sullivan has permitted himself to be presented to the Prince of Wales, at a well, known sporting club, which the heir to the English Throno frequently attends. Mr Sullivan was perfectly frank and pleasant, Wales held out his hand, whioh Mr Sullivan, after a moment's natural hesitation, grasped and shook; The Prince said •" lam pleased to meet you, Mr Sullivan. I hope you are enjoying your trip to this country" "Gladto see you, too, Wales," replied John L. in thunder tones." I've heard a pile about you, and they say you're no slouch with the gloves yourself, oil ?" and Sullivan made a pleasant poke with his fingers at the Royal person. The Prince of Wales promised to attend the next exhibition at which Sullivan figures, and they had a friendly glass of wine together, " My best regards, Mr Sullivan," observed the Ptince, as he raised his glass. ."Drink heartily, old sport," rejoined John ind they clinked theiKglasses. Sullivan shook the Prince's hand in a way that made His Royal Highness wince, as he took his departure, and it is said that the Court Physician was at once summoned to repair the small broken bones. " He is a decent fellow, but I could knock him out in half a round," when somebody asked him his estimate of the Prince.

They are not all mad in Wanganui. Four hundred and sixty-three Wanganui women at least rest oil the solemn rock of sanity.' They have presented a" petition to the BorOugh Council, praying them not to license public buildings, in which glove fights are permitted, and the Council decided to prohibit such exhibitions. Bully for you!. Mesdames of the pumicestone metropolis. It may be all very well for Eoyal Ponces to associate with cattle-drovers and prize fighters; but the good ladies of Wanganui evidently intend to keep their hubbies and sweethearts from such contamination., • It takes long centuries to eradicate' the savage element in ordinary humanity, but one hardly expects to find a Wesleyan Minister cavorting round with a bludgeon to massacre his fellow men. A Mr Teller, a Wesleyan preacher, is now lecturing in Wellington, and the other night he related, the what the Post, with gentle irony, calls "interesting incident," which follows; " during the recent Socialist scare, a pro- j (taatiw bafl be?u at Hging reijuif. |

ing the services of one thousand Special constables. He accordingly presented himself to a Magistrate to be sworn in. 'Noticing his olerioal appearance, the. Magistrate looked at liira in surprise, and asked his name and business. His answer was- I 'l am a Wesleyan Minister, and I wish to be sworn in as a constable." The MagistratOj, was so astonished at the.request, that it some seconds before he could reply: " All right, swear lim in." The rev. gentleman said he therefore possessed the staff and badge of a speoial constable of England, and' was quite ready at any time to uphold tho honour of his country it required to do 80 ?" One cannot help sympathising vjth the Magistrate's surprise ailie regarded that gentle gospel puncher, tho redoutable 'l'elfer. It seems to mo, that the Eev. Telfer has lived just' a trifle too late in the world's history. Some 1855 years ago a Socialist—the first Christian Socialist, indeed—was arrested in a garden, and one of this Socialist's .companions (by name; Peter) stretched, out his hand,- and drew Ins sword, and struck a servaut of the high priest's, and smote off .his ear. Why, oh, why was not Telfer upon the scene to, bang that old time Socialist, Simon Peter, upon the head, with his staff/and arrest him by virtue of his" badge" pf a special constable of Jerusalem ?. . ;'"V Only, if Mr Telfer be indeed a' Christian, will he pardon me fo| reminding him that the first OhristmnS Socialist—who is- also Mr Telfer's reputed master—said :" Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they i that take the sword, shall perish with the sword." ■

On second consideration, however, this only applies to swoi'ds. It is possible that special constables bludgeons were unknown in those dark days. I learn, from a private source tliat the truculent Telfer is so proud of his club and courage that he intends being buried with both, and his badge around his arm. It will be somewhat interesting to observe his interview with' Saint Peter at The Gate. We may imagine the good Peter eyeing the Telferian armament and asking: " What are those things ?" And the pious amateur policeman answers: "Many years ago some_ thousands of common people, who enjoyed 110 comfortable ministerial salaries or pickings were starving, and being ignorant met and murmered at their" hard fate,Ml as they called it, and as a minister^

and disciple of the gentle Jesus, I asked the scribes and pharisees to give me this baton in order that I might, with all Christian charity and love, bang the publicans and sinners on the head,"

Peter replies Many years ago, when your master and mine was in sore straights I drew a sword and defended him from the High Priests and Scribes. Surely, 'twas natural to strike for a God oppressed. But He, such was the divine humility and love of my Lord, rebuked me. You, his minister, the exponent of the Masters peace and love go out of your way—your services not beiilg wanted—to illuse the humble, the poor, and and suffering.- Get 111"

But just as there are more ways oi killing a dog than putting him through the sausage machine, are--there -mora ways of banging a fellow creature tli® smiting him with a chuuk of wood with the royal arms painted on it. A duel to the death is just now proceeding in Wellington, in which no visible gore is shed, but in which the wounds inflicted are frightful mental gashes, cuts and stabs. A worse than Corsican vendetta rages between "Our George," Minister of Education, and the supergenteel Mr E. Wakefield, Minister of nothing in particular. The feud originated in the long ago, and may have proceeded from the jealousy with which educated talent viewed the success of semi-educated genius, or ' from any one of the thousand and one causes that stir the bile of the noble New Zealand politician. Theostensible bones of discord are some books, the public property, which Mr Wakefield wishes given to a little place in Newtown calling itself a Public Library, and which Mr Fisher imagines, and rightly, should be handed over to a more central institution, when established. Mr Fisher, declares that Mr Wakefield says the thing that is and Mr Wakefield, draping himself SFthe high-toned mantle of genteel gigmanity, declares he will not descend to the Fisheriau level, but manages, nevertheless, under screen of a cartload of Wakefieldian syllables, to call Fisher —another. The combat is interesting, the men well matched, but the general opinion is that the elegant Wakefield won't last—that he is deficient in staying power.

At the same time I must confess that tlio Honorable Georgo Fisherhe does not like to be styled " Our George "—is visibly swelling recently. He is beginning to realise some of the divinity that doth hedge round a Minister -even a New Zealand Minis-' ter—and his boots fit him better. An individual who has long maintained most amicable relations with Mr Fisher called on him at his public office the otherdayj on a matter of public business. He declares that George's pe|* fied dignity, official jam, glassy staff; andLordßurleighnod, quite prostrated him and froze the marrow in his bones. But they all do it!