ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
Terrible things have been happening in Newcastle. If any one doubts this statement, let him read the following extract from one of the local papers. "Though it is a good while," observes a leader-writer, "since it could be said with justice that the trade of the country was advancing by leaps and bounds, the observation may with absolute accuracy be made with respect to our Newcastle rates. They have stolen along with woollen feet, and are now about to strike with iron hands."
I bow to the ground in awe-struck admiration before this picture of rates stealing along on woollen feet and raising iron hands for a deadly blow at the unfortunate ratepayers of Newcastle. There is something fell and savage in the mere contemplation of it. Prose is quite inadequate to it; it demands rhyme, and must have it:—
Consider Newcastle, its pitiful case,
Where the rates have a habit of stealing.
'Tis a way they are prone to in many a place,
And they do it without any feeling.
They move without noise, and they thus get the pull,
Like a cab with a new rubber tyre on;
For their feet, it is said, are a compound of wool,
Though the hands that they strike with are iron.
The vision appals me, one glimpse is enough;
With terror my bosom is heaving.
Yet I venture the hint—do not treat it as stuff—
That steel were more suited for thieving.
Something always appears to be wrong with the streets of Bristol. I had to notice the melancholy case of Christmas Street last week. The epidemic has now extended to Old Market Street. Here the pitching is so dangerous that horses fall and break their legs, and ladies die from falls on Easter Mondays. A correspondent who calls attention to this matter says that "it is quite annoying on a busy day to have to ask customers two, three, or even four times what they require." I scarcely see what this has to do with the pavement, but personally I have always found it more than annoying to be asked four times as much as I require, even when my requirements are small, as they usually are. It is gratifying to find that, in Old Market Street, at any rate, the shopkeeper who asks has an equal share of annoyance.
Then again, Conduit Place, Lower Ashley Road, is not only badly lighted, but its name is practically unknown. "Even shopkeepers in the neighbourhood and policemen on the beat do not seem to know of it, and sometimes lead people astray in consequence." This, however, is not to be wondered at, as "another difficulty is the numbering of the houses; although only about thirty in the road, they are divided into five terraces with different sets of numbers, which causes endless confusion."
Increase not, wanderer, the policeman's load;
Ask not the site of Lower Ashley Road.
Inquire not eagerly for Conduit Place,
But start unasking on thy terraced chase.
These places to policemen are unknown,
So shall the pride of finding be thine own.
Go forth, go forth, itinerary pundit,
And find the place that takes its name from Conduit.
Thy journey, after many a turn and twist'll
Land thee at Lower Ashley Road in Bristol.
Then pause, and, having raised a thankful voice,
Take 'midst five terraces thy doubtful choice;
And, envied by policemen on their beats,
Return, a lexicon of Bristol streets.
But the badness of the streets and the ignorance of policemen as to their whereabout is nothing to the annoyance caused by the Salvation Army bands near St. Clement's Church in Newfoundland Road. "On Ascension Day," the Vicar writes, "our service was completely stopped for several minutes, as the preacher, who had a bad cold, was unable to shout above the din of the passing drum." I shudder to imagine what would have been the plight of the congregation if the preacher had been free from cold, and capable of shouting down a drum.
Rowing and cricket are more closely connected than many people suppose. In an account of the Oxford eight-oared bumping races, I read that "New College started at a tremendous bat." This of course accounts for the bawling on the bank by which these races are always accompanied. Further on it is stated that "New College finished at 40, all out"—which seems rather a small score.
I commend the brevity of the Mayor of Cambridge, Mr. Hyde Hills, who, being obviously above Hyde Park, does not condescend to the verbosity of the spouters who on Sundays congregate in that locality. The other day Mr. Hyde Hills was elected to be an Alderman, and all he said was, "I thank you." This is optimi exempli, especially for Aldermen.
Lately I came across the following touching appeal of an impecunious son to his father:—
Sir,—I have piles of bills,
Regular miles of bills;
My banking account's in a hash.
All on the debtor side,
Nought on the better side;
The balance you'd hardly call "cash."
'Tis terrible when you're reduced thus to penury,
Even if that's nothing new.
Hope! Can I dream of it?
Yes, there's a gleam of it;
My quarter's allowance is due!
At the Bigg Market in Newcastle was recently held what a local paper describes as "a demnostration in favour of temperance reform." "Demnostration" is a delightful word. It seems to express in the most compact form enthusiasm and strong language.
A Question of Police.—A few days since Liverpool set another lesson to London. No doubt with the consent of the Liverpudlians (inclusive of "the dangerous classes"), the local police force had a grand field-day. To quote our excellent contemporary, the Courier, "those who witnessed the police's steady march through the streets in three battalions, and their effectively-performed manœuvres in Sefton Park, would hardly realise what the turn-out meant to most of the men. They were on duty through the night, and had very little rest before they had to parade for inspection (with the march-out and review), and the weather being warm, the display involved fatigue, so that the refreshments provided were very welcome." Yes, and no doubt well deserved. But why should London wait? Why should not we have something of the same kind? We might have a grand Police Review in Hyde Park. All that would be necessary would be to arrange that the metropolitan thieves should keep the ground!
Proverbial Parliamentary Economy, or Short Commons for Upper House.—Don't spare the Black Rod, and then you won't have to spoil the Upper-Housemaid.
