Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 13www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

The Vagabond PoetContinued from prervious issueI'll have a window-seat broad and deepWhere I can sprawl to read or sleep,With windows placed so I can turnAnd watch the sunsets blaze and burnBeyond high peaks that scar the skyLike bare white wolf-fangs that defyThe very gods. I'll have a nookFor a savage idol that I tookFrom a ruined temple in Peru,A demon-chaser named Mang-ChuTo guard my house by night and dayAnd keep all evil things away.Pewter and bronze and hammeredbrass;Old carved wood and gleaming glass;Candles and polychrome candlesticks,

And peasant lamps in floating wicks;Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suitIn a chest that is filled with vagabondloot.All of the beautiful useless thingsThat a vagabond's aimless driftingbrings.Then, when my house is all completeI'll stretch me out on the window seatWith a favorite book and a cigarette,And a long cool drink that Oh Joy willget;And I'll look about at my bachelor-nestWhile the sun goes zooming down thewest,And the hot gold light will fall on myface

And make me think of some heathenplaceThat I've failed to see ... that I'vemissed some way ...A place that I'd planned to find someday,And I'll feel the lure of it drawing me.Oh damn! I know what the end will beI'll go. And my house will fall awayWhile the mice by night and the mothsby dayWill nibble the covers off all my books,And the spiders weave in the shadowednooks.And my dogs ... I'll see that they havea home

While I follow the sun, while I drift androamTo the ends of the earth like a chip onthe stream,Like a straw on the wind, like a va-grantdream;And the thought will strike with a swiftsharp painThat I probably never will build againThis house that I'll have in some fardayWell ... it's just a dream house, any-way.

- Don Blanding

Stop worryingWanted ... a manWhat we lack and sorely need,For want of which we bleed and bleed,Is men of a more Godly breed.Honest men in honest places;Men with single aims and faces;Men whose nobler thought outpacesThought of self, or power or pelf.Men whose axes need no grinding;Men who are not always mindingFirst their own concerns, and blind-ingTheir soul's eyes to larger things.Men of wide and Godly vision;

Men who shrink not at derision;Men whose souls have wings.O for one such man among us,One among the mobs that throng us,And for self-advance do wrong us . .Him we would acclaim,Hold in highest estimation,Reverence with consecration,As the saviour of the nation,Dower him with fame.Lord, now raise us such a man ...Patriot, not partisan,And complete Thy mighty plan.

- John Oxenham

Here's a picture of my mother in herwedding gown. Ah, me!I wonder if there ever was a fairer bridethan she,Not a wrinkle on her forehead, not aline denoting care,Can be traced upon her features; whata wealth of wavy hairFell away from her fair temples! Andthe smile she wore that dayWas the smile of one whose sorrowsstill were lurking far away.I can fancy that my father, as he gazedupon her then,Must have held his head up proudly,favoured o'er all other men;And, beholding the sweet beauty of theface depicted here,I imagine I can see him, young and

ardent, standing near.I have loved, and I can see him as hecaught her to his breast,When the strength of youth was in him,and his lips on hers were pressed.The picture of my mother, taken on herwedding day,Shows the face of one whose sorrowswere all lurking far away,And a fairer bride than she nevercharmed a man, I trow,Yet there's one whose smile is sweeterthan her smile was long agoOne whose brow has many furrows,proudly looks sometimes on me,And I see the fondest, gladdest smile aman may hope to see.

- Selected by Francis A. BoxerSavernake

Mother in her wedding gown

"I've been fretting, fuming, cryingevery day;Life looks drab, and everything isgrey.What's the good of trying to work?We may just as well all shirk ...When you hear folks speak like thisjust quietly say:"I've decided not to worry any more,And I'm living just as easy as be-fore;What's the use of fume and worry?What's the use of fuss or flurry ?I've decided not to worry any more."Just go along and mind your ownaffairs,Look for laughter and for joy, andnot for tears.Keep a-grubbin' and a-hoein'That'll stop the weeds a-growin'Just determine not to worry anymore."What's the use to lie awake to rackyour brain,Just because the crops are thirstingfor some rain?It'll come-and it's a-comin'And it's bound to come a-hummin'So never don't you worry any more!"

Let Us Be GuestsLet us be guests in one another'shouseWith deferential "No" and courte-ous "Yes"Let us take care to hide our foolishmoodsBehind a certain show of cheerful-ness.Let us avoid all sullen silences;We should find fresh and sprightlythings to say;I must be fearful lest you find medull, And you must dread to bore meany way.Let us knock gently at each other'sheart,Glad of a chance to look within-andyetLet us remember that to force one'swayIs the unpardoned breach of eti-quette.So shall I be hostess-you the hostUntil all need for entertainmentends;We shall be lovers when the lastdoor shutsBut what is better still-we shall befriends.

- Carol Haynes

Empire DayEmpire Day! Let people sayWith happy heart"We'll play our partJust keeping freeThe lands that weAs Empire folk belong to."Empire Day! Let us singHappily-"God Save Our King."Let's be together through all weatherAnd win a peace That will not ceaseOr die. Empire Day!Let people say "We'll live to see ̀That libertyThat England gave. Let us saveThis world from strife. Give lifeTo Empire."

- Danny Webb, 3DB

I Weep For England

When first the darkening clouds of cruel war,Distilled from envy's ever hateful brew;Cast ominous shadows o'er her peaceful shore,I sighed for England.Then through long hideous years, to heart and mindWhile battered, bruised and valiantly alone.She stemmed the aggressor's march for all mankind,I prayed for England.Peace ! and at last the fearful war-drums stilled.Her tattered, blood-stained flag yet waved aboveHer wounds, while joyful nations thrilled,I cheered for England.But now, by short-lived memory be trayed,While famine's grip stifles her just reward;Tried in the crucible, utterly dismayed,I weep for England.Some future dawn I know that she shall beLeading the vanguard to a saner wayWhen loyal, unafraid posterity,Shall bless this England.So let us then arise in multitude,Nor deem it overmuch that we can spareAnd by our prompt and selfless gratitude,So help our England.

- P J Hodge

●●●●● Selections from ‘Philosopher’s Scrapbook’,assmbled by Monty Blandford of 3DB

in the 1950s

Page 14 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

I love all gum-trees well. But, bestof all,I love the tough old warriors thattowerAbout these lawns, to make a greatgreen wallAnd guard, like sentries, this exoticbowerOf shrub and fern and flower.These are my land's own sons, lean,straight and tall,Where crimson parrots and grey ganggangs callThro' many a sunlit hour.My friends, these grave old veterans,scarred and stern,Changeless throughout the changingseasons they.But at their knees their tall sons liftand yearnSlim spars and saplings-prone to sportand sway

Green WallsLike carefree boys at play;Waxing in beauty when their younglocks turnTo crimson, and, like beacon firesburnTo deck Spring's holiday.I think of Anzacs when the duskcomes downUpon the gums-of Anzacs tough andtall,Guarding this gateway, Diggers strongand brown,And when, thro' Winter's thunderings,sounds their call,Like Anzacs too, they fall ...Their ranks grow thin upon the hill'shigh crown;My sentinels ! But, where those ramparts frown,Their stout sons mend the wall.

- Den

Straight Drives"We ought to get together more,To share the joys that lips may bring,Think more of Peace and less of WarAnd cut out all the bickering.Should we give up in sheer despairOr, tell the world that things aretough,The other chap may have his shareOf troubles. Well! He has enough;If we would smile more often whenThe clouds' hang heavy overheadAnd take the knocks that come tomenNot look for sympathy, insteadOf trying hard to see it throughFor though at times the road is rough,Behind the cloud we find the blue,And rocky roads wear smoothenough.Keep straight ahead and do notgrieve,Yes, try to keep that top-lip firmDon't wear your heart upon yoursleeveJust be a man-and not a worm.Forget the faults you think you seeAnd never try to gain by bluff,Play cricket as you ought and weWill find this World is good enough."

- W J Robinson

PatriotismBreathes there a man, with soul sodead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne'er within himburned,As home his footsteps he hathturned,From wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go, mark himwell;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud hisname,Boundless his wealth as wish canclaim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence hesprung.Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

- Sir Walter Scott

Character OfA Happy LifeHow happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill.Who envies none that chance dothraiseOr vice: who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given bypraise;No rules of state, but rules of good.Who hath his life from rumoursfreed,Whose conscience is his strong re-treat;Whose state can neither flatterersfeed,Nor ruin make accusers great.This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.

- Sir Henry Wootton

Give Him A LiftGive him a lift! Don't kneel in prayer,Nor moralise with his despair;The man is down, and his great needIs ready help, not prayer and creed.One grain of aid just now is moreTo him than tons of saintly love;Pray if you must, within your heart,But give him a lift-give him a start.The world is full of good advice,Of prayer and praise and preachingnice;But generous souls who aid mankindAre, like diamonds, hard to find.Give like a Christian-speak in deedsA noble life's the best of creeds;And he shall wear a royal crownWho gives a lift when men are down.

At Flores in the Azores Sir RichardGrenville lay,And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird,came flying from far away:"Spanish ships of war at sea! We havesighted fifty-three!"Then spake Lord Thomas Howard"'Fore God, I am no coward ;But I cannot meet them here, for myships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I mustfly, but follow quick.We are six ships of the line; can wefight with fifty-three?"Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: ̀ Iknow you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight withthem again.But I've ninety men and more that arelying sick ashore;I should count myself the coward if Ileft them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

So Lord Howard passed away withfive ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in,the silentsummer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sickmen from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford in Devon,And we laid them on the ballast downbelow;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain thatthey were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, forthe glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to workthe ship and to fight,And he sailed away from Flores till theSpaniard came in sight,With his huge sea-castles heaving uponthe weather bow,"Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, tell us now;For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left by the timethis sun is set."And Sir Richard said again: "We beall good English men;Let us bang those dogs of Seville, thechildren of the devil.For I never turned my back upon Donor devil yet."Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, andwe roared a hurrah, and soThe little Revenge ran on, sheer intotheheart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck andher ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right andhalf to the left were seen,And the little Revenge ran on, throughthe long sea-lane between.,Thousands of their soldiers lookeddown from their decks and laughed,Thousands of their seamen made mockat the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delayedBy their mountain-like San Phillip,that, of fifteen hundred tons,And up-shadowing high above us withher yawning tiers of guns,Took the breath from our sails, and westayed.And while now the great San Philliphung above us like a cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and twoupon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from themall.But anon the great San Phillip, she bethought herself and went

"I have fought for Queen and Faith, likea valiant man and true;I have only done my duty, as a man isbound to do;With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die !"And he fell upon their decks, and hedied.And they stared at the dead that hadbeen so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory ofSpain so cheap

That he dared her with one little shipand his English few.Was he devil or man? He was devilfor aught they knew,But they sank his body with honourdown into the deep, .

The Revenge: Lord TennysonHaving that within her womb that hadleft her ill content;And the rest they came aboard us andthey fought us hand to handFor a dozen times they came with theirpikes and musqueteers,And a dozen times we shook 'em offas a dog that shakes his earsWhen he leaps from the water to theland.And the sun went down, and the starscame out, far over the summer sea,But never a moment ceased the fightof the one and the fifty-threeShip after ship, the whole night long,their high-built galleons came,Ship after ship, the whole night long,with her battle-thunder and flame;Ship after ship, the whole night long,drew back with her dead and hershame,For some were sunk, and many wereshattered, and so could fight us nomore God of battles, was ever a battlelike this in the world before?For he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"Though his vessel was all but a wreck;And it chanced that, when half of theshort summer night was gone,With a grisly wound to be dressed hehad left the deck,But a bullet struck him that was dress-ing it suddenly dead,And himself he was wounded again inthe side and the head,And he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sunsmiled out far over the summer sea,And the Spanish fleet, with brokensides, lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, forthey feared that we still could sting,So they watched what the end wouldbe.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous. plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred wereslain,And half of the rest of us maimed forlifeIn the crash of the cannonades and thedesperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold weremost of them stark and cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent,and the powder was all of it spent;And the masts and the rigging werelying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his Englishpride;"We have fought such a fight for a dayand a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,We die-does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner-sinkher, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into thehands of Spain!"

And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but theseamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, ifwe yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strikeanother blow."And the lion there lay dying, and theyyielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to theirflag-ship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, oldSir Richard caught at last,And they praised him to his face withtheir courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks and hecried:

And they manned the Revenge with aswarthier alien crew,And away she sailed with her loss, andlonged for her own;When a wind from the lands they hadruined awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave, and theweather to moan,And ere ever that evening ended a greatgale blew,And a wave like the wave that is raisedby an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sailsand their masts and their flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell onthe shot-shattered navy of Spain,And the little Revenge herself wentdown by the island crags,To be lost evermore in the main.

- Lord Tennyson

I must unpack that big brown bulging trunkAnd wash soiled clothes that have accumulated,Oh holiday, what have you done to me?Why am I fatedTo come back to this street so drably plainAnd nose my homely grindstone once again?I must sort out the clean things and the soiledThese towels need scrubbing well before they're boiled,Sun-hats and shirts and bathing togs and socks,Crumpled pyjamas, ribbons, hankies, frocks . . . ,Before the holiday I blithely pratedOf homely joys . . . Why do I feel deflated?The dust depresses me, dead flowers tooAnd fruit that sports a coat of thick mildew.I'm short of butter, eggs and cheese and bread,We took the bedding with us, so each bedHas to be made ere we can take our rest ...Let me just get this grievance off my chestFor in the morning friends will smugly say"You need a change .. you ought to go away."

- Elsie Pearson

Unpacking

Les Misérables by Victor HugoObserver Classic Books

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www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 15

special orisons, revered “the holy blood,” vener-ated “the sacred heart,” remained for hours incontemplation before a rococo-jesuit altar in achapel which was inaccessible to the rank andfile of the faithful, and there allowed her soul tosoar among little clouds of marble, and throughgreat rays of gilded wood.She had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin likeherself, named Mademoiselle Vaubois, who wasa positive blockhead, and beside whom Mademoi-selle Gillenormand had the pleasure of being aneagle. Beyond the Agnus Dei and Ave Maria,Mademoiselle Vaubois had no knowledge of any-thing except of the different ways of making pre-serves. Mademoiselle Vaubois, perfect in herstyle, was the ermine of stupidity without a singlespot of intelligence.Let us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormandhad gained rather than lost as she grew older. Thisis the case with passive natures. She had neverbeen malicious, which is relative kindness; andthen, years wear away the angles, and the soften-ing which comes with time had come to her. Shewas melancholy with an obscure sadness of whichshe did not herself know the secret. There breathedfrom her whole person the stupor of a life thatwas finished, and which had never had a begin-ning.She kept house for her father. M. Gillenormandhad his daughter near him, as we have seen thatMonseigneur Bienvenu had his sister with him.These households comprised of an old man andan old spinster are not rare, and always have thetouching aspect of two weaknesses leaning on eachother for support.There was also in this house, between this eld-erly spinster and this old man, a child, a little boy,who was always trembling and mute in the pres-ence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gillenormand neveraddressed this child except in a severe voice, andsometimes, with uplifted cane: “Here, sir! ras-cal, scoundrel, come here!— Answer me, youscamp! Just let me see you, you good-for-noth-ing!” etc., etc. He idolized him.This was his grandson. We shall meet with thischild again later on.

rious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was wed-ded from her very youth, in ideal, to a vague andheroic figure. The elder had also her chimera; sheespied in the azure some very wealthy purveyor,a contractor, a splendidly stupid husband, a mil-lion made man, or even a prefect; the receptionsof the Prefecture, an usher in the antechamberwith a chain on his neck, official balls, the ha-rangues of the town-hall, to be “Madame laPrefete,”— all this had created a whirlwind inher imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed, eachin her own dream, at the epoch when they wereyoung girls. Both had wings, the one like an an-gel, the other like a goose.No ambition is ever fully realized, here below atleast. No paradise becomes terrestrial in our day.The younger wedded the man of her dreams, butshe died. The elder did not marry at all.At the moment when she makes her entrance intothis history which we are relating, she was anantique virtue, an incombustible prude, with oneof the sharpest noses, and one of the most obtuseminds that it is possible to see. A characteristicdetail; outside of her immediate family, no onehad ever known her first name. She was calledMademoiselle Gillenormand, the elder.In the matter of cant, Mademoiselle Gillenormandcould have given points to a miss. Her modestywas carried to the other extreme of blackness.She cherished a frightful memory of her life; oneday, a man had beheld her garter.Age had only served to accentuate this pitilessmodesty. Her guimpe was never sufficientlyopaque, and never ascended sufficiently high. Shemultiplied clasps and pins where no one wouldhave dreamed of looking. The peculiarity of prud-ery is to place all the more sentinels in proportionas the fortress is the less menaced.Nevertheless, let him who can explain these an-tique mysteries of innocence, she allowed an of-ficer of the Lancers, her grand nephew, namedTheodule, to embrace her without displeasure.In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude,under which we have classed her, suited her toabsolute perfection. Mademoiselle Gillenormandwas a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demi-virtue and a demi-vice.To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lin-ing. She belonged to the society of the Virgin,wore a white veil on certain festivals, mumbled

He took an immense amount of snuff, and had aparticularly graceful manner of plucking at hislace ruffle with the back of one hand. He believedvery little in God.

Continued on Page 16

●●●●● Victor Hugo

With M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted intowrath; he was furious at being in despair. He hadall sorts of prejudices and took all sorts of liber-ties. One of the facts of which his exterior reliefand his internal satisfaction was composed, was,as we have just hinted, that he had remained abrisk spark, and that he passed energetically forsuch. This he called having “royal renown.” Thisroyal renown sometimes drew down upon himsingular windfalls. One day, there was brought tohim in a basket, as though it had been a basket ofoysters, a stout, newly born boy, who was yellinglike the deuce, and duly wrapped in swaddling-clothes, which a servant-maid, dismissed sixmonths previously, attributed to him. M.Gillenormand had, at that time, fully completedhis eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar inthe establishment. And whom did that bold hussythink she could persuade to believe that? Whataudacity! What an abominable calumny! M.Gillenormand himself was not at all enraged. Hegazed at the brat with the amiable smile of a goodman who is flattered by the calumny, and said inan aside: “Well, what now? What’s the matter?You are finely taken aback, and really, you areexcessively ignorant. M. le Duc d’Angouleme,the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married asilly jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M.Virginal, Marquis d’Alluye, brother to the Cardi-nal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, atthe age of eighty-three, by the maid of Madamela Presidente Jacquin, a son, a real child of love,who became a Chevalier of Malta and a counsel-lor of state; one of the great men of this century,the Abbe Tabaraud, is the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of the ordinary in thesethings. And then, the Bible! Upon that I declarethat this little gentleman is none of mine. Let himbe taken care of. It is not his fault.” This mannerof procedure was good-tempered. The woman,whose name was Magnon, sent him another par-cel in the following year. It was a boy again. There-upon, M. Gillenormand capitulated. He sent thetwo brats back to their mother, promising to payeighty francs a month for their maintenance, onthe condition that the said mother would not do soany more. He added: “I insist upon it that themother shall treat them well. I shall go to seethem from time to time.” And this he did. He hadhad a brother who was a priest, and who had beenrector of the Academy of Poitiers for three andthirty years, and had died at seventy-nine. “I losthim young,” said he. This brother, of whom butlittle memory remains, was a peaceable miser,who, being a priest, thought himself bound to be-stow alms on the poor whom he met, but he nevergave them anything except bad or demonetizedsous, thereby discovering a means of going to hellby way of paradise. As for M. Gillenormand theelder, he never haggled over his alms-giving, butgave gladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt,charitable, and if he had been rich, his turn ofmind would have been magnificent. He desiredthat all which concerned him should be done in agrand manner, even his rogueries. One day, hav-ing been cheated by a business man in a matter ofinheritance, in a gross and apparent manner, heuttered this solemn exclamation: “That was inde-cently done! I am really ashamed of this pilfer-ing. Everything has degenerated in this century,even the rascals. Morbleu! this is not the way torob a man of my standing. I am robbed as thoughin a forest, but badly robbed. Silva, sint consuledignae!” He had had two wives, as we have al-ready mentioned; by the first he had had a daugh-ter, who had remained unmarried, and by the sec-ond another daughter, who had died at about theage of thirty, who had wedded, through love, orchance, or otherwise, a soldier of fortune who hadserved in the armies of the Republic and of theEmpire, who had won the cross at Austerlitz andhad been made colonel at Waterloo. “He is thedisgrace of my family,” said the old bourgeois.

VOLUME III - MARIUSBOOK SECOND.—

THE GREAT BOURGEOISCHAPTER VI

IN WHICH MAGNON AND HER TWOCHILDREN ARE SEEN

Continued from last week

CHAPTER VIIRULE: RECEIVE NO ONEEXCEPT IN THE EVENING

Such was M. Luc–Esprit Gillenormand, who hadnot lost his hair,— which was gray rather thanwhite,— and which was always dressed in “dog’sears.” To sum up, he was venerable in spite of allthis.He had something of the eighteenth century abouthim; frivolous and great.In 1814 and during the early years of the Restora-tion, M. Gillenormand, who was still young,—he was only seventy-four,— lived in the FaubourgSaint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint–Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais whenhe quitted society, long after attaining the age ofeighty.And, on abandoning society, he had immured him-self in his habits. The principal one, and that whichwas invariable, was to keep his door absolutelyclosed during the day, and never to receive anyone whatever except in the evening. He dined atfive o’clock, and after that his door was open.That had been the fashion of his century, and hewould not swerve from it. “The day is vulgar,”said he, “and deserves only a closed shutter. Fash-ionable people only light up their minds when thezenith lights up its stars.” And he barricaded him-self against every one, even had it been the kinghimself. This was the antiquated elegance of hisday.

CHAPTER VIIITWO DO NOT MAKE A PAIR

We have just spoken of M. Gillenormand’s twodaughters. They had come into the world ten yearsapart. In their youth they had borne very little re-semblance to each other, either in character orcountenance, and had also been as little like sis-ters to each other as possible. The youngest had acharming soul, which turned towards all that be-longs to the light, was occupied with flowers, withverses, with music, which fluttered away into glo-

BOOK THIRD.— THE GRANDFATHERAND THE GRANDSON

CHAPTER IAN ANCIENT SALON

When M. Gillenormand lived in the RueServandoni, he had frequented many very goodand very aristocratic salons. Although a bourgeois,M. Gillenormand was received in society. As hehad a double measure of wit, in the first place,that which was born with him, and secondly, thatwhich was attributed to him, he was even soughtout and made much of. He never went anywhereexcept on condition of being the chief person there.There are people who will have influence at anyprice, and who will have other people busy them-selves over them; when they cannot be oracles,they turn wags. M. Gillenormand was not of thisnature; his domination in the Royalist salons whichhe frequented cost his self-respect nothing. Hewas an oracle everywhere. It had happened to himto hold his own against M. de Bonald, and evenagainst M. Bengy–Puy-Vallee.About 1817, he invariably passed two afternoonsa week in a house in his own neighborhood, in theRue Ferou, with Madame la Baronne de T., aworthy and respectable person, whose husbandhad been Ambassador of France to Berlin underLouis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his lifetime,had gone very passionately into ecstasies andmagnetic visions, had died bankrupt, during theemigration, leaving, as his entire fortune, somevery curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub,in ten manuscript volumes, bound in red moroccoand gilded on the edges. Madame de T. had notpublished the memoirs, out of pride, and main-tained herself on a meagre income which had sur-vived no one knew how.Madame de T. lived far from the Court; “a verymixed society,” as she said, in a noble isolation,proud and poor. A few friends assembled twice aweek about her widowed hearth, and these con-stituted a purely Royalist salon. They sipped teathere, and uttered groans or cries of horror at thecentury, the charter, the Bonapartists, the prosti-

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Page 16 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Observer Crossword Solution No 6

“these are gardens,” and were they a little smaller:“these are bouquets.” All these enclosures abutupon the river at one end, and on a house at theother. The man in the waistcoat and the woodenshoes of whom we have just spoken, inhabitedthe smallest of these enclosures and the mosthumble of these houses about 1817. He lived therealone and solitary, silently and poorly, with awoman who was neither young nor old, neitherhomely nor pretty, neither a peasant nor a bour-geoise, who served him. The plot of earth whichhe called his garden was celebrated in the townfor the beauty of the flowers which he cultivatedthere. These flowers were his occupation.By dint of labor, of perseverance, of attention, andof buckets of water, he had succeeded in creatingafter the Creator, and he had invented certain tu-lips and certain dahlias which seemed to have beenforgotten by nature. He was ingenious; he hadforestalled Soulange Bodin in the formation of littleclumps of earth of heath mould, for the cultiva-tion of rare and precious shrubs from Americaand China. He was in his alleys from the break ofday, in summer, planting, cutting, hoeing, water-ing, walking amid his flowers with an air of kind-ness, sadness, and sweetness, sometimes stand-ing motionless and thoughtful for hours, listeningto the song of a bird in the trees, the babble of achild in a house, or with his eyes fixed on a dropof dew at the tip of a spear of grass, of which thesun made a carbuncle. His table was very plain,and he drank more milk than wine. A child couldmake him give way, and his servant scolded him.He was so timid that he seemed shy, he rarelywent out, and he saw no one but the poor peoplewho tapped at his pane and his cure, the AbbeMabeuf, a good old man. Nevertheless, if the in-habitants of the town, or strangers, or any chancecomers, curious to see his tulips, rang at his littlecottage, he opened his door with a smile. He wasthe “brigand of the Loire.”Any one who had, at the same time, read militarymemoirs, biographies, the Moniteur, and the bul-letins of the grand army, would have been struckby a name which occurs there with tolerable fre-quency, the name of Georges Pontmercy. Whenvery young, this Georges Pontmercy had been asoldier in Saintonge’s regiment.

Gillenormand, the other was Comte de Lamothe–Valois, of whom it was whispered about, with asort of respect: “Do you know? That is theLamothe of the affair of the necklace.” These sin-gular amnesties do occur in parties.Let us add the following: in the bourgeoisie, hon-ored situations decay through too easy relations;one must beware whom one admits; in the sameway that there is a loss of caloric in the vicinityof those who are cold, there is a diminution ofconsideration in the approach of despised persons.The ancient society of the upper classes heldthemselves above this law, as above every other.Marigny, the brother of the Pompadour, had hisentry with M. le Prince de Soubise. In spite of?No, because. Du Barry, the god-father of theVaubernier, was very welcome at the house ofM. le Marechal de Richelieu. This society isOlympus. Mercury and the Prince de Guemeneeare at home there. A thief is admitted there, pro-vided he be a god.The Comte de Lamothe, who, in 1815, was anold man seventy-five years of age, had nothingremarkable about him except his silent and sen-tentious air, his cold and angular face, his per-fectly polished manners, his coat buttoned up tohis cravat, and his long legs always crossed inlong, flabby trousers of the hue of burnt sienna.His face was the same color as his trousers.This M. de Lamothe was “held in consideration”in this salon on account of his “celebrity” and,strange to say, though true, because of his nameof Valois.As for M. Gillenormand, his consideration wasof absolutely first-rate quality. He had, in spite ofhis levity, and without its interfering in any waywith his dignity, a certain manner about him whichwas imposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in abourgeois fashion; and his great age added to it.One is not a century with impunity. The years fi-nally produce around a head a venerable dishev-elment.In addition to this, he said things which had thegenuine sparkle of the old rock. Thus, when theKing of Prussia, after having restored LouisXVIII., came to pay the latter a visit under thename of the Count de Ruppin, he was received bythe descendant of Louis XIV. somewhat as thoughhe had been the Marquis de Brandebourg, and withthe most delicate impertinence. M. Gillenormandapproved: “All kings who are not the King of

France,” said he, “are provincial kings.” One day,the following question was put and the followinganswer returned in his presence: “To what wasthe editor of the Courrier Francais condemned?”“To be suspended.” “Sus is superfluous,” observedM. Gillenormand.Remarks of this nature found a situation.Suspendu, suspended; pendu, hung.At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the returnof the Bourbons, he said, on seeing M. deTalleyrand pass by: “There goes his Excellencythe Evil One.”M. Gillenormand was always accompanied by hisdaughter, that tall mademoiselle, who was overforty and looked fifty, and by a handsome littleboy of seven years, white, rosy, fresh, with happyand trusting eyes, who never appeared in that sa-lon without hearing voices murmur around him:“How handsome he is! What a pity! Poor child!”This child was the one of whom we dropped aword a while ago. He was called “poor child,”because he had for a father “a brigand of theLoire.”This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand’sson-inlaw, who has already been mentioned, andwhom M. Gillenormand called “the disgrace ofhis family.”

tution of the blue ribbon, or the Jacobinism of LouisXVIII., according as the wind veered towards el-egy or dithyrambs; and they spoke in low tones ofthe hopes which were presented by Monsieur, af-terwards Charles X.The songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleonwas called Nicolas, were received there withtransports of joy. Duchesses, the most delicateand charming women in the world, went into ec-stasies over couplets like the following, addressedto “the federates”:—Refoncez dans vos culottesLe bout d’ chemis’ qui vous pend.Qu’on n’ dis’ pas qu’ les patriotesOnt arbore l’ drapeau blanc?

Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that ishanging out. Let it not be said that patriots have

hoisted the white flag.There they amused themselves with puns whichwere considered terrible, with innocent plays uponwords which they supposed to be venomous, withquatrains, with distiches even; thus, upon theDessolles ministry, a moderate cabinet, of whichMM. Decazes and Deserre were members:—Pour raffermir le trone ebranle sur sa base,Il faut changer de sol, et de serre et de case.In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmlyon its base, soil (Des solles), greenhouse and

house (Decazes) must be changed.Or they drew up a list of the chamber of peers,“an abominably Jacobin chamber,” and from thislist they combined alliances of names, in such amanner as to form, for example, phrases like thefollowing: Damas. Sabran. Gouvion–Saint-Cyr.—All this was done merrily. In that society, theyparodied the Revolution. They used I know notwhat desires to give point to the same wrath ininverse sense. They sang their little Ca ira:—Ah! ca ira ca ira ca ira!Les Bonapartistes a la lanterne!Songs are like the guillotine; they chop away in-differently, today this head, tomorrow that. It isonly a variation.In the Fualdes affair, which belongs to this epoch,1816, they took part for Bastide and Jausion, be-cause Fualdes was “a Buonapartist.” They desig-nated the liberals as friends and brothers; thisconstituted the most deadly insult.Like certain church towers, Madame de T.‘s sa-lon had two cocks. One of them was M. ●●●●● To Be Continued Next Week

CHAPTER IIONE OF THE RED SPECTRES

OF THAT EPOCH

Any one who had chanced to pass through the littletown of Vernon at this epoch, and who had hap-pened to walk across that fine monumental bridge,which will soon be succeeded, let us hope, by somehideous iron cable bridge, might have observed,had he dropped his eyes over the parapet, a manabout fifty years of age wearing a leather cap,and trousers and a waistcoat of coarse gray cloth,to which something yellow which had been a redribbon, was sewn, shod with wooden sabots,tanned by the sun, his face nearly black and hishair nearly white, a large scar on his foreheadwhich ran down upon his cheek, bowed, bent, pre-maturely aged, who walked nearly every day, hoeand sickle in hand, in one of those compartmentssurrounded by walls which abut on the bridge, andborder the left bank of the Seine like a chain ofterraces, charming enclosures full of flowers ofwhich one could say, were they much larger:

O P T I M U M D U L L E R O P E C P A D D L E T H W A R T SN R S P O R E E A T O U T H E A D I S T A I R O AG L A S G O W P R A N C E T A M E T A L E N T D R Y L A N DO G N B R A N C H M O D E S T M S O A R E D DI D E A S G O A T E E M E M E N T O S B E S T T M A H A LN O D P L O V E R S A T A N W A Y L E E W A Y O N EG U Y P E A K E D V I X E N A N I M A L S O K A Y G O D

S F L O R I D N A N D S W A T R A G C R E W E D DH E M E P E E M A N G E W A F T I N C A S M O N A W E AO O V A L S P U R E E M I N U T E S E L E S N E R O BR E L A T E M A S K S J U G G L E R S D E A T H D G R A SM U T T S M A R E S M A S H R E A M S L E E K B L U N TO R E S L U R E D R I C H T E R C L A D S A T E S E T N AN O N P A R I S M U S K Y E T O N I C L U R C H H O IE P A R K A M A S T S E S A U N I G E L P R O O F NS B O G G Y M I L K S H C R Y C I D E R Y O U R S S

T E P E E M I N T S R A P H E A L T A P E D T R A C KC H A P S G O L D A P I L L S A N O N R E F E R S Y R I A

A M Y P A P A S P O N T O O N K N I T R I V A L S A NT I S H A V E N A U L D D R A W G L E N T I T A N P G AU P O S E D W E L L D T Y R E E M I T L A M A S TN B A N T U C A R L M E S S O P S P A I R P I E S IN A I V E P L A T O O R C A T O O L G A U N T R A I N SE B E S S P E S O S A G N E X T G A R B B J O R N HL S T O A T R O M E L E N A Y L I R A B O O B S OS A D Y U K O N L A N K S A V E N O V A F U N G I M A O

Y A P R I G O R R I N G T E R M I T E M I M E S M E LB E L O W N A T A L D O I N L O A N S P U L P S G U L L Y

S E P I A S C R U B B L E D S A O C E D E S A L L O YD Y E L P S H E R O N D O W M W E E D S G R E E N RE S E A T S R I G I D N E I L M A N L Y C O I N S EV A N S C A L A D U G U P L L I F T S S I R E N A K AO M I T E L O P E S E M I T H R O N E S J I V E S S P U DU M B E R E T H I C R A N G E W E R M O D E S P E A R ST O S S A H I G H S S C R E A M E D R E L E T G H E T T OL T A C K D E E M S H O R R I D P A R T S R A L P H UY E W R I N K R E I C H P U T T D I S C S L O R E Y E T

X T I D I L Y P L O R E P S W S P Y L O U N G E MV I V D I V A C E R N E S T L I S T S D O D G E M P I PA L A C E N S O R N U N V E N U E B R I G H T I R AL E M O N S O P U S B A R R A G E S P L A T E S P A N S YU P T F I R M A L E A S E S H O O K E D B K HI N I T I A L L A P E L S A M E N H O O K E R L O W T I D EN R T R I P E L P O N D D O U B L E E M C E E N EG U E S S E D D R E S S Y Y O B S B O S S E D D R E D G E D

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 17

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www.MelbourneObserver.com.auPage 18 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Garden Sheds Galorewww.gardenshedsgalore.com.au

For the Biggest Range, Best Prices, Best Quality and Better Service! OPEN 7 DAYSCnr Centre Dandenong & Grange Rds

Cheltenham (Opposite DFO)

9583 3944Prices include GST. Pictures are for illustration purposes only. We reserve the right to correct printing errors. * Concitions apply

Come and Grab A Bargain.Lots of Clearance Items and Display Stock sell-offs - at crazy prices!

Garden Sheds Galore & much, much more

Come and see our HUGE display of Steel & Timber Sheds, Cubbies,Water Tanks, Water Features, Kennels, Aviaries, Garden Ornaments/Statues,Gazebos, Trampolines, Pots, Garden Décor, Studios, Bali Huts, and more ...

So whether it’s a garden shed, playgroundequipment, kids cubby outdoor setting, waterfeature, or something for the garden, come andsee us at our huge display centre. At Garden ShedsGalore we endeavour to provide customers withthe best quality products and service, at affordableprices.

Garden Sheds Galore - one of Melbourne’s biggestdisplays of outdoor products. Established in 1990,Garden Sheds Galore has Melbourne’s largestrange, and one of the biggest displays of shedsand cubbies. But at Garden Sheds Galore, we’remore than garden sheds and subbies, we alsosupply a giant vaiety of outdoor products for thegarden.

ShowBiz Social ClubAt Bentleigh Club

Monday night (Oct. 22)Photos: Gigi Hellmuth

Melbourne Boulevard Pharmacy and Health Foods

Is your thyroidmaking you fat?

Shop 5, 401 St Kilda Road

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naturopath.mbp@live.com.au

Why me?It can be frustrating, stressful and

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You may have known for years thatyour 'slow metabolism' had been af-fecting your weight loss goals but couldthere be a simple explanation as to whythis is happening?

What is the link betweenweight, metabolism and the thy-roid?

Metabolism refers to the chemicaland physical processes that take placein order for your body to maintain ho-meostasis (to stay alive). This processinvolves transforming the food you eatinto chemical energy for our cells toperform their many daily functions in-cluding breathing, regulating heart beat,digestion and concentration.

A key factor involved in metabolismis the thyroid gland, found just over thetrachea (windpipe) in front of yourthroat. It works with the brain to se-crete hormones that regulate energyburning.

When you don't have enough thyroidhormone circulating in the blood, thebody will slow down, which conse-quently has an impact on all your dailyfunctions.

What is hypothyroidism?Hypothyroidism is the term used to

describe a thyroid that doesn't functionwell and can be influenced by primaryor secondary factors.

Primary hypothyroidism can resultfrom damage to the thyroid gland itselfwhilst secondary hypothyroidism mayresult from stimuli like long termstress, environmental pollution and anot so perfect diet.

The symptoms: What to watchout for.■ Goitre (enlarged thyroid gland)■ Slow and foggy thinking■ Inability to lose weight■ Constant fatigue■ Depression■ Dry and thick skin■ Coarse dull hair■ Low blood pressure■ Fluid retention■ Poor wound and healing abilities

What you can do?Nutrition and lifestyle play a key role

in the state of your health.Whether dueto primary factors, stress or a not soperfect diet, an under active thyroidrequires vital nutrients to function prop-erly.*

For more information please visitMelbourne Boulevard Pharmacy. ShobaJay is a qualified Nutritionist andNaturopath, available for general ad-vice and private consultations.

*Please note that full investigativeblood studies can be organised at yourlocal doctor.

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by Nutritionist and Naturo-path Shoba Jay

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 63

Page 64 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 65

Vice-regal hillview hideaway

Global hit from 40 vineyards

ObserverMelbourne

Travellers’ Good Buys

ObserverMelbourne Wines & Liqueurs

withDavidEllis

withDavidEllis

■ While bushranger Ben Halland his lot were getting travel-lers to throw up their arms andpart with their possessions on theroads of the Southern Highlandsof NSW back in the 1860s, morelaw-abiding citizens were throw-ing up inns, grand mansions andpublic edifices that would remaina legacy for generations to thisday.

And with the towns of Bowraland Moss Vale this year celebrat-ing 150 years of their founding,visitors are flocking to theseSouthern Highlands, just 1.5hrby freeway south of Sydney, tosoak-up a vibrant history andarchitecture that can be foundat virtually every turn.

And to view public gardensand private half-hectare blocksplanted to flaunt stunning sea-sonal flamboyances.

The first ex-convicts-cum-ex-plorers here in the late 1780srecorded the potential for boun-tiful settlement… and Europe-ans’ first-ever sightings of ko-alas, lyrebirds and waratahs.

John Oxley and Dr CharlesThrosby soon followed –Throsby carving the Old SouthRoad from Picton and beinggiven a 1000 acre (400ha) landgrant by Governor Macquarie. Here he established the settle-ment of Bong Bong in 1817

■ New Zealand’s Giesen Winesused fruit from no less than fortyvineyards to create one of theirbest-ever Sauvignon Blancs, awine that’s already hitting thetables of Sauvignon Blanc buffsacross the globe from Australiato the UK and China.

And while broadly referred toas Marlborough SauvignonBlanc, the forty vineyards thatprovided fruit for this wine werein fact all concentrated in justone area, the Wairau Valley.Winemaker Andrew Blake sayssuch a broad vineyard input en-abled his team to create a winewith a multi-dimensional aromaand flavour spectrum, rangingfrom vibrant and tropical, to el-egant, crisp and green.

“This is a truly MarlboroughSauvignon Blanc,” Andrewsays. “Grapefruit and goose-berry characters mix with to-mato and blackcurrant leaf onthe nose, leading to a vibrant andfruit weighted palate, all balancedby a clean and crisp acidity.”

But how do you decide on afinal blend when the fruit comesfrom so many different vine-yards? “We fermented the juicefrom each in cool temperaturesusing a range of aromatic andcomplex yeast strains,” Andrewsays. “Then the team evaluatedthe quality of the individual tanksand decided on the final blendsand bottling.”

Pay $14.99 and put on theSunday lunch table with simplya bowl of garlicky prawns and acouple of warm crusty ba-guettes.

One to note■ Kangarilla Road atMcLaren Vale in the AdelaideHills has released its first-ever“A” grade certified organicChardonnay, a wine that’sbeen four years in the makingbecause of the lengthy pro-cesses involved in organic cer-tification.

This first was made fromfruit from the bumper 2012vintage on the Edgehill vine-yard, and which for the firsttime had been reserved solelyfor organic wine; maker KevinO’Brien says he wanted to cre-ate a wine that championedMcLaren Vale and the excep-tional Chardonnay varietalcharacteristics organic and bio-dynamically grown grapes canexhibit. Well worth the $22price tag to enjoy with barbe-cued chicken and garlic mash.

We’re archived onhttp://vintnews.com

■ Enjoy simply with garlickyprawns and warm crusty baguettes.■ First-ever “A” grade organicChardonnay from this respectedMcLaren Vale maker.

alongside the WingecarribeeRiver between today’s Bowraland Moss Vale, but regular floodsforced its move further inland in1831 to what’s now Berrima.

The original 27-roomThrosby homestead, cottage andstables still stand today, managedby the Historic Houses Trust; theHighlands’ first church, ChristChurch circa-1845 also stillserves there today, having origi-nally been Throsby’s familychapel.

In 1868 then-Governor, theEarl of Belmore leased Throsbyhomestead to escape OldSydney Town’s oppressive (fornewly-arrived British) summerheat, establishing a precedentthat was followed more grandlyin the early 1880s by GovernorLord Augustus Loftus: he had avast mansion, Hillview at SuttonForest, purchased purely as acooler-climate escape that hostedevery State Governor until 1957.

Staff included 35 butlers,cooks, kitchen- and stable-hands, and full-time Chinese gar-deners – with a Vice-Regal suitebuilt at Moss Vale Railway Sta-tion for Their Excellencies’ en-tourages to await in luxury theirtrains back to Sydney.

Hillview has been privately re-stored at a cost of $2m and istoday a palatial refuge for dis-cerning holidaymakers.

Throsby also in 1864 subdi-vided part of his landholdings,naming it Moss Vale after loyalIrish convict-cum-servant atThrosby Park, Jemmy Moss –and giving Jemmy occupancy forlife of the land on which he livedwith his wife in a bark hut.

Governor Macquarie alsogave 2500 acres (1000ha) to ex-plorer Oxley whose sons Henryand John raised sheep and cattleon what was to eventually be-come Bowral, and with the OldSouth Road soon being by-passed in favour of the new roadfurther inland to Berrima, thetown of Mittagong also emerged.

George Cutter who built theHighlands’ first inn, the Kanga-roo on the Old South Road in1827, closed it with the demiseof the road, and operated a sec-ond Kangaroo Inn in Mittagongfrom 1834; it traded under dif-ferent owners and names until1866, and is today MinnikinLodge, an art gallery and annualChristmas Shop – with sand-stone walls 54cm (21ins) thick.

Other inns and hotels includedthe 1834 Surveyor General Innat Berrima that’s still trading to-day in this last, largely-intactGeorgian village in Australia, theshort-lived Argyle at ill-fatedBong Bong, and nearby thecirca-1854 Royal Oak that’s nowThe Briars between Moss Valeand Bowral.

The Prince Albert Hotel atBraemar just north of Mittagonghas had a chequered career sinceopening in 1845, now restoredas the Prince Albert Inn motel.

Bowral’s first hotel, theWingecarribee Inn opened onBong Bong Street in 1862 wherethe Royal Hotel now is, and thesecond, the circa-1887 GrandHotel, also on Bong Bong Streetis still trading today.\ Ccontact 02 4871 2888 orw w w. s o u t h e r n - h i g h l a n d s .com.au

●●●●● Retreat for Vice-Regals from 1868 to 1957 – when it all got too hot in Sydney

Page 66 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Victoria Pictorial Historic Photo Collection

●●●●● Last Melbourne cable tram. Bourke St, near McPherson’s ●●●●● St Kilda Rd, Melbourne. 1982.

●●●●● Collins Street, Melbourne. 1955 ●●●●● Elizabeth Street, looking north. 1900.

●●●●● Opening tram, Deepdene to St Kilda. 1913. ●●●●● Digging up the old cable tramway, St Kilda Rd. 1925.

●●●●● Collins St, looking west from Swanston St. 1898. ●●●●● St Kilda. Late 1950s?

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 67www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOKThe House By TheSide Of The RoadAmong the popular poems com-posed by Sam Walter Foss, theAmerican poet, is the gem entitled,"The House by the Side of theRoad."

One day when walking along a coun-try road, Sam Walter Foss came toa seat where he rested and then no-ticed a sign directing him to anearby spring, where he found a bas-ket of fruit and a glass, so that thirstytravellers might refresh themselves.

Upon making enquiries he found thatthe fruit in season was pro vided byan old man who lived nearby andwho also kept the spring clean, theseat in repair, and the basket filledwith the fruit in season.

Touched by the kindness of the oldman Sam Walter Foss wrote a poemwhich has gone round the world.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawnIn the peace of their self contentThere are souls like stars, that dwellapartIn a fellowless firmament;There are pioneer souls that blazetheir pathsWhere highways never ran;But let me live by the side of theroadAnd be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side ofthe roadWhere the race of men go by.The men who are good, and the menwho are badAs good and as bad as I.I would not sit in the scorner's seat,Or hurl the cynic's ban;Let me live in a house by the side ofthe roadAnd be a friend to man.I see from my house by the side ofthe road,By the side of the highway of life,The men who press with the ardourof hope,The men who are faint with strife.But I turn not away from their smilesnor their tearsBoth, parts of an infinite plan:Let me live in my house by the sideof the road,And be a friend to man.I know there are brook - gladdenedmeadows aheadAnd mountains of wearisome height,That the road passes on through thelong afternoon,And stretches away to the night.But still I rejoice when the travel-lers rejoice,And weep with the strangers thatmoan,Nor live in my house by the side ofthe roadLike a man who dwells alone.Let me live in my house by the sideof the roadWhere the race of men go by.They are good, they are bad, theyare weak, they are strong,Wise, foolish-so am I.Then why should I sit in the scorner'sseatOr hurl the cynic's ban?Let me live in my house by the sideof the roadAnd be a friend to man.

- Sam Walter Fess

Some Other DayThere are wonderful things we aregoing to do,Some Other Day,And harbours we hope to glide intoSome Other Day,So with folded hands and oars thattrail,We watch and wait for a favouringgale,To fill the folds of an idle sail,Some Other Day.We know we must toil if ever wewin. Some Other Day,But we say to ourselves, "there's timeto beginSome Other Day."And so deferring, we loiter on,Until at last we find withdrawn,The strength of the hope we leaneduponFor that Other Day.And when we are old, and our raceis run,We think of That Day,We fret for the things that mighthave been doneOn that Other Day.And we trace the path, that leads uswhereThe beckoning hand of a grim de-spair,Leads us yonder, out of the HereSome Other Day.

The GuyIn The GlassWhen you get what you want in yourstruggle for selfAnd the world makes you king for aday, Then go to your mirror and lookatyourselfAnd see what that guy has to say.For it isn't your father, or mother, orwife, Whose judgment upon youmust pass;The fellow whose verdict countsmost in your lifeIs the guy staring back from theglass. He's the man you must please,never mind all the rest,For he's with you clear up to the end,And you've passed your most diffi-cult, dangerous testIf the man in the glass is your friend.You may be like Jack Horner and"chisel" a plumAnd think you're a wonderful guy.But the man in the glass sez you'reonly a bumIf you can't look him straight in theeye. You can fool the whole worlddown the path of the yearsAnd get pats on the back as youpass,But your final reward will be heart-aches and tearsIf you cheated the guy in the glass.

Little boys of threeLook tenderly on little boys of three,Their softness is as fleeting as aflower, The cheeks like petals sucha little hour,The deepest dimple theirs so tran-siently. Even tomorrow softnessmay be hard,The little cotton cushions on theknees,Turned into bony knobs for climbingtrees;The fists so like a rose grow leanand scarred,His full-moon cheeks will narrow toa line The silken hair become thebrush of bristle,As Mother's little flower turns tothistle, And there will linger not onelittle signTo prove the cuddly cupid that washe.Look tenderly on little boys of three!

The Eye of Waterloo

Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire'sdust!An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchredbelow!Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?Nor column trophied for triumphalshow?None; but the moral's truth tells sim-pler so,As the ground was before, thus let itbe;How that red rain hath made the har-vest grow!And is this all the world has gained bythee,Thou first and last of fields!King-making Victory?There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gather'd thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women andbrave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; andwhenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes look'd love to eyes whichspake again,And all went merry as a marriage-bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikeslike a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but thewindOr the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy beunconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth andPleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with fly-ing feetBut, hark!-that heavy sound breaks inonce moreAs if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier thanbefore!Arm ! Arm ! it is-it is-the cannon'sopening roar!Within a window'd niche of that highhallSat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he didhear

That sound the first amidst the festi-val,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because hedeem'd it near,His heart more truly knew that peal toowellWhich stretch'd his father on a bloodybier,And roused the vengeance blood alonecould quell:He rush'd into the field, and, foremostfighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to andfro,And gathering tears, and tremblings ofdistress,And cheeks all pale, which but an houragoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, suchas pressThe life from out young hearts,and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated;Who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutualeyes,Since upon night so sweet such awfulmorn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste:the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clat-tering car,Went pouring forward with impetuousspeed,And swiftly forming in the ranks ofwar;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morningstar;While throng'd the citizens with terrordumb,Or whispering, with white lips"The foe ; they come ! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron'sgathering" rose!The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn'shillsHave heard, and heard, too,have her Saxon foes : -How in the noon of night that pibrochthrills,Savage and shrill! But with the breathwhich fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring whichinstilsThe stirring memory of a thousandyears,And Evan's, Donald's fame rings ineach clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them hergreen leaves,Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as theypass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e'ergrieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but aboveshall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foeAnd burning with high hope shallmoulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal-soundof strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,the dayBattle's magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds closd o'er it, whichwhen rentThe earth is cover'd thick with otherclay,Which her own clay shall cover, heap'dand pent,Rider and horse,-friend, foe,in one red burial blent !

- Lord Byron

Page 68 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOKStrike and the worldstrikes with you"Strike and the world strikes withyou,work and you work alone,Our souls are ablaze with a Bolshe-vik craze, the wildest that ever wasknown.Groan and there'll be a chorus, smileand you make no hit,For we've grown long hair, and wepreach despair, and show you a dailyfit."Spend and the gang will cheer you,save and you have no friend,For we throw our bucks to birds andducks, and borrow from all who'lllend.Knock and you'll be a winner, boastand you'll be a post,For the sane ways of the pre-wardaysare now from the programme lost."Strike and the world strikes withyou, work and you work alone,For we'd rather yell and raise bluehell than strive for an honest bone.Rant and you are a leader, toil andyou are a nut,Twas a better day when we pulledaway from the old-time workday rut.Wait and there'll be a blow-up,watch and you'll see a slump,And the fads and crimes of the crazytimes will go to the nation's dump."

- New York Sun, 1920

Her Old ArmchairWhat does she dream of sitting thereNodding away in her old arm chair,Silver hair, sweet wrinkled face,Resting awhile by the fireplace.Folded hands and feet so stillThat once were quick to do her will.Is she dreaming of bygone yearsAnd living again their laughter andtearsDoes her lover come and take herhandTo wander together in lovers' land ?Or can she hear the children call ;The old clock ticking against thewall?Does she see her home and its gar-den fairWith the lilies and roses she plantedthereThe birds that sang at break of dawnIn tall trees close to the dewy lawn?All that she loved and held most dearHave passed and gone for many ayear.She smiles as she dreams, and maylife holdOnly sweet memories for one so old,May she find the peace beyond com-pareAs she sits alone in her old armchair.

- ‘Mops’

The Song That IsFit For MenWe have sonnets enough, and songsenough,And ballads enough, God knows!But what we need is that cosmicstuffWhence primitive feeling glows ...In the ink of our sweat we will findit yet, The song that is fit for men!And the woodsman he shall sing it,And his axe shall mark the time;And the bearded lips of the boatmanWhile his oar-blades fall in rhyme ;And the man with his fist on thethrottle,And the man with his foot on thebrake,And the man who will scoff at dan-ger, And die for a comrade's sake ...This be the song that is fit for men.

- Frederick Knowles

Growing OldA little more tired at the close of day,A little less anxious to have our way,A little less ready to scold and blame,A little more care for another'sname;So we are nearing the journey's end,Mere time and eternity meet andblend;A little more rest than in days of old,A little less care for bonds and gold;A broader view, and a saner mind,A little more love for all mankind;A little more careful of what we say,And so we are faring a-down theway ;A little more leisure to sit and dream,A little more real the things unseen;A little more nearer to those ahead,With visions of those long loved anddead;And so we are going where all mustgo,To the place the living may neverknow,A little more laughter, a little moretears,And we shall have told our increas-ing yearsThe book is closed, and the prayersare said,And we are part of the countlessdead;Thrice happy then, if some soulshould say,"I live" because he has passed thatway.

Does the roadwind up-hillall the way?Does the road wind up-hill all theway?Yes, to the very end.Will the day's journey take the wholelong day?From morn to night my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hoursbegin.May not the darkness hide it frommy face? You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers atnight?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when justin sight?They will not keep you standing atthat door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore andweak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and allwho seek?Yes, beds for all who come.

- Christina Rossetti

Measure Of A ManNot "how did he die ?"But "how did he live ?"Not "what did he gain ?"But "what did he give ?"These are the units of a man, as aman,To measure the worth, regardless ofbirth.Not "what was his station ?"But "had he a heart ?"And "how did he playHis God-given part ?"Was he ever ready, with a word ofgood cheerTo bring back a smile, to banish atear?Not "what was his church ?"Nor "what was his creed ?"But "had he defendedThose really in need ?"Not "what did the sketchIn the newspaper say ?"But "how many were sorry when hepassed away ?"

Cutting A MoonbeamThe following extract will no doubtappeal to every lover of Great Britain:Mr Beverley Baxter, British M.P.,formerly of the Canadian Expedition-ary Force, and a brilliant journalist be-fore he took to films and politics, wrotethe ollowing in reply to a letter receivedby him from an American student whohad "regretfully come to the conclusionthat Britain is in the process ofdecay.""You say that we shall be so busy de -fending ourselves that we cannot pre-vent the Dominions leaving the Empire.My dear sir, the Dominions can walkout at any time they choose. It is theirright.The bonds of Empire with us are nostronger than moonbeams-but did youever try cutting a moonbeam?"It is generous of you to feel badly forus, but don't spend too much on a wreathjust yet. Britain has been finished threetimes in every century since she startedas a nation. Besides, we are too busyjust now to answer messages of condolence."Finally, a word of advice to a scholarfrom one who has forgotten nearly allhe ever learned at school-if you are

safer. And, by the way, if you ever findout what X represents, please let meknow."Come over and see us this summer, ifyou can. We shall be pretty busy patch-ing up one or two gaps in the fence,but we can talk as we work."

- Beverley Baxter, MP,England

going to size up Britain, don't use arith-metic.If you add, divide, subtract and multiply, you will be wrong. Britain isn'tmerely a nation-she is a condition ofmind and a lot of other things; there-fore, may I suggest you fall back onAlgebra, and say Great Britain equalsthe un known quantity - X. It is so much

Who Wants A Pup?We've got to get rid of our pup,He's all the time chewing things up,He chews up the curtains that hang inthe doorHe chews up the pillows all over thefloorHe chews up the laundry till nothing iswhole,And buries the collars and socks in thecoalWe've got to get rid of our pup.He's all the time digging things up,He digs up the garden as fast as weplant it.He never lets anything grow where wewant it;He digs up the pansies to look for abone;He dug up the very last tulip we ownah meWe've got to get rid of our pup.He's all the time tracking things up,He walks in the oil that they put in thestreetThen comes in the parlour to wipe offhis feet;He tracks up the porch, and the rugs,and the stairs,And Ma's so unhappy she pretty nearswears

at all.Does anyone care, for a mighty gooddog?A well-bred intelligent, elegant dog ?A dog that is faithful, affectionate, kindA burglar alarm, and a playmate com-binedIf any one does-speak upWe've got to get rid of our pup.

We've got to get rid of our pup.He's all the time eating things up,He ate up my cap and my father's bestshirt;Then ate up the lawn hose next doorfor dessert;He eats up the shoe-strings of peoplethat call,Till soon we won't have any friends left

The Death of Nelson'E fell wiv the stars on his bosomAn' we carried 'im dahn to below;An' 'e says to 'is mate Captain 'Ardy,"Me time's come at last for to go!""Are yer wounded, me lord?" mur-mured'Ardy,An' Nelson replies, "Yus, I'm bust!""Slime, Hi 'ope not," says 'Ardy,"Not seriously, Hi trust?""Hi'm sorefully wounded," saysNelson,"Halas, mortually, Hi fear.Hi can 'ear me 'eart thumpin' an' bubblin',But, 'Ardy, don't you shed a tear!"The brave hintelligent CaptainStroked the Hadmiral's face wiv 'is'and,

An' said, "Though the bloodstains is o'eryer,Don't die, an' get lorst to the land!"Then Nelson heased hup on 'is 'aunches,

An' 'e drew 'Ardy close to 'is side,An' 'e says out quite loud,-"Kiss me'Ardy!"'Ardy did ... an' the Hadmiral died !

A COCKNEY’SACCOUNT