Melbourne Observer. 130306B. March6, 2013. Part B. Pages 15-28, 37-40, 85-88, 97-110

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013 - Page 15

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PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK HISTORIC REPRINT OF THE 1950s BOOK BY 3DB’S MONTY BLANDFORD

Introduction

■ For the past 18 years I have been broadcasting my Philosopher's Scrap Book to listeners in Victoria.

It is a selection of writings from hundreds of sources compiled originally with one aim in view- to entertain.

Over the years, through the medium of thousands of letters, and hundreds of personal meetings, I have been encouraged to believe that the Philosopher's Scrap Book has been, and still is, a source of spiritual and philosophical comfort to a large number of listeners, and gradually I have been endowed with the character of a homely philosopher, welcomed in thousands of homes every Sunday morning.

Few of the words I broadcast are mine, but I accept the responsibility of choosing them, and that, combined with a desire to do their meaning justice -allows me to accept the spirit at least, of the vast number of encouraging and laudatory letters I have received.

Many of them contain requests for copies of excerpts from the Scrap Book.

Because of circumstances beyond my control, I am not always able to supply these - so I have chosen this method of making available to a very kind public a selection of the most sought after items.

I acknowledge my deep debt of gratitude to all those people who, over the years, have supplied me with original compositions.

Many of them have found their way into this book. It has been no easy task to make the selection, but it has been a labour of love, and if in these pages you find words which will bring a smile to your lips, happiness to your heart, and understanding to your mind, then I shall indeed be richly rewarded.

- Monty Blandford "I shall pass through this world but once; Any good therefore, that I can do, Or any kindness I can show To any human being, Let me do it now.

Let me not defer it or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again."

Father forgets

PART ONE: 4-PAGE LIFTOUT Anthology of prose and verse

● Monty Blandford Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead.

I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me.

Guiltily I came to your bedside. These are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel.

I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes.

I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on you bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Good-bye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were

holes in your stockings.

I humiliated you before your boy friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful!

Imagine that, son, from a father!.

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in, timidly, with a sort of a hurt look in your eyes?

When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door.

"What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affec tion that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, patter ing up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me.

What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding this was my reward to you for being a boy.

It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth.

■ Philosopher's Scrap Book is an anthology of prose and verse compiled by Monty Blandford after repeated re quests from radio listeners over the 18 years.

The reading of these everlasting gems kept his listeners enthralled - thousands of letters were received for copies of certain articles.

These were not available and the idea was born in Monty Blandford's mind to publish this book so that his listeners could obtain the most appreciated works.

Certain articles influenced the lives of many people and they will continue to do so.

The reader will find that its influence will be transferred to their life - it will lead them along the road to better understanding of their fellow men.

Its sincerity of purpose, and its blending of charm and pathos will compel you to think and reflect over the meanings so admirably expressed by writers recognised as great by literary people throughout the world.

During your leisure moments gather your family and friends around you and read aloud a few pages - you will hold their enthusiasm and will find yourself becoming a philosopher-living accord ing to the rules of practical wisdom.

As an anthology alone, it will be found of immense value to those who like to keep by them quotations and accounts from works known and loved. "

It was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years. And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character.

The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me goodnight.

Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed !

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours.

But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy ... a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualised you as a man.

Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby.

Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.

- W. Livingston Larned

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Page 16 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

A tribute to the memory of C J Dennis

He came in the Spring when the whole world was stirred With new life, and new beauty and power; At his coming they threw their mantle o'er him, Made him heir to their richness and dower.

The secret things he learned from the spring Gave him powers he could use at his will, Which all through the years - from boyhood to age Surged like tides that never were still.

In the arms of Nature he found a repose, When weary its voice made him whole, The song of the bird and the sigh of the wind

Caged Bird I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass.

When the first bird sings and the first bud opens.

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener stingI know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me.

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he send from his deep heart's core But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flingsI know why the caged bird sings!

Forget-Me-Not

Forget-me-nots out in the garden to-day, Are flowering along our old pathway, Looked at me with their eyes of blue Just the way that you used to do.

Forget-me-not why did you go away?

Was life too simple lived this way?

Love and a garden sweet with dew All I had-I gave to you.

Forget-me-not what has time done to you, Have you been, happy long years through ; Are you as gay, are your eyes as blue Do you still laugh as you used to do?

Forget-me-not, you'll grow weary one day Of life's glitter and its foolish play Of friends who never would be true Remember the garden - still waits for you.

‘Mops’

Were music that strengthened his soul.

A MAN -yet bound by mysterious chains To all primitive things of the earth, Which gave him the key and the entrance at will To the secrets of men and their worth.

He was strangely akin to the coster and King, To the soldier and girl at the mill, He spoke to them all in their own native tongue For his language was that of goodwill.

Through many dark days he invaded their gloom With his lamps of laughter and cheer And every sad heart forgot for a time The demon that dwelt in their fear.

His Pen was a baton that wielded a charm Over choirs in hamlet and hill.

We watched as he swayed it, and ever anon We sang - or we wept - at his will.

The Conductor steps down and we in our turn Are mute with deep sorrow and pain; But we silently vow as in silence we stand We will practise his life's sweet refrain.

The Pen is now rusted - The Inkwell is dry, But the score that he wrote we still play, As we toast his memory a vision comes For in spirit he is with us today.

- J.M.D.

● C J Dennis at his desk in 1890s

Advice: In A Chinese Garden

In the past few years the aphorism which is the inspiration for this little story has been widely used. It was, in part, the theme of a poem written years ago by Robert Service.

It was used in 1938 as the title of a book by Max Lerner on the perils of democracy. If Robert Service coined the expression, if others saw and read it in a Chinese garden, or if, like other Chinese sayings, it made its way into our lives by other means, I do not know.

I have told many times the story of a certain letter which I received years ago, because the impression it made on me was very deep ; and I have never told it, on ships in distant seas or by quiet fire sides nearer home, without a reflective thoughtful response from those around me.

The letter Peking, China.

Dear Doctor, Please don't be too surprised in getting a letter from me. I am signing only my first name. My surname is the same as yours.

You won't even remember me.

Two years ago I was in your hospital under the care of another, doctor.

I lost my baby the day it was born.

That same day my doctor came in to see me, and as he left he said, "Oh, by the way, there is a doctor here with the same name as yours who noticed your name on the board, and asked me about you.

He said he would like to come in to see you, because you might be a relative. I told him you had lost your baby and I didn't think you would want to see anybody, but it was all right with me."

And then in a little while you came in. You put your hand on my arm and sat down for a moment beside my bed. You didn't say much of anything but your eyes and your voice were kind and pretty soon I felt better.

As you sat there I noticed that you looked tired and that the lines in your face were very deep.

I never saw you again but the nurses told me you were in hospital practically night and day.

This afternoon I was a guest in a beautiful Chinese home here in Peking.

The garden was enclosed by a high wall, and on one side, surrounded by twining red and white flowers, was a brass plate about two feet long.

I asked someone to translate the Chinese characters for me.

They said: ENJOY YOURSELF IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK I began to think about it for myself.

I had not wanted another baby because I was still grieving for the one I lost. But I decided that moment that I should not wait any longer. Perhaps it may be later than I think too.

And then, because I was thinking of my baby, I thought of you and the tired lines in your face, and the moment of sympathy you gave me when I so needed it.

I don't know how old you are but I am quite sure you are old enough to be my father ; and I know that those few minutes you spent with me meant little or nothing to you of course -but they meant a great deal to a woman who was desperately unhappy.

So I am so presumptuous as to think that in turn I can do something for you, too.

Perhaps for you it is later than you think. Please forgive me, but when your work is over, on the day you get my letter, please sit down very quietly, all by yourself, and think about it.

- Margeurite Usually I sleep very well when I am not disturbed by the telephone, but that night I woke a dozen times seeing the brass plate in the Chinese wall.

I called myself a silly old fool for being disturbed by a letter from a woman I couldn't even remember, and dismissed the thing from my mind; and before I knew it I found myself saying again to myself, "Well, maybe it is later than you think ; why don't you do something about it ?"

I went to my office next morning and told them I was going away for three months.

It is a wholesome experience for any man who thinks he is important in his own organisation to step out for a few months.

The first time I went away on a long trip, some years before this letter came, I felt sure that everything would go to pieces. When I returned I found there were just as many patients as when I left, every one had recovered just as fast or faster, and most of my patients did not even know I had been away. It is humiliating to find how quickly and competently one's place is filled, but it is a very good lesson.

I telephoned to Shorty, a retired colonel who was perhaps my closest friend, and asked him to come to my office. week. It is later than you think On his arrival I told him that I wanted him to go home and pack a grip and come on down to South America with me.

He replied that he would like to but that he had so much to attend to in the next few months that it was out of the question to be away even for a I read him the letter.

He shook his head, "I can't go," he said. "Of course I'd like to, but for weeks now I've been waiting to close a deal. I'm sorry old man, but maybe sometime - sometime" - his words came more slowly.

"What was that thing again that woman said?? - well -" He sat quietly for a moment. Neither of us spoke. I could almost see the balance swaying as he weighed the apparent demands of the present against the relatively few years each of us still had to live, exactly as I had the night before.

At last he spoke. "I waited for three months for those people to make up their minds, I am not going to wait any longer.

They can wait for me now. When would you like to go ?"

We went to South America. We spent day after day at sea on a comfortable freighter, feeling our burdens slip off with the miles and our tired bodies being made over by the winds that swept across the Pacific from China.

In the course of time we found ourselves in one of the great cities of South America. By good fortune we were entertained by one of the prominent men of the country, a man who had built enormous steel plants and whose industries were growing rapidly.

During the visit Shorty asked our host if he played golf. He replied, "Senor, I play a little, I would like to play more.

My wife is on vacation in the United States with our children. I would like to join her. I have beautiful horses here which I would love to ride, but I can do none of these things because I am too busy. I am 55 years old, and in five years more I shall stop. It is true

I said the same thing five years ago, but I did not know how much we should be growing. We are building a new plant ; we are making steel such as South America has never known. I cannot let go even for an afternoon of golf. My office boy has better leisure."

"Senor," I said, "Do you know why I am in South America ?"

"Because," he said, "because perhaps you had not too much to do and had the necessary time and money to permit it."

"No," I replied. "I had a great deal to do and I did not have too much of either time or money. We are sitting here on your lovely terrace because a few weeks ago a girl whom I wouldn't know if I saw her looked at a brass plate in a Chinese wall in the City of Peking in the heart of China."

I told him the story. Like Shorty, he made me repeat the words, "Enjoy yourself, it is later than you think."

During the rest of the afternoon he seemed a bit preoccupied.

The next morning I met him in the corridor of our hotel. "Doctor," he said, "please wait a moment. I have not slept well. It is strange, is it not, that a casual acquaintance, which you would say yourself you are, could change the current of a very busy life?

I have thought long and hard since I saw you yesterday and I have cabled my wife that I am coming."

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"It was a very long finger indeed," he said, "that wrote those words on the garden wall in China."

Many years have been added to the average expectation of life, but each individual's fate is still a hazard.

The most valuable people around us have lived largely for others. This seems the time to remind them that they will have more years, and happier ones, to do good for others if they start right now to do some thing for themselves, to go places and to do things which they have looked for ward to for years ; to give those who love them the happiness of seeing them enjoy some of the rewards which they have earned ; to replace competition with a bit of contemplation.

The ‘Shorty’ in this story, strong and well a few weeks ago, has gone to his reward. I spent the last hours at his bedside.

Over and over again he said, " Fred.

I am happy that we went to South America together. I thank God we did not wait too long."

- Dr Frederic Loomis

A Morning Prayer The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces; let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured ; and grant us in the end the gift of sleep. Amen - R L Stevenson

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013 - Page 17

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Observer Readers’ Club The Way We Were

Melbourne Photo Flashback

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100 Years Ago The Maffra Spectator Thursday, March 6, 1913

● Construction at Coles Creek on the Gembrook railway, 1900. Photo: Mark Daniel

Life’s Lessons

Reader Recipes

FAX: 1-800 231 312 E-MAIL: editor@ melbourneobserver.com.au

■ Some unwisely mistake good manners for weakness.

Birthdays/Celebrations

Word Of The Week

■ Wedenesday, March 6. Many happy returns to Steve Vizard. Birthday greetings to former Assumption College student Kieran Long.

■ Thursday, March 7. Maria Venuti celebrates today. So does David Sing Goh. ■ Friday, March 8. Happy birthday to Observer reader Don Crawford.

■ Saturday, March 9. Keith McGowan is 70 today.

■ Sunday, March 10. Birthday time for Frank Howson and Chris Massingham.

■ Monday, March 11. Birthday honours to Observer reader Patrick Tan. ■ Tuesday, March 12. Happy birthday to Denise Meikle of Horsham. Also to Age writer Rohan Connolly.

■ Malice. The intention or desire to do evil; ill will.

Trivia Challenge ■ Of our Australian male swimmers, who has won the most Olympic gold medals?

Answer:Murray Rose

WELCOME RAIN. People were beginning to imngine that Gippsland was to be denied rain altogether, and it must be confessed that a bad time has been passed through.

On Tuesday afternoon rain set in, and apparently it seemed as if a good downpour was imminent, but towards eight o'clock it ceased, 34 points being registered.

At Newry and Boisdale it was slightly heavier, but Clydebank only benefited to the mild extent of five points.

The conditions yesterday were of a close and muggy character, and the afternoon thunderstorm brought a further supply of the welcome fluid.

Although it is not sufficient for the man on the land, let us hope that this is only the forerunner of many inches, the household supply, which was con siderably on the wane, will be bountifully replenished.

The total fall since Tuesday last at Maffra was 54 points, Mr J, McDonald reports the rain fall at Wadelock for February, 86 points, and for March, not counting ycsterday, 43 points.

MELBOURNE NEWS Adolph Linneman, 22, stoker. died to-day from scalds inflicted yesterday through the top of a cylinder coming off in the engine room of the steamer Elsass.

Mr Puddington, the newly appointed High Court Judge will be sworn in on Tuesday morning in Melbourne. Though he will he sworn in before Mr Powers the latter will be senior to him.

Join in our chat

Your Stars with Christina La Cross A ARIES (MAR 21 - APR 20) Your emotions make you do and say some really strange things. It appears from your chart that you've been frightened to admit how you really feel. Not from today though Aries.

TAURUS (APR 21 - MAY 21) Children or the younger generation in general seem to be costing you more money and taking up more of your time. Being honest in love tonight can make the impossible possible.

GEMINI (MAY 22 - JUNE 21) Someone who you could just about tolerate last month is now becoming a source of major irritation. Take a step back and see who's in control. You are Gemini! Take control of your life while you can.

CANCER (JUNE 22 - JULY 23) One of the hardest parts of having a problem is admitting it to yourself. Now you've done that, the hard part is over. A new life is calling. You just have to really want it Cancer.

LEO (JULY 24 - AUG 23) You're going to have to try to sort out home affairs. You've spent so long recently trying to get your career in order that you've failed to make an effort in matters of a personal nature.

VIRGO (AUG 24 - SEPT 23) You are reading too deeply into the moves that a close one is making with their life.If you are feeling left out, then say so, but do not sulk like a child. It won't get you anywhere if you do.

LIBRA (SEPT 24 - OCT 23) Make sure that you give advice carefully on this day, as those around you will be taking what you say more literally than you think. Arranging to see who's on your mind works a miracle.

SCORPIO (OCT 24 - NOV 22) Others' demands on you in work are changing, and so are your abilities as the things you've learnt over the last few months take you into a different league. Promotions need not be a problem.

SAGITTARIUS (NOV 23 - DEC 21) The style and feel of your life is beginning to change and you no longer seem happy to accept the things that last year you took so easily. You've raised the bar and I'm completely behind you.

CAPRICORN (DEC 22 - JAN 20) You've been a push over lately, but if you can think with your own mind instead of trusting in the advice of others then you may just find the progress that you're seeking in your life.

AQUARIUS (JAN 21 - FEB 19) The chance to catch up with a loved one may see you having to admit what needs to be dealt with.

PISCES (FEB 20 - MARCH 20) A little arrogance is apparent. Not only does it not suit you but it is not going to get you any results, so be assertive and have a little more confidence in your power of attraction.

● Asparagus with poached egg Courtesy: Taste.com.au Ingredients 2 bunches asparagus, woody ends trimmed 2 tsp vinegar 4 fresh eggs 25g (1/3 cup) finely grated parmesan Log in to add to My Shopping List Method Notes Step 1: Bring a large frying pan of salted water to the boil over medium-high heat.

Add the asparagus and cook for 2-3 minutes or until bright green and tender crisp.

Use tongs to transfer the asparagus to a plate. Cover to keep warm.

Step 2: Add the vinegar to the water in pan.

Reduce heat to medium-low. Crack 1 egg into a small bowl. Use a spoon to stir the water to make a whirlpool. Carefully pour the egg into the centre of the whirlpool.

Cook for 4 minutes for a soft yolk or until cooked to your liking. Use a slotted spoon to transfer to a plate. Cover with foil to keep warm. Repeat with remaining eggs.

Step 3: Divide the asparagus among serving plates. Top with an egg. Season with salt and pepper. Top with parmesan to serve.

Hairspray Review ● From Page 13 ■ Well indeed, this is a tale of believing in oneself with a very happy ending, as well as covering serious social issues such as racism and discrimination.

Lee Geraghty is to be congratulated on her fine work in encouraging and nurturing the talents of young, local performers and, it’s been said before, Robert Mulholland is one of, if not the best, choreographers in Victorian community theatre.

Performances: Thursday, March 7 at 7pm and Friday, March 8 at 8pm Venue: Cardinia Performing Arts Centre, Lakeside Boulevard, Pakenham.

Tickets: $32/$29/$25.

Bookings: www.trybooking.com, or 0407 090 354, or email rrene70@hotmail.com - Cheryl Threadgold

Observer Mailbag

■ Before Observer Editor Ash Long even enters hospital today (see Page 10), goodwill wishes have come from a number of friends. As we went to press, these mates had sent messages: John Ackland, Jenny Adams, Merryn Aldous, Glenn Bear, Ian Bell, John Buckland, Gary Buckley, Jeff Buzza, Peter Byrne, Chris Carolane, Leah Casaccio, Gerry Connolly, Debra Cooper, Don Crawford, Cheryl Critchley, Barry Crocker, Josi Crocker, Wes Crok, Jan Downes, Fran Duncanson, Helen Eastwood, Jane Elliott, Jenny Evans, Steve Frew, Toni Gianarelli, Mark Gillies, Bruce Gow, Peter Greenaway, Deborah Jane Grey, Sal Grimshaw, Claire Halliday, Kate Halliday, John Hay-Mackenzie, Brett Hayhoe, Sheila Heath, Gigi Hellmuth, Glenn Hodges, Jane Holmes, Alex Hutchinson, Chris Ilsley, Judy Jacques, Neil James, Brenda Jenkins, Chris Keating, Jane Kennedy, Warren Koglin, Sue Lafferty, Mary Levick, James Lockhart, Sandi Lockhart, Adam Long, Linda Long, Brad Matheson, Trent Mackenzie, Judith Marrow, Chris McColl, Angela and Keith McGowan, Virgina McGowan, Kate McMurrich, Sue McPhee, Gary McQuade, Kim Mercieca, Shannon Morris, Dawn Morton, Wayne Motton, Laura Musial, Paul Nicholson, Libby Nutbean, Eddie Olek, David Palmer, Bryan Patterson, Tony Porter, Bet Redfern, Jamie Redfern, Mark Richardson, Di Rolle, Chris Ryan, Adam Shand, Pat Shelton, Judy Small, Liz Sullivan, Patrick Tan, Lyndall Tennant, Gaylene Thompson, Jenny Thompson, Elaine Tucker, Dennis Wall, Paul Walsh, John Westbury, Marilyn Whitelaw, Lisa Williams, Gavin Wood Thank you all.

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Victoria Pictorial

Melbourne Shops Historic Photo Collection

● Croft’s Store, 94 Elizabeth St, Melbourne.

● The Mutual Store, before the fire. 1891

● Broadway shoe store, Melbourne

● Steele and Co store, Swanston St, Melbourne

● Coles Store Christmas decoration. 1957.

● AIF Recruitment window. Henry Bucks store. Melbourne.

● Foys Department Store, decorated for Olympics. 1956.

● Father Christmas on Foys building. 1959.

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Caravan, Camping and Touring

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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Travel

9 DAY ALL INCLUSIVE PACKAGE

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NELSON RIVER CRUISES CRUISE ON THE MAGNIFICENT GLENELG RIVER

Departing Nelson 3.5 hour cruise on the beautiful Glenelg River through the lower Glenelg National Park Visiting Princess Margaret Rose Cave Sept-Dec. Tues., Wed., Sat. & Sun. Depart 12.30 (SA time) School holidays: call to enquire (Limited cruises winter school holidays) Christmas Holidays and Easter. Twice daily cruises Limited cruises in May, June, July and August Call for additional cruises Adults $30. Children 5-15 years $10. Seniors $27.50 Family special (two adults & two children) $70 Coach and group bookings welcome Princess Margaret Rose Cave Tour extra For Bookings PH 8738 4191 FX 08 8738 4233 MOB 0448 871 225 E-mail: rivercruise@ozemail.com.au

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Travel: Places To Go

MOUNTAIN RETREAT

This is a lovely 4 bedroom, 2 bathroom home that sleeps 8.

It is situated in the heart of Dartmouth close to the pub.

There is one queen-size bed and six singles.

Full cooking facilities include BBQ and microwave.

TV and DVD, and washing machine are all supplied along with all bed linen.

Phone Marjorie

0419 625 917 1 Tokes Crescent, Dartmouth

Page 40 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013

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Travel

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Travel: Places To Go

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Travel: Places To Go

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Travel: Places To Go

Self-contained cottage: traditional and pet-friendly B&B where guest and their pets will be pampered and spoilt

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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Caravans, Camping and Touring

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FOR SALE New 36x6 Aluminium Tippers inc BWR Air Suspension Walking Floor Trailers Road Train Dollies RENTALS Walking Floors, Tippers & Dollies available now

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Places To Go

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For more information about these homes or for location of your closest Display Home, please call Ken Wahlstrom on 9783 9166 or email, ken@highviewhomes.com.au or visit our website: www.highviewhomes.com.au

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Travellers’Good Buys

with David Ellis

Highlands history and heritage ■ With this the 150th year since Bowral and Moss Vale were founded side-by-side in the NSW Southern Highlands in 1863, the folk there reckon they’ve plenty to celebrate.

And they’re doing it with 12 months of festivities commemorating memorable Highlands’ “firsts,” and of tales of convicts, characters and explorers, the more nefarious like bushranger Ben Hall, and of Lucretia Dunkley the only woman ever hanged in Berrima Gaol.

And of Don Bradman – and even Mary Poppins.

Today and next week we’ll share some of these tales with you, as well as highlights of this year’s celebrations in a region that began life as cattle-country and a summer retreat for the elite of old Sydney Town to their cool mountains’ mansions amid vast home-country English-style gardens – with even the State Governor having a summer bastion here.

And of how the Highlands, at 690m above sea-level yet just 1.5hrs drive south of Sydney, at every turn brings with them another post-card-pretty small town, village or hamlet connected to the past.

How many know that in January 1798 ex-convict-cum-explorer John Wilson led two other explor-

● Bowral’s main street in the days of horse and cart

Observer Wines & Liqueurs Melbourne

with David Ellis

Quad of bubbly flowers ... cool!

■ If you’ve celebrations in mind, a Chardonnay-based bubbly that’s hard to look past is Chandon’s 2009 Blanc de Blancs from Victoria’s cool climate Yarra Valley, King Valley and Macedon.

A year that most remember for Victoria’s tragic bushfires, 2009 was also a standout one for the State’s cool-climate Chardonnays: in this case the elevated Upper Yarra Valley providing fruit with lovely citrus flavours and crisp acidity, and the Yarra Floor, King Valley and Macedon fuller nectarine and peach characters and delightful texture.

Unusually warm conditions in early February encouraged rapid ripening of fruit in all four areas, with Chandon’s vineyards being picked during the coolest parts of the day for maximum quality and freshness of the fruit.

Each site’s grapes were pressed and fermented separately to capture their individual parcels’ own unique characteristics, and the resultant diverse cuvees selected for concentrated varietal flavour, balanced structure and palate length.

Pay $39.95 to enjoy with those next celebrations and a diversity of party-room treats.

■ Chardonnay backbone makes for this great party-room celebratory wine.

■ Interesting Cabernet Sauvignon/Merlot blend to enjoy with grilled porterhouse steak and garlic mash.

One to note ■ Although it was founded only in 1998, Ferngrove in Western Australia’s Frankland River region, 360km south of Perth and some 90km in from the coast, has gained an enviable reputation for a wide range of exceptional wines covering a broad spectrum of varietals and blends.

One of those blends is an interesting 90 per cent Cabernet Sauvignon and 10 per cent Merlot from the 2010 vintage and bottled under the company’s Symbols label, a wine that’s got bounce-fromthe-glass blackberry and red plum flavours and nicely balancing vanilla oak and long grainy tannins.

At $14.99 it’s great buying to enjoy now with grilled porterhouse steak and garlic mash, or to invest in a few for the cellar to develop even further over the next five to eight years.

We’re archived on http://vintnews.com

ers into the now-Southern Highlands, one of them, John Price recording in his diary the first sighting and description by white man both of a koala and a lyrebird? His diary, given to Sir Joseph Banks, is now in the Mitchell Library.

Or that it was in the Southern Highlands that Europeans first recorded flowering Waratahs – and that in the underground car-park of Woolworth’s Highland Marketplace at Mittagong, you can see remains of the first smelting plant in Australia, the Fitzroy Iron Works named after thenGovernor Sir Charles Fitzroy?

When these remains were found during ground preparations in 2005, Woolworth re-designed the complex around them so what little was left of the 1840’s rolling mills, furnaces, boilers and chimney bases could forever remain on public view.

And next to the Mittagong RSL Club see where residents in the 1800s drew from a spring whose health-giving mineral waters were also fed into an adjacent bathhouse; that bathhouse has long since gone, but the spring still flows today.

Sir Charles Fitzroy also gave his name to the Fitzroy Inn in Mittagong; Australia’s first lawn tennis court was installed here in 1875 when it was temporarily a school, and today it’s a hostelry again with its tennis court having an artificial surface. Inhouse guests can also marvel in the cellar here at “Australia’s finest example of a convict-era kitchen,” complete with the water-well dug in the middle of the floor when the Inn was built in 1835.

And a cell in the Inn still has iron shackles and bars on the walls that harshly detained convicts while their guards slept comfortably overnight upstairs on the way by coach to the new Berrima Gaol – where Australia’s first trial by all-civilian jury was held in 1841.

Opposite that now-closed Gaol is the Surveyor General Inn built by freed convict couple William Harper and Margaret Morgan in 1834, run by their son James and today the oldest continuously-licenced inn in Australia; up the road James and wife Mary’s fine circa-1834 Georgian-style mansion and garden maze is now owned by the National Trust and open weekends and public holidays.

Lucretia Dunkley was the only woman ever hanged in Berrima Gaol, alongside her young lover Martin Beech in 1843 for the gruesome axe murder of her sleeping husband who was 20 years her senior. A witnessing reporter wrote: “Both prisoners exhibited apathy upon the scaffold and died as they had lived, hardened and unrepentant.”

Take the original Old South Road into the Southern Highlands and you’ll pass historic Mittagong Aerodrome built in 1944 to bolster air defences of Wollongong and Port Kembla’s steelworks; it’s now leased by the Berrima District Aero Club, and as you drive south past it, opposite is the site of George Cutter’s (or possibly Cutler’s) circa-1827 Kangaroo Inn and windmilldriven flour mill – the first inn in the Southern Highlands.

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From Page 20 it has a prodigious 14th of July, which delivers the globe; it forces all nations to take the oath of tennis; its night of the 4th of August dissolves in three hours a thousand years of feudalism; it makes of its logic the muscle of unanimous will; it multiplies itself under all sorts of forms of the sublime; it fills with its light Washington, Kosciusko, Bolivar, Bozzaris, Riego, Bem, Manin, Lopez, John Brown, Garibaldi; it is everywhere where the future is being lighted up, at Boston in 1779, at the Isle de Leon in 1820, at Pesth in 1848, at Palermo in 1860, it whispers the mighty countersign: Liberty, in the ear of the American abolitionists grouped about the boat at Harper’s Ferry, and in the ear of the patriots of Ancona assembled in the shadow, to the Archi before the Gozzi inn on the seashore; it creates Canaris; it creates Quiroga; it creates Pisacane; it irradiates the great on earth; it was while proceeding whither its breath urge them, that Byron perished at Missolonghi, and that Mazet died at Barcelona; it is the tribune under the feet of Mirabeau, and a crater under the feet of Robespierre; its books, its theatre, its art, its science, its literature, its philosophy, are the manuals of the human race; it has Pascal, Regnier, Corneille, Descartes, Jean– Jacques: Voltaire for all moments, Moliere for all centuries; it makes its language to be talked by the universal mouth, and that language becomes the word; it constructs in all minds the idea of progress, the liberating dogmas which it forges are for the generations trusty friends, and it is with the soul of its thinkers and its poets that all heroes of all nations have been made since 1789; this does not prevent vagabondism, and that enormous genius which is called Paris, while transfiguring the world by its light, sketches in charcoal Bouginier’s nose on the wall of the temple of Theseus and writes Credeville the thief on the Pyramids.

Paris is always showing its teeth; when it is not scolding it is laughing.

Such is Paris. The smoke of its roofs forms the ideas of the universe. A heap of mud and stone, if you will, but, above all, a moral being. It is more than great, it is immense.

Why? Because it is daring.

To dare; that is the price of progress.

All sublime conquests are, more or less, the prizes of daring. In order that the Revolution should take place, it does not suffice that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; it is necessary that Danton should dare it.

The cry: Audacity! is a Fiat lux. It is necessary, for the sake of the forward march of the human race, that there should be proud lessons of courage permanently on the heights. Daring deeds dazzle history and are one of man’s great sources of light. The dawn dares when it rises. To attempt, to brave, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to one’s self, to grasp fate bodily, to astound catastrophe by the small amount of fear that it occasions us, now to affront unjust power, again to insult drunken victory, to hold one’s position, to stand one’s ground; that is the example which nations need, that is the light which electrifies them. The same formidable lightning proceeds from the torch of Prometheus to Cambronne’s short pipe.

CHAPTER xii THE FUTURE LATENT IN THE PEOPLE As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the street Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; and it is for that reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race appears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy; there this people toils and suffers, and suffering and toil are the two faces of man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom swarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la Rapee to the knacker of Montfaucon. Fex urbis, exclaims Cicero; mob, adds Burke, indignantly;

rabble, multitude, populace. These are words and quickly uttered. But so be it.

What does it matter? What is it to me if they do go barefoot! They do not know how to read; so much the worse. Would you abandon them for that? Would you turn their distress into a malediction? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? Let us return to that cry: Light! and let us obstinately persist therein! Light! Light! Who knows whether these opacities will not become transparent? Are not revolutions transfigurations?

Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten, light up, think aloud, speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun, fraternize with the public place, announce the good news, spend your alphabets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks.

Make a whirlwind of the idea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use of that vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which sparkles, bursts forth and quivers at certain hours.

These bare feet, these bare arms, these rags, these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these darknesses, may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the people, and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you trample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and seethe there, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks to it that Galileo and Newton will discover stars.

CHAPTER xiii LITTLE GAVROCHE Eight or nine years after the events narrated in the second part of this story, people noticed on the Boulevard du Temple, and in the regions of the Chateau-d’Eau, a little boy eleven or twelve years of age, who would have realized with tolerable accuracy that ideal of the gamin sketched out above, if, with the laugh of his age on his lips, he had not had a heart absolutely sombre and empty. This child was well muffled up in a pair of man’s trousers, but he did not get them from his father, and a woman’s chemise, but he did not get it from his mother.

Some people or other had clothed him in rags out of charity. Still, he had a father and a mother. But his father did not think of him, and his mother did not love him.

He was one of those children most deserving of pity, among all, one of those who have father and mother, and who are orphans nevertheless.

This child never felt so well as when he was in the street. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother’s heart.

His parents had despatched him into life with a kick.

He simply took flight.

He was a boisterous, pallid, nimble, wideawake, jeering, lad, with a vivacious but sickly air. He went and came, sang, played at hopscotch, scraped the gutters, stole a little, but, like cats and sparrows, gayly laughed when he was called a rogue, and got angry when called a thief. He had no shelter, no bread, no fire, no love; but he was merry because he was free.

When these poor creatures grow to be men, the millstones of the social order meet them and crush them, but so long as they are children, they escape because of their smallness. The tiniest hole saves them.

Nevertheless, abandoned as this child was, it sometimes happened, every two or three months, that he said, “Come, I’ll go and see mamma!” Then he quitted the boulevard, the Cirque, the Porte Saint–Martin, descended to the quays, crossed the bridges, reached the suburbs, arrived at the Salpetriere, and came to a halt, where? Precisely at that double number 50–52 with which the reader is acquainted — at the Gorbeau hovel.

At that epoch, the hovel 50–52 generally deserted and eternally decorated with the placard: “Chambers to let,” chanced to be, a rare thing, inhabited by numerous individuals who, however, as is always the case in Paris, had no connection with each other.

All belonged to that indigent class which begins to separate from the lowest of petty bourgeoisie in straitened circumstances, and which extends from misery to misery

into the lowest depths of society down to those two beings in whom all the material things of civilization end, the sewer-man who sweeps up the mud, and the ragpicker who collects scraps.

The “principal lodger” of Jean Valjean’s day was dead and had been replaced by another exactly like her. I know not what philosopher has said: “Old women are never lacking.”

This new old woman was named Madame Bourgon, and had nothing remarkable about her life except a dynasty of three paroquets, who had reigned in succession over her soul.

The most miserable of those who inhabited the hovel were a family of four persons, consisting of father, mother, and two daughters, already well grown, all four of whom were lodged in the same attic, one of the cells which we have already mentioned.

At first sight, this family presented no very special feature except its extreme destitution; the father, when he hired the chamber, had stated that his name was Jondrette.

Some time after his moving in, which had borne a singular resemblance to the entrance of nothing at all, to borrow the memorable expression of the principal tenant, this Jondrette had said to the woman, who, like her predecessor, was at the same time portress and stair-sweeper: “Mother So-and-So, if any one should chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian, or even a Spaniard, perchance, it is I.” This family was that of the merry barefoot boy. He arrived there and found distress, and, what is still sadder, no smile; a cold hearth and cold hearts. When he entered, he was asked: “Whence come you?” He replied: “From the street.” When he went away, they asked him: “Whither are you going?” He replied: “Into the streets.” His mother said to him: “What did you come here for?”

This child lived, in this absence of affection, like the pale plants which spring up in cellars. It did not cause him suffering, and he blamed no one. He did not know exactly how a father and mother should be.

Nevertheless, his mother loved his sisters.

We have forgotten to mention, that on the Boulevard du Temple this child was called Little Gavroche. Why was he called Little Gavroche?

Probably because his father’s name was Jondrette.

It seems to be the instinct of certain wretched families to break the thread.

The chamber which the Jondrettes inhabited in the Gorbeau hovel was the last at the end of the corridor. The cell next to it was occupied by a very poor young man who was called M. Marius.

Let us explain who this M. Marius was.

marquises wear their marquisates. He was over ninety years of age, his walk was erect, he talked loudly, saw clearly, drank neat, ate, slept, and snored. He had all thirty-two of his teeth. He only wore spectacles when he read. He was of an amorous disposition, but declared that, for the last ten years, he had wholly and decidedly renounced women. He could no longer please, he said; he did not add: “I am too old,” but: “I am too poor.” He said: “If I were not ruined — Heee!” All he had left, in fact, was an income of about fifteen thousand francs. His dream was to come into an inheritance and to have a hundred thousand livres income for mistresses. He did not belong, as the reader will perceive, to that puny variety of octogenaries who, like M. de Voltaire, have been dying all their life; his was no longevity of a cracked pot; this jovial old man had always had good health. He was superficial, rapid, easily angered. He flew into a passion at everything, generally quite contrary to all reason. When contradicted, he raised his cane; he beat people as he had done in the great century. He had a daughter over fifty years of age, and unmarried, whom he chastised severely with his tongue, when in a rage, and whom he would have liked to whip. She seemed to him to be eight years old. He boxed his servants’ ears soundly, and said: “Ah! carogne!” One of his oaths was: “By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade!” He had singular freaks of tranquillity; he had himself shaved every day by a barber who had been mad and who detested him, being jealous of M. Gillenormand on account of his wife, a pretty and coquettish barberess. M. Gillenormand admired his own discernment in all things, and declared that he was extremely sagacious; here is one of his sayings: “I have, in truth, some penetration; I am able to say when a flea bites me, from what woman it came.”

The words which he uttered the most frequently were: the sensible man, and nature.

He did not give to this last word the grand acceptation which our epoch has accorded to it, but he made it enter, after his own fashion, into his little chimney-corner satires: “Nature,” he said, “in order that civilization may have a little of everything, gives it even specimens of its amusing barbarism. Europe possesses specimens of Asia and Africa on a small scale. The cat is a drawing-room tiger, the lizard is a pocket crocodile. The dancers at the opera are pink female savages. They do not eat men, they crunch them; or, magicians that they are, they transform them into oysters and swallow them. The Caribbeans leave only the bones, they leave only the shell. Such are our morals. We do not devour, we gnaw; we do not exterminate, we claw.”

BOOK SECOND.— THE GREAT BOURGEOIS CHAPTER I NINETY YEARS AND THIRTY-TWO TEETH

CHAPTER ii LIKE MASTER, LIKE HOUSE

In the Rue Boucherat, Rue de Normandie and the Rue de Saintonge there still exist a few ancient inhabitants who have preserved the memory of a worthy man named M. Gillenormand, and who mention him with complaisance. This good man was old when they were young. This silhouette has not yet entirely disappeared — for those who regard with melancholy that vague swarm of shadows which is called the past — from the labyrinth of streets in the vicinity of the Temple to which, under Louis XIV., the names of all the provinces of France were appended exactly as in our day, the streets of the new Tivoli quarter have received the names of all the capitals of Europe; a progression, by the way, in which progress is visible.

M.Gillenormand, who was as much alive as possible in 1831, was one of those men who had become curiosities to be viewed, simply because they have lived a long time, and who are strange because they formerly resembled everybody, and now resemble nobody. He was a peculiar old man, and in very truth, a man of another age, the real, complete and rather haughty bourgeois of the eighteenth century, who wore his good, old bourgeoisie with the air with which

He lived in the Marais, Rue des Filles-duCalvaire, No. 6. He owned the house. This house has since been demolished and rebuilt, and the number has probably been changed in those revolutions of numeration which the streets of Paris undergo. He occupied an ancient and vast apartment on the first floor, between street and gardens, furnished to the very ceilings with great Gobelins and Beauvais tapestries representing pastoral scenes; the subjects of the ceilings and the panels were repeated in miniature on the arm-chairs. He enveloped his bed in a vast, nine-leaved screen of Coromandel lacquer. Long, full curtains hung from the windows, and formed great, broken folds that were very magnificent. The garden situated immediately under his windows was attached to that one of them which formed the angle, by means of a staircase twelve or fifteen steps long, which the old gentleman ascended and descended with great agility. In addition to a library adjoining his chamber, he had a boudoir of which he thought a great deal, a gallant and elegant retreat, with magnificent hangings of straw, with a pattern of flowers and fleursdelys made on the galleys of Louis XIV. and ordered of his convicts by M. de Vivonne for his mistress. M. Gillenormand had inherited it from a grim maternal great-aunt, - Continued on Page 106

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From Page 105 who had died a centenarian. He had had two wives. His manners were something between those of the courtier, which he had never been, and the lawyer, which he might have been. He was gay, and caressing when he had a mind. In his youth he had been one of those men who are always deceived by their wives and never by their mistresses, because they are, at the same time, the most sullen of husbands and the most charming of lovers in existence. He was a connoisseur of painting. He had in his chamber a marvellous portrait of no one knows whom, painted by Jordaens, executed with great dashes of the brush, with millions of details, in a confused and hap-hazard manner. M. Gillenormand’s attire was not the habit of Louis XIV. nor yet that of Louis XVI.; it was that of the Incroyables of the Directory. He had thought himself young up to that period and had followed the fashions. His coat was of light-weight cloth with voluminous revers, a long swallow-tail and large steel buttons. With this he wore kneebreeches and buckle shoes. He always thrust his hands into his fobs. He said authoritatively: “The French Revolution is a heap of blackguards.”

which he was fond of talking about effusively. “I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin,” said he. Madame de Boufflers, having seen him by chance when he was twenty, had described him as “a charming fool.” He was horrified by all the names which he saw in politics and in power, regarding them as vulgar and bourgeois. He read the journals, the newspapers, the gazettes as he said, stifling outbursts of laughter the while. “Oh!” he said, “what people these are! Corbiere! Humann!

Casimir Perier! There’s a minister for you!

I can imagine this in a journal: ‘M. Gillenorman, minister!’ that would be a farce. Well! They are so stupid that it would pass”; he merrily called everything by its name, whether decent or indecent, and did not restrain himself in the least before ladies. He uttered coarse speeches, obscenities, and filth with a certain tranquillity and lack of astonishment which was elegant. It was in keeping with the unceremoniousness of his century. It is to be noted that the age of periphrase in verse was the age of crudities in prose. His god-father had predicted that he would turn out a man of genius, and had bestowed on him these two significant names: Luc–Esprit.

CHAPTER iii LUC-ESPRIT

CHAPTER iv A CENTENARIAN ASPIRANT

At the age of sixteen, one evening at the opera, he had had the honor to be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties at the same time — ripe and celebrated beauties then, and sung by Voltaire, the Camargo and the Salle. Caught between two fires, he had beaten a heroic retreat towards a little dancer, a young girl named Nahenry, who was sixteen like himself, obscure as a cat, and with whom he was in love. He abounded in memories. He was accustomed to exclaim: “How pretty she was — that Guimard–Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last time I saw her at Longchamps, her hair curled in sustained sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation muff!” He had worn in his young manhood a waistcoat of Nain–Londrin,

He had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Moulins, where he was born, and he had been crowned by the hand of the Duc de Nivernais, whom he called the Duc de Nevers. Neither the Convention, nor the death of Louis XVI., nor the Napoleon, nor the return of the Bourbons, nor anything else had been able to efface the memory of this crowning. The Duc de Nevers was, in his eyes, the great figure of the century.

“What a charming grand seigneur,” he said, “and what a fine air he had with his blue ribbon!”

In the eyes of M. Gillenormand, Catherine the Second had made reparation for the crime of the partition of Poland by purchasing, for three thousand roubles, the secret of the elixir of gold, from Bestucheff. He grew animated on this subject: “The elixir

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of gold,” he exclaimed, “the yellow dye of Bestucheff, General Lamotte’s drops, in the eighteenth century,— this was the great remedy for the catastrophes of love, the panacea against Venus, at one louis the halfounce phial. Louis XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope.” He would have been greatly irritated and thrown off his balance, had any one told him that the elixir of gold is nothing but the perchloride of iron.

M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbons, and had a horror of 1789; he was forever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during the Terror, and how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety and cleverness in order to escape having his head cut off. If any young man ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic in his presence, he turned purple and grew so angry that he was on the point of swooning. He sometimes alluded to his ninety years, and said, “I hope that I shall not see ninety-three twice.” On these occasions, he hinted to people that he meant to live to be a hundred.

CHAPTER v BASQUE AND NICOLETTE He had theories. Here is one of them: “When a man is passionately fond of women, and when he has himself a wife for whom he cares but little, who is homely, cross, legitimate, with plenty of rights, perched on the code, and jealous at need, there is but one way of extricating himself from the quandry and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife control the pursestrings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her fingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes the education of half-share tenants and the training of farmers, convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues scriveners, visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up leases, dictates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arranges, disarranges, hoards, lavishes; she commits follies, a supreme and

personal delight, and that consoles her.

While her husband disdains her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband.” This theory M. Gillenormand had himself applied, and it had become his history. His wife — the second one — had administered his fortune in such a manner that, one fine day, when M. Gillenormand found himself a widower, there remained to him just sufficient to live on, by sinking nearly the whole of it in an annuity of fifteen thousand francs, three-quarters of which would expire with him. He had not hesitated on this point, not being anxious to leave a property behind him. Besides, he had noticed that patrimonies are subject to adventures, and, for instance, become national property; he had been present at the avatars of consolidated three per cents, and he had no great faith in the Great Book of the Public Debt. “All that’s the Rue Quincampois!” he said. His house in the Rue Filles-duClavaire belonged to him, as we have already stated. He had two servants, “a male and a female.” When a servant entered his establishment, M. Gillenormand re-baptized him. He bestowed on the men the name of their province: Nimois, Comtois, Poitevin, Picard. His last valet was a big, foundered, short-winded fellow of fiftyfive, who was incapable of running twenty paces; but, as he had been born at Bayonne, M. Gillenormand called him Basque. All the female servants in his house were called Nicolette (even the Magnon, of whom we shall hear more farther on). One day, a haughty cook, a cordon bleu, of the lofty race of porters, presented herself. “How much wages do you want a month?” asked M. Gillenormand. “Thirty francs.” “What is your name?” “Olympie.” “You shall have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette.” ● To Be Continued Next Week

Observer Crossword Solution No 5 D OWN P O U R SONGB I RD I H U GA D E E E E R CH A S T I S E S HOP T A L K C S T Y E L L T W E RR OD E S S A U AME R I C A O A E MOP E D S X ROB SMA C K E D V S T A T I C O P T N E V A D A D S HU T P E R I OD S D NOOK S N S O E I D R U P D A S T A N D D OWN B I ND I I D U B GR A S N I MB A ME A NN E S S OG L I NG M W A E C E D U M G E R E A D E R S B EMOA N E D A N O S UMO A R C G I N T E N S E A L B UM I D E Y N A D E P T A I L L M I MP A C T X S I D E S B R I P C U T A H M U S E D N WH I T E R M O P E C ME L I H D I NU I T U H B A I C I NG N A L C A T R A Z R O HOGA N S R O E T D I L I I N S T R EM I T S N R CO I L V S I L O O A RMA D A O R E S T S MAO O Q R A NGE I T A I K E L L I P S E ME D I A NOO E N E N X O R R I T E P L A C E BO D I S A B L E D O F C S I W U S EO S K E L E T ON A F I E L D B E R D L S L I P R E A L Z E B R A T D Y S P E P S I A A L I V Z L P R E C UN L A T CH O L E A V E R G I N A T UR E N R E S P S T E NC I L R D E C A Y S R Z E C E A S E X R CH E R E A RMS L R E P L I C A S O R E MA L I O Z P A S M I CH E N E R N E UROS I S D T I MP N N S P A P S I D E A RMS S T E P SON S

L I D O

Y NCH I NG E O N A NDRU F F R E R E S U I C I D E E D N N L A V E NGE E Y E A R I X N E V E R T E D A A O OW L E T L E R M I D L S E DUC E E D N L C D E CR E A S E P I T M A L C L I MB OOH N E A R E DGA R E L S A C S S A MA CH P C N R OU T R AGE D K O T D E P S I R I S R E NO T R I A NGS T MSG I R N E A UD I O V S D P S A B A T I N I U L K N C K C I N EMA I S E S E L Y NUR S E A S T E K K RUCH E I T E U S P E S P R I T A T L N H H E A V E HO T E C X M I RR I T A T E R E D C E DMON T ON

C HO B I R A A S F GO H A NU I H I L L U N A S P C A R H I N AG L OY OK C F OV R B A C D E L O A A N B E D

R EMA T I I E L E A K E E M T H I GH SO U MAMMO UR T GS T R I E E T R I E N R N O E A D L O M I D B UC K L L T E E A S E S D E L R E AG T I N A DD L B L E O ME A NDU T ORCH R A H B L A Z A L I N EWN E E E M CR A V A D S N OV E R A T L T E R S E E E N MA R A C E S B T OO L K E N E S A D I M G C UME RO L N N E N T I S

E D E S T E E R X T H I NG C T S I NG N E S U U P S A N G E D O L S E I D D E D A S S Y T S T GE M R S O A S D I T E SM A U S K T S

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013 - Page 107

Page 108 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013

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Victoria Pictorial

Melbourne Shops Historic Photo Collection

● Shop fronts, Flinders St, City

● Doyle’s greengrocer shop, Miller St, West Melbourne. Circa 1900

● Bank Street, Emerald Hill, (from J.B. Youl's drapery shop)

● Barber Shop, North Melbourne

● Bottle shop, Scott’s Hotel, Melbourne. 1956

● Rue de la Paix dress shop, Collins Street. 1965.

● Teresa Porta at entrance to fish shop in High Street, Armadale.

Bottles on left are mussels, and cooked fish in left window. Right hand window has fresh fish. 1928-29

● Benjamin Bolton, Family Grocer, Port Melbourne.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013 - Page 109

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PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK A Morning Wish The sun has just risen on the morning of another day, the first day of a new year.

What can I wish that this day, this year, may bring to me?

Nothing that shall make the world or others poorer, nothing at the expense of other men, but just those few things which in their coming do not stop with me, but touch me rather, as they pass and gather strength: A few friends who understand me, and yet remain my friends.

A work to do which has real value without which the world would feel poorer, A return for such work small enough not to tax unduly anyone who pays, A mind unafraid to travel, even though the trail be not blazed.

An understanding heart.

A night of the eternal hills and unresting sea, and of something beautiful the hand of man has made, A sense of humour and the power to laugh, A little leisure with nothing to do, A few moments of quiet, silent meditation, The sense of the presence of God, And the. patience to wait for the coming of these things, with the wisdom to know them when they come.

- W R Hunt

Careless I am more powerful than the combined armies of the world, I am more deadly than bullets and I have wrecked more homes than the mightiest siege guns, I massacre thousands and thousands of wage earners in a year, I lurk in unseen places and do most of my work silently, You are warned against me, but you heed not, I am relentless, I am everywhere, in the home, on the street, in the factory, at railroad crossings and on the sea, I bring sickness, degradation and death, and yet few seek to avoid me, I destroy, crush and maim; I give nothing but take all, I am your worst enemy, I am carelessness.

The Doctor And The Postman The doctor and the dustman are Our most important men by far.

They both desire to keep disease at bay, Each in his own peculiar way.

The dustman is preventative, he doesn't wait for dates, He gathers all the microbes up, which he incinerates.

The doctor sort of waits about, And, when the microbe is inside us, He tries to get it out, The doctors would be wiser if they followed what the dustmen taught 'em, And then they'd seldom need a lock-the-stable-door post mortem We raise our hats to both of them, they certainly are just men, But still we wish our doctors were like prophylactic dustmen.

- F. Oswald Barnett

Bitter Bread of Old Age (Written by an old pensioner in Cheltenham Home, Victoria) Old people do not always get a fair deal. There is a tremendous amount of sadness in old age, and old people who are not prosperous are the saddest figures in life.

Sons and daughters get petulant with them when they have to keep them.

They may not mean to be cruel.

They may never say anything in words to show that the old folk are not wanted, but they do it in a thousand unspoken ways.

The old are no longer important when they are dependent, and they are not re ferred to. Their opinion, being no longer necessary, is not asked.

Their pride, if they are nice old people, is broken, and it is usually the nicest old people who have the cruellest children.

They have given in to them all their lives, and they have given them of their best, and at the low tide of life have to seek a grudging sanctuary with them until the great call comes.

Filial duty is at its worst in Australia at the present time. It is an era of disrespect, back-chat, of flouting the value.of the past, of jeering at conventions that have been won by a rigid adherence to principles of righteousness and clean living.

Old people stand for all these things. If the children who despise them had had to go through the same hard school of life as their parents; if they had had to deny themselves little pleasures and do with out big ones; if

Old Age Pensioner

they had had to maintain the appearances demanded of a past generation on small incomes and live meagrely that their children might have the best education and be always nicely clad they would not be so callous towards the old.

They forget that children are the shares in which parents have sunk all their capital, and these parents have a right to see a return on their investment in their old age. It is a business proposition.

No son or daughter should allow father or mother to feel in the way. No son or daughter should keep their parents out of their own active lives. No son or daughter should allow dependent parents to feel that the bread they eat is bitter bread, and, above all, no son or daughter should allow their parents to go shabby, for there is no

sight so pleasant as well-cared-for old people.

Old people want very little. They are easily satisfied, they are easily chilled, and they are easily hurt.

They know that they are not as swiftly moving as the modern world demands of them, but they should have all these chills and hurts lessened and their gentle pace made happy while they are here.

When they go they will not return, and post mortem remorse for things left undone is the bitterest feeling to which men and women are heirs.

Be kind and gentle and generous to your old' people. It will make you happier when your own age grows slower, and it is a good example to your children, who are absorbing all your ways of life, your habits and your attitude towards other people.

Girls who serve in shops

To all the girls who serve in shops at Christmastide, Whose tempers are so sorely tried, But yet who never would give way to that, To all of you I lift my hat.

The multitudes are milling in the giant stores, And all the little shops are crowded to the doors, Behind the counters there they stand, With aching feet, but willing hand, The girls who serve the foolish and the wise, You're really angels in disguise.

Take me, for instance, just a normal, nervous man, Who has no Christmas shopping plan, With fear I pick a little shop And like a timid rabbit in I hop, A pleasant lass with titian hair, Behind the counter waits me there.

She smiles at me, she has the knack, And blushing, I smile back.

She sweetly says, "What can I do for you?"

What can she do!

"I have a wife and daughters four, A Mother and an Aunt next door."

I said no more.

"Your Mother first," said she, "How old now would you think she'd be?"

I told her, and she started off, It is no wonder that my hat I doff, Before I knew it she had got, Enough to. satisfy the lot.

I pranced away with joy, And felt I really was a clever boy.

Then think of all the dear old Mums, Who are so pleased that Christmas comes But once a year They come in with an unshed tear, With aching feet That tramped all day from street to street

Old-age pensioner, sitting in the park, Of what are you thinking as you wait for the dark?

Mingled with reality, maybe there's a dream Of days of sparkling joy and hope, passing like a stream.

Just for a moment, your old eyes see A figure dance across the grass, with step light and free, A young and lovely maiden, with a gay coquettish smile, And your mind is full of beauty for a little while.

But then your eighty years rush back and claim you once again, And bring a host of other woes, marching in their train; Your loneliness and poverty-your fear that no-one cares, For all you get are hard words, and cold, unfriendly stares.

You can't cook a meal, and you can't have a bath, And if you boil a kettle, you'll incur someone's wrath, And yet your rent must still be paid, or else you know you'll find Yourself cast out upon the street, and the street is far from kind.

Forgive us, old-age pensioner who will not see your plight, Pray that deep compassion may break o'er us like light, And for your life of struggling, the battle that you waged, May we give you some peace and love, now that you are aged.

- Nancy Ewart

Tell Him Now

And, what is worse, They mostly have a slender purse.

Just watch this lovely, bright brunette, She knows just what to get, To do all the famed economists can't do, To make the humble shilling do the work of two.

Mum's frowns depart, She leaves the brunette with a happy heart.

I care not whether you be young or old,

Not half has ever yet been told.

If we, with sensible intent, Persuaded you to represent us in our Parliament, You are so crammed with real goodwill, The world with rare unselfishness you'd fill, And we'd have war no more ; Oh girls, who serve the populace the way you do, Again I doff my hat to you.

- F. Oswald Barnett

I shall but once pass through the walks of Life, And I must suffer human care and woe; Let me then move and bravely meet the foe, And with a sturdy heart encounter strife.

If I should meet a pilgrim on the road Unhap'ly stricken by the Hand of Fate, Let me not pass aside, but pause, and wait, And make an effort to relieve his load.

The time will come when I must pass away, And I must never live my life in vain, If I can right some comrade led astray, Or lighten some sad heart, relieve some pain, Or do some good, then let me act today, For I shall never pass this way again.

- E. O’Driscoll

If with pleasure you are viewing, Any work a friend is doing, If you like him or you love him, tell him now; Don't withhold your approbation, Till the preacher make oration, And he lies with snowy lilacs on his brow: For, no matter how you shout it, He doesn't care a thing about it, He'll not know how many teardrops you have shed; So if you think some praise is due him, Now's the time to slip it to him, For he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead.

More than fame and more than money Is the comment kind and sunny, And the beauty, warm approval of a friend; For it gives to life a savour And it makes you stronger, braver, And it gives you heart and courage to the end; If he earns your praise, bestow it, If you like him, let him know it, Let the words of true encouragement be said; Do not wait till life is over, And he sleeps beneath the clover, For he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead.

- ‘The Scribe’

Page 110 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 6, 2013

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PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

For Remembrance Day: For What We Fought

A Prayer For All Mothers Our Father God, may the Altar Flowers be theirs today. Thou hast let them share with Thee in the mysterious labour of creation and entrusted them with an in destructible love resembling Thine Throughout all time, Thou hast taught them to bear the dread and agony of their life-giving task without complaint. Thou hast endowed them with living sympathy to understand childhood's foolish fears, flashing rages, dismaying greeds, and care less responses to costly devotion.

At Thy Feet they have interpreted the mounting insubordination of their liberty-questing Sons and the smiling condescensions of their flowering Daughters, aware that each passing generation must quickly yield its sceptre to another in the cause of progress.

We thank Thee for the valour displayed by Mothers in bewildered eras when the keepers of the house tremble.

We rejoice in the prescience with which they discern new duties in new occasions. Hearten them, we beseech Thee; in these troubled times with faith-empowered poise may they soothe their children's unrest.

Grant them the greatness of heart to glimpse a rescuing justice in the impending redistri bution of human privileges. Enable them to teach their ambitious sons that comfort for many is better than luxury for some.

At this hour when, indignant over age old hypocrisies and long-sanctioned shams, the new generation clamours for truth and candour, make all Mothers keenly sensitive to the embarrassing de mands of integrity.

Strengthen their passionate cries for peace. Re-assure them that all things work together for good in the lives of those who love Thee.

And make their calmness ours . .. Amen.

- Lloyd C Douglas

Prayer For The United Nations God of the free we pledge our hearts and lives today to the cause of all free man kind.

Grant us victory over the tyrants who would enslave all free men and nations.

Grant us faith and understanding to cherish all those who fight for freedom as if they were our brothers.

Grant us brotherhood in hope and union not only for the space of this bitter war, but for the days to come which shall and must unite all the children of earth.

Our earth is but a small star in the great universe. Yet of it we can make if we choose, a planet unvexed by war, un troubled by hunger or fear, undivided by senseless distinctions of race, colour or theory.

Grant us the courage and foreseeing to begin this task today that our children and our children's children may be proud of the name of man. The spirit of man has awakened and the soul of man has gone forth.

Grant us the wisdom and the vision to comprehend the greatness of man's spirit that suffers and endures so hugely for a goal beyond his own brief span.

Grant us honour for our dead who died in the faith, honour for our living who work and strive for the faith, redemption and security for all captive lands and people.

Grant us pa tience with the deluded and pity for the betrayed. And grant us the skill and the valour that shall cleanse the world of oppression and the old base doctrine that the strong must eat the weak because they are strong.

Yet most of all, grant us brotherhood, not of words, but of acts and deeds. We are all of us children of the earth - grant us that simple knowledge. If our brothers are oppressed, then we are oppressed. If they hunger, we hunger. If their freedom is taken away, our freedom is not secure.

Grant us a common faith that man shall know bread and peace-that he shall know justice and righteousness, freedom and security, and equal opportunity and an equal chance to do his best, not only in our own lands, but throughout the world.

And in that faith let us march towards the clean world our hands can make. AMEN.

Grant unto us the peace on earth for which we fought, and the love of all men, and the quiet and peace of a new world - the soothing solace of that to which we belong, the peace of mind and body and of the familiar faces of those we love and the friends and peoples we know - the tranquillity of scenes from our past, the peace of the land of our birth.

Grant that we may idle our days in those places, Among those faces; That we may roam again at leisure and at will, the green blue hills That reach up round our homes.

To scent again the pungent sweetness of the bushlands, And to lie o'er a brackish stream and watch long eddies widen and break 'neath a shaded stone, To see again the glories of the fern, the regal rata, the winding clematis,

And to hear the songs of the birds.

Grant comforts of a home, not big, not small, but that which we may know and love ; the crackling fire of a winter's night; the scented garden of a summer's eve.

Let the paths of our leaders be guided by wisdom ; let there be a little riches for all, suffering and poverty for none.

Let there be green-ness and ripeness on the lands, and let our sowers reap well.

Let our cities hum with the noise of prosperity, and let them lie shaded and quiet at the end of the week.

Grant that not again shall men be called to bear arms and that our sons be spared from walking in the valley of the shadow of death.

And let us not forget at the setting of the sun, and in the mornings, Those who made this possible.

For The Fallen With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again, They sit no more at familiar tables at home, They have no lot in our labour of the day-time, They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known, As the stars are known to the night.

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.

- Laurence Binyon

Shed thou no tears Shed thou no tears, This road they chose, this way of pain Was theirs, Who drank the cup of bitterness, And lie in alien soil, hungering For home.

From fields wherein the streams of youth ran deep, They heard the far, clear call, And answered.

Out from the quiet places and the gentle folk They knew and loved, and graciousness, They went, and questioned not.

Thorns were their portion, and their end A lesser Calvary. .... Weep not for them.

For they have gone beyond the Night, And found Quiet havens where the waters laughing run, And rest is given They sleep in fields of amaranth, flow'r crowned; And all their glory lights the hills Of Heaven.

Shed thou no tears, For these high souls, in their last hour, Walked with Christ, and marvellously knew The joy and pain of sacrifice; and reached Their goal, as runners do, with swift, Drawn breath.

Theirs was a wondrous way, who came, Down all the winds of turbulence, To keep, for you, this rendezvous With Death. .... Weep not for them.

- "NX 65238"

England shall never die England shall never die. Her flag unfurled.

Flies as God's symbol to a broken world, To crush a tyrant's power and tyranny, And raise a Throne of righteous liberty.

England shall never die. There shall arise A stronger race, bound with those mystic ties, The Fatherhood of God, to bind and seal The Brotherhood of Man, God's own ideal.

England shall never die. The ocean deep Bears on its bosom, those brave men who keep Her shores, lashed by the ocean's cease less spray: For those brave fearless men we humbly pray.

England shall never die. God holds her reins And in her fields, or peaceful country lanes, With autumn leaves over the green sward laid, God's soft voice speaks, as in cathedral shade.

England shall never die. Each restless wave Which guards her coast, would rise in wrath to save Her life, and hurl the spoiler back to Hell, That dark and deep abyss where Satan fell.

England shall never die. All Empire veins Are centred in her mother breast - great skeins Of love, stronger than bands of steel, have grown To bind the Empire to the British Throne.

England shall never die.

Though traitors link Themselves with Hell, Britain will never shrink From her God-given mission, to fulfil Upon this troubled world, His righteous will.

England shall never die.

Though seeds are sown By traitors' hands, one burning flame alone, Is ours, the flame of righteous Liberty, Despite our colours, creeds, diversity.

England shall never die. Above her Throne, There is a greater Throne-not hers alone, Superimposed, to guard and fend our coasts, He holds the Nation's scalesthe Lord of Hosts.

England shall never die. By God's decree, The Union Jack, God's flag of liberty, Will always proudly float, on land and sea, The emblem of a true democracy. - Gillespie Douglas (Aboriginal Clergynman)

Spring Clean Now that Nature's waking up, And happy birds are preening, and housewives scurry round with brooms To start on their springcleaning.

Don't you think it's time that you did some decorating To that dusty mind of yours, It's been a long time waiting ?

Throw away the faded rags Of those old thoughts and worries; Time to lift your pecker up, Have done with fuss and flurries, Open all the windows wide And give your thoughts an airing, You'll be surprised to see how much Your ideas need repairing.

Don't you think you might patch up That quarrel long outstanding, ad clear those grievances away, That clutter up the landing?

When you have swept and mended, then I think you'll get my meaning; There's nothing makes you feel so fine As mind and heart springcleaning.

- Hilary Poole