Melbourne Observer. 130313B. March 13, 2013. Part B. Pages 13-18, 63-68

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

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

Wanted ... a man Mother in her wedding gown What 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 outpaces Thought of self, or power or pelf.

Men whose axes need no grinding; Men who are not always minding First their own concerns, and blinding Their 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

"I've been fretting, fuming, crying every day; Life looks drab, and everything is grey.

What's the good of trying to work?

We may just as well all shirk ...

When you hear folks speak like this just quietly say: "I've decided not to worry any more, And I'm living just as easy as before; 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 own affairs, Look for laughter and for joy, and not for tears.

Keep a-grubbin' and a-hoein' That'll stop the weeds a-growin' Just determine not to worry any more.

"What's the use to lie awake to rack your brain, Just because the crops are thirsting for 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!"

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 mind While 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 above Her 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 be Leading the vanguard to a saner way When loyal, unafraid posterity, Shall bless this England.

So let us then arise in multitude, Nor deem it overmuch that we can spare And 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

Let Us Be Guests

Here's a picture of my mother in her wedding gown. Ah, me!

I wonder if there ever was a fairer bride than she, Not a wrinkle on her forehead, not a line denoting care, Can be traced upon her features; what a wealth of wavy hair Fell away from her fair temples! And the smile she wore that day Was the smile of one whose sorrows still were lurking far away.

I can fancy that my father, as he gazed upon her then, Must have held his head up proudly, favoured o'er all other men; And, beholding the sweet beauty of the face depicted here, I imagine I can see him, young and

ardent, standing near.

I have loved, and I can see him as he caught 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 her wedding day, Shows the face of one whose sorrows were all lurking far away, And a fairer bride than she never charmed a man, I trow, Yet there's one whose smile is sweeter than her smile was long ago One whose brow has many furrows, proudly looks sometimes on me, And I see the fondest, gladdest smile a man may hope to see.

- Selected by Francis A. Boxer Savernake

The Vagabond Poet Continued from prervious issue I'll have a window-seat broad and deep Where I can sprawl to read or sleep, With windows placed so I can turn And watch the sunsets blaze and burn Beyond high peaks that scar the sky Like bare white wolf-fangs that defy The very gods. I'll have a nook For a savage idol that I took From a ruined temple in Peru, A demon-chaser named Mang-Chu To guard my house by night and day And keep all evil things away.

Pewter and bronze and hammered brass; Old carved wood and gleaming glass; Candles and polychrome candlesticks,

And peasant lamps in floating wicks; Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit In a chest that is filled with vagabond loot.

All of the beautiful useless things That a vagabond's aimless drifting brings.

Then, when my house is all complete I'll stretch me out on the window seat With a favorite book and a cigarette, And a long cool drink that Oh Joy will get; And I'll look about at my bachelor-nest While the sun goes zooming down the west, And the hot gold light will fall on my face

Stop worrying

And make me think of some heathen place That I've failed to see ... that I've missed some way ...

A place that I'd planned to find some day, And I'll feel the lure of it drawing me.

Oh damn! I know what the end will be I'll go. And my house will fall away While the mice by night and the moths by day Will nibble the covers off all my books, And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks.

And my dogs ... I'll see that they have a home

While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream, Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream; And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain That I probably never will build again This house that I'll have in some far day Well ... it's just a dream house, anyway.

- Don Blanding

Let us be guests in one another's house With deferential "No" and courteous "Yes" Let us take care to hide our foolish moods Behind a certain show of cheerfulness.

Let us avoid all sullen silences; We should find fresh and sprightly things to say; I must be fearful lest you find me dull, And you must dread to bore me any way.

Let us knock gently at each other's heart, Glad of a chance to look within-and yet Let us remember that to force one's way Is the unpardoned breach of etiquette.

So shall I be hostess-you the host Until all need for entertainment ends; We shall be lovers when the last door shuts But what is better still-we shall be friends.

- Carol Haynes

Empire Day Empire Day! Let people say With happy heart "We'll play our part Just keeping free The lands that we As Empire folk belong to."

Empire Day! Let us sing Happily-"God Save Our King."

Let's be together through all weather And win a peace That will not cease Or die. Empire Day! Let people say "We'll live to see ` That liberty That England gave. Let us save This world from strife. Give life To Empire."

- Danny Webb, 3DB

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Page 14 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK Straight Drives "We ought to get together more, To share the joys that lips may bring, Think more of Peace and less of War And cut out all the bickering.

Should we give up in sheer despair Or, tell the world that things are tough, The other chap may have his share Of troubles. Well! He has enough; If we would smile more often when The clouds' hang heavy overhead And take the knocks that come to men Not look for sympathy, instead Of trying hard to see it through For though at times the road is rough, Behind the cloud we find the blue, And rocky roads wear smooth enough.

Keep straight ahead and do not grieve, Yes, try to keep that top-lip firm Don't wear your heart upon your sleeve Just be a man-and not a worm.

Forget the faults you think you see And never try to gain by bluff, Play cricket as you ought and we Will find this World is good enough."

- W J Robinson

Patriotism Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung.

Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

- Sir Walter Scott

Character Of A Happy Life How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought And simple truth his utmost skill.

Who envies none that chance doth raise Or vice: who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; No rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great.

This man is freed from servile bands Of 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 Lift Give him a lift! Don't kneel in prayer, Nor moralise with his despair; The man is down, and his great need Is ready help, not prayer and creed.

One grain of aid just now is more To 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 preaching nice; But generous souls who aid mankind Are, like diamonds, hard to find.

Give like a Christian-speak in deeds A noble life's the best of creeds; And he shall wear a royal crown Who gives a lift when men are down.

The Revenge: Lord Tennyson At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! We have sighted fifty-three!"

Then spake Lord Thomas Howard "'Fore God, I am no coward ; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: `I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.

But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore; I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devil doms of Spain."

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in,the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the 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 time this sun is set."

And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men; Let us bang those dogs of Seville, the children of the devil.

For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on, through the long sea-lane between., Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delayed By their mountain-like San Phillip, that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed.

And while now the great San Phillip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great San Phillip, she be thought herself and went

Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us and they fought us hand to hand For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three Ship 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 her shame, For some were sunk, and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more God of battles, was ever a battle like 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 the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be.

And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous. plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maimed for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most 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 were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride; "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again!

We have won great glory, my men!

And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die-does it matter when?

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner-sink her, split her in twain!

Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives.

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

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

"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do; With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Gren ville, die !"

And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few.

Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, .

And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sailed with her loss, and longed for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan, And ere ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags, To be lost evermore in the main.

- Lord Tennyson

Green Walls I love all gum-trees well. But, best of all, I love the tough old warriors that tower About these lawns, to make a great green wall And guard, like sentries, this exotic bower Of shrub and fern and flower.

These are my land's own sons, lean, straight and tall, Where crimson parrots and grey gang gangs call Thro' many a sunlit hour.

My friends, these grave old veterans, scarred and stern, Changeless throughout the changing seasons they.

But at their knees their tall sons lift and yearn Slim spars and saplings-prone to sport and sway

Like carefree boys at play; Waxing in beauty when their young locks turn To crimson, and, like beacon fires burn To deck Spring's holiday.

I think of Anzacs when the dusk comes down Upon the gums-of Anzacs tough and tall, Guarding this gateway, Diggers strong and brown, And when, thro' Winter's thunderings, sounds their call, Like Anzacs too, they fall ...

Their ranks grow thin upon the hill's high crown; My sentinels ! But, where those ram parts frown, Their stout sons mend the wall.

- Den

Unpacking

I must unpack that big brown bulging trunk And wash soiled clothes that have accumulated, Oh holiday, what have you done to me?

Why am I fated To come back to this street so drably plain And nose my homely grindstone once again?

I must sort out the clean things and the soiled These 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 prated Of homely joys . . . Why do I feel deflated?

The dust depresses me, dead flowers too And 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 bed Has to be made ere we can take our rest ...

Let me just get this grievance off my chest For in the morning friends will smugly say "You need a change .. you ought to go away."

- Elsie Pearson

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 15

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Les Misérables by Victor Hugo VOLUME III - MARIUS BOOK SECOND.— THE GREAT BOURGEOIS CHAPTER VI IN WHICH MAGNON AND HER TWO CHILDREN ARE SEEN Continued from last week With M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted into wrath; he was furious at being in despair. He had all sorts of prejudices and took all sorts of liberties. One of the facts of which his exterior relief and his internal satisfaction was composed, was, as we have just hinted, that he had remained a brisk spark, and that he passed energetically for such. This he called having “royal renown.” This royal renown sometimes drew down upon him singular windfalls. One day, there was brought to him in a basket, as though it had been a basket of oysters, a stout, newly born boy, who was yelling like the deuce, and duly wrapped in swaddlingclothes, which a servant-maid, dismissed six months previously, attributed to him. M. Gillenormand had, at that time, fully completed his eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar in the establishment. And whom did that bold hussy think she could persuade to believe that? What audacity! What an abominable calumny! M. Gillenormand himself was not at all enraged. He gazed at the brat with the amiable smile of a good man who is flattered by the calumny, and said in an aside: “Well, what now? What’s the matter?

You are finely taken aback, and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Duc d’Angouleme, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis d’Alluye, brother to the Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the age of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Presidente Jacquin, a son, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta and a counsellor of state; one of the great men of this century, the Abbe Tabaraud, is the son of a man of eightyseven. There is nothing out of the ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible! Upon that I declare that this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him be taken care of. It is not his fault.” This manner of procedure was good-tempered. The woman, whose name was Magnon, sent him another parcel in the following year. It was a boy again. Thereupon, M. Gillenormand capitulated. He sent the two brats back to their mother, promising to pay eighty francs a month for their maintenance, on the condition that the said mother would not do so any more. He added: “I insist upon it that the mother shall treat them well. I shall go to see them from time to time.” And this he did. He had had a brother who was a priest, and who had been rector of the Academy of Poitiers for three and thirty years, and had died at seventy-nine. “I lost him young,” said he. This brother, of whom but little memory remains, was a peaceable miser, who, being a priest, thought himself bound to bestow alms on the poor whom he met, but he never gave them anything except bad or demonetized sous, thereby discovering a means of going to hell by way of paradise. As for M. Gillenormand the elder, he never haggled over his alms-giving, but gave gladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt, charitable, and if he had been rich, his turn of mind would have been magnificent. He desired that all which concerned him should be done in a grand manner, even his rogueries. One day, having been cheated by a business man in a matter of inheritance, in a gross and apparent manner, he uttered this solemn exclamation: “That was indecently done! I am really ashamed of this pilfering. Everything has degenerated in this century, even the rascals. Morbleu! this is not the way to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a forest, but badly robbed. Silva, sint consule dignae!” He had had two wives, as we have already mentioned; by the first he had had a daughter, who had remained unmarried, and by the second another daughter, who had died at about the age of thirty, who had wedded, through love, or chance, or otherwise, a soldier of fortune who had served in the armies of the Republic and of the Empire, who had won the cross at Austerlitz and had been made colonel at Waterloo. “He is the disgrace of my family,” said the old bourgeois.

● Victor Hugo rious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was wedded from her very youth, in ideal, to a vague and heroic figure. The elder had also her chimera; she espied in the azure some very wealthy purveyor, a contractor, a splendidly stupid husband, a milCHAPTER VII lion made man, or even a prefect; the receptions of the Prefecture, an usher in the antechamber RULE: RECEIVE NO ONE with a chain on his neck, official balls, the haEXCEPT IN THE EVENING rangues of the town-hall, to be “Madame la Such was M. Luc–Esprit Gillenormand, who had Prefete,”— all this had created a whirlwind in not lost his hair,— which was gray rather than her imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed, each white,— and which was always dressed in “dog’s in her own dream, at the epoch when they were ears.” To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all young girls. Both had wings, the one like an anthis. gel, the other like a goose.

He had something of the eighteenth century about No ambition is ever fully realized, here below at him; frivolous and great. least. No paradise becomes terrestrial in our day.

In 1814 and during the early years of the Restora- The younger wedded the man of her dreams, but tion, M. Gillenormand, who was still young,— she died. The elder did not marry at all. he was only seventy-four,— lived in the Faubourg At the moment when she makes her entrance into Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint– this history which we are relating, she was an Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais when antique virtue, an incombustible prude, with one he quitted society, long after attaining the age of of the sharpest noses, and one of the most obtuse eighty. minds that it is possible to see. A characteristic And, on abandoning society, he had immured him- detail; outside of her immediate family, no one self in his habits. The principal one, and that which had ever known her first name. She was called was invariable, was to keep his door absolutely Mademoiselle Gillenormand, the elder. closed during the day, and never to receive any In the matter of cant, Mademoiselle Gillenormand one whatever except in the evening. He dined at could have given points to a miss. Her modesty five o’clock, and after that his door was open. was carried to the other extreme of blackness.

That had been the fashion of his century, and he She cherished a frightful memory of her life; one would not swerve from it. “The day is vulgar,” day, a man had beheld her garter. said he, “and deserves only a closed shutter. Fash- Age had only served to accentuate this pitiless ionable people only light up their minds when the modesty. Her guimpe was never sufficiently zenith lights up its stars.” And he barricaded him- opaque, and never ascended sufficiently high. She self against every one, even had it been the king multiplied clasps and pins where no one would himself. This was the antiquated elegance of his have dreamed of looking. The peculiarity of prudday. ery is to place all the more sentinels in proportion as the fortress is the less menaced.

CHAPTER VIII Nevertheless, let him who can explain these antique mysteries of innocence, she allowed an ofTWO DO NOT MAKE A PAIR ficer of the Lancers, her grand nephew, named We have just spoken of M. Gillenormand’s two Theodule, to embrace her without displeasure. daughters. They had come into the world ten years In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude, apart. In their youth they had borne very little re- under which we have classed her, suited her to semblance to each other, either in character or absolute perfection. Mademoiselle Gillenormand countenance, and had also been as little like sis- was a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demiters to each other as possible. The youngest had a virtue and a demi-vice. charming soul, which turned towards all that be- To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted linlongs to the light, was occupied with flowers, with ing. She belonged to the society of the Virgin, verses, with music, which fluttered away into glo- wore a white veil on certain festivals, mumbled

He took an immense amount of snuff, and had a particularly graceful manner of plucking at his lace ruffle with the back of one hand. He believed very little in God.

special orisons, revered “the holy blood,” venerated “the sacred heart,” remained for hours in contemplation before a rococo-jesuit altar in a chapel which was inaccessible to the rank and file of the faithful, and there allowed her soul to soar among little clouds of marble, and through great rays of gilded wood.

She had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin like herself, named Mademoiselle Vaubois, who was a positive blockhead, and beside whom Mademoiselle Gillenormand had the pleasure of being an eagle. Beyond the Agnus Dei and Ave Maria, Mademoiselle Vaubois had no knowledge of anything except of the different ways of making preserves. Mademoiselle Vaubois, perfect in her style, was the ermine of stupidity without a single spot of intelligence.

Let us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had gained rather than lost as she grew older. This is the case with passive natures. She had never been malicious, which is relative kindness; and then, years wear away the angles, and the softening which comes with time had come to her. She was melancholy with an obscure sadness of which she did not herself know the secret. There breathed from her whole person the stupor of a life that was finished, and which had never had a beginning.

She kept house for her father. M. Gillenormand had his daughter near him, as we have seen that Monseigneur Bienvenu had his sister with him.

These households comprised of an old man and an old spinster are not rare, and always have the touching aspect of two weaknesses leaning on each other for support.

There was also in this house, between this elderly spinster and this old man, a child, a little boy, who was always trembling and mute in the presence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gillenormand never addressed this child except in a severe voice, and sometimes, with uplifted cane: “Here, sir! rascal, scoundrel, come here!— Answer me, you scamp! Just let me see you, you good-for-nothing!” etc., etc. He idolized him.

This was his grandson. We shall meet with this child again later on.

BOOK THIRD.— THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON CHAPTER I AN ANCIENT SALON

When M. Gillenormand lived in the Rue Servandoni, he had frequented many very good and very aristocratic salons. Although a bourgeois, M. Gillenormand was received in society. As he had a double measure of wit, in the first place, that which was born with him, and secondly, that which was attributed to him, he was even sought out and made much of. He never went anywhere except on condition of being the chief person there.

There are people who will have influence at any price, and who will have other people busy themselves over them; when they cannot be oracles, they turn wags. M. Gillenormand was not of this nature; his domination in the Royalist salons which he frequented cost his self-respect nothing. He was an oracle everywhere. It had happened to him to hold his own against M. de Bonald, and even against M. Bengy–Puy-Vallee.

About 1817, he invariably passed two afternoons a week in a house in his own neighborhood, in the Rue Ferou, with Madame la Baronne de T., a worthy and respectable person, whose husband had been Ambassador of France to Berlin under Louis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his lifetime, had gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic visions, had died bankrupt, during the emigration, leaving, as his entire fortune, some very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub, in ten manuscript volumes, bound in red morocco and gilded on the edges. Madame de T. had not published the memoirs, out of pride, and maintained herself on a meagre income which had survived no one knew how.

Madame de T. lived far from the Court; “a very mixed society,” as she said, in a noble isolation, proud and poor. A few friends assembled twice a week about her widowed hearth, and these constituted a purely Royalist salon. They sipped tea there, and uttered groans or cries of horror at the century, the charter, the Bonapartists, the prosti-

Continued on Page 16

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From Page 15 tution of the blue ribbon, or the Jacobinism of Louis XVIII., according as the wind veered towards elegy or dithyrambs; and they spoke in low tones of the hopes which were presented by Monsieur, afterwards Charles X. The songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleon was called Nicolas, were received there with transports of joy. Duchesses, the most delicate and charming women in the world, went into ecstasies over couplets like the following, addressed to “the federates”:— Refoncez dans vos culottes Le bout d’ chemis’ qui vous pend.

Qu’on n’ dis’ pas qu’ les patriotes Ont arbore l’drapeau blanc?

Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging out. Let it not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag.

There they amused themselves with puns which were considered terrible, with innocent plays upon words which they supposed to be venomous, with quatrains, with distiches even; thus, upon the Dessolles ministry, a moderate cabinet, of which MM. 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 firmly on 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 this list they combined alliances of names, in such a manner as to form, for example, phrases like the following: Damas. Sabran. Gouvion–Saint-Cyr.— All this was done merrily. In that society, they parodied the Revolution. They used I know not what desires to give point to the same wrath in inverse 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 indifferently, today this head, tomorrow that. It is only a variation.

In the Fualdes affair, which belongs to this epoch, 1816, they took part for Bastide and Jausion, because Fualdes was “a Buonapartist.” They designated the liberals as friends and brothers; this constituted the most deadly insult.

Like certain church towers, Madame de T.‘s salon had two cocks. One of them was M.

Gillenormand, the other was Comte de Lamothe– Valois, of whom it was whispered about, with a sort of respect: “Do you know? That is the Lamothe of the affair of the necklace.” These singular amnesties do occur in parties.

Let us add the following: in the bourgeoisie, honored situations decay through too easy relations; one must beware whom one admits; in the same way that there is a loss of caloric in the vicinity of those who are cold, there is a diminution of consideration in the approach of despised persons.

The ancient society of the upper classes held themselves above this law, as above every other.

Marigny, the brother of the Pompadour, had his entry with M. le Prince de Soubise. In spite of?

No, because. Du Barry, the god-father of the Vaubernier, was very welcome at the house of M. le Marechal de Richelieu. This society is Olympus. Mercury and the Prince de Guemenee are at home there. A thief is admitted there, provided he be a god.

The Comte de Lamothe, who, in 1815, was an old man seventy-five years of age, had nothing remarkable about him except his silent and sententious air, his cold and angular face, his perfectly polished manners, his coat buttoned up to his cravat, and his long legs always crossed in long, 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 name of Valois.

As for M. Gillenormand, his consideration was of absolutely first-rate quality. He had, in spite of his levity, and without its interfering in any way with his dignity, a certain manner about him which was imposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in a bourgeois fashion; and his great age added to it.

One is not a century with impunity. The years finally produce around a head a venerable dishevelment.

In addition to this, he said things which had the genuine sparkle of the old rock. Thus, when the King of Prussia, after having restored Louis XVIII., came to pay the latter a visit under the name of the Count de Ruppin, he was received by the descendant of Louis XIV. somewhat as though he had been the Marquis de Brandebourg, and with the most delicate impertinence. M. Gillenormand approved: “All kings who are not the King of

France,” said he, “are provincial kings.” One day, the following question was put and the following answer returned in his presence: “To what was the editor of the Courrier Francais condemned?”

“To be suspended.” “Sus is superfluous,” observed M. Gillenormand.

Remarks of this nature found a situation.

Suspendu, suspended; pendu, hung.

At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the Bourbons, he said, on seeing M. de Talleyrand pass by: “There goes his Excellency the Evil One.” M. Gillenormand was always accompanied by his daughter, that tall mademoiselle, who was over forty and looked fifty, and by a handsome little boy of seven years, white, rosy, fresh, with happy and trusting eyes, who never appeared in that salon without hearing voices murmur around him: “How handsome he is! What a pity! Poor child!”

This child was the one of whom we dropped a word a while ago. He was called “poor child,” because he had for a father “a brigand of the Loire.”

This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand’s son-inlaw, who has already been mentioned, and whom M. Gillenormand called “the disgrace of his family.”

CHAPTER II ONE OF THE RED SPECTRES OF THAT EPOCH Any one who had chanced to pass through the little town of Vernon at this epoch, and who had happened to walk across that fine monumental bridge, which will soon be succeeded, let us hope, by some hideous iron cable bridge, might have observed, had he dropped his eyes over the parapet, a man about 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 red ribbon, was sewn, shod with wooden sabots, tanned by the sun, his face nearly black and his hair nearly white, a large scar on his forehead which ran down upon his cheek, bowed, bent, prematurely aged, who walked nearly every day, hoe and sickle in hand, in one of those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the bridge, and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of terraces, charming enclosures full of flowers of which one could say, were they much larger:

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“these are gardens,” and were they a little smaller: “these are bouquets.” All these enclosures abut upon the river at one end, and on a house at the other. The man in the waistcoat and the wooden shoes of whom we have just spoken, inhabited the smallest of these enclosures and the most humble of these houses about 1817. He lived there alone and solitary, silently and poorly, with a woman who was neither young nor old, neither homely nor pretty, neither a peasant nor a bourgeoise, who served him. The plot of earth which he called his garden was celebrated in the town for the beauty of the flowers which he cultivated there. These flowers were his occupation.

By dint of labor, of perseverance, of attention, and of buckets of water, he had succeeded in creating after the Creator, and he had invented certain tulips and certain dahlias which seemed to have been forgotten by nature. He was ingenious; he had forestalled Soulange Bodin in the formation of little clumps of earth of heath mould, for the cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from America and China. He was in his alleys from the break of day, in summer, planting, cutting, hoeing, watering, walking amid his flowers with an air of kindness, sadness, and sweetness, sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful for hours, listening to the song of a bird in the trees, the babble of a child in a house, or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at the tip of a spear of grass, of which the sun made a carbuncle. His table was very plain, and he drank more milk than wine. A child could make him give way, and his servant scolded him.

He was so timid that he seemed shy, he rarely went out, and he saw no one but the poor people who tapped at his pane and his cure, the Abbe Mabeuf, a good old man. Nevertheless, if the inhabitants of the town, or strangers, or any chance comers, curious to see his tulips, rang at his little cottage, he opened his door with a smile. He was the “brigand of the Loire.”

Any one who had, at the same time, read military memoirs, biographies, the Moniteur, and the bulletins of the grand army, would have been struck by a name which occurs there with tolerable frequency, the name of Georges Pontmercy. When very young, this Georges Pontmercy had been a soldier in Saintonge’s regiment. ● To Be Continued Next Week

Observer Crossword Solution No 6 O N G O I N G

P T R L A G D E OD U Y S EM O E L U T R E ON

I MUM D U L L E R O P E C P A D D L S P OR E E A T OU T H E A D I S G OW P R A N C E T AME T A L E N N B R A N C H MOD E S T M S O A S GO A T E E MEME N T O S B E S P L O V E R S A T A N WA Y L E P E A K E D V I X E N A N I MA L S F L OR I D N A N D SWA T R A G H E P E E MA NG E WA F T I N C A S O V A L S P U R E E M I N U T E S E L E R A T E MA S K S J UGG L E R S D E A MA R E S MA S H R E AM S L M T S O S L U R E D R I C H T E R C L A D S P A R I S MU S K Y E T ON I C N E P A R K A MA S T S E S A U N I G E L B OGG Y M I L K S H C R Y C I D E S T E P E E M I N T S R A P H E A L T A P C H A P S GO L D A P I L L S A NON R E AMY P A P A S P ON T OON K N I T R T I S H A V E N A U L D D R AW G L E N U P O S E D WE L L D T Y R E EM I T B A N T U C A R L ME S S O P S P A I N P L A T O OR C A T OO L G A N A I V E B E S S P E S O S A G N E X T G A R E L S T O A T ROME L E N A Y L I R A S A D Y U K ON L A N K S A V E NO V A Y A P R I GOR R I NG T E RM I T E M B E L OW N A T A L DO I N L O A N S P U S E P I A S C R U B B L E D S A O C E D D Y E L P S H E RON D OW M WE E D E S E A T S R I G I D N E I L MA N L Y V A N S C A L A D UGU P L L I F T S OM I T E L O P E S EM I T H RON E S J UMB E R E T H I C R A NG EWE R MO T O S S A H I GH S S C R E AME D R E L L T A C K D E EMS HOR R I D P A R T Y EW R I N K R E I C H P U T T D I S C S X T I D I L Y P L O R E P S W S P Y V I V D I V A C E R N E S T L I S T S D A L A C E N S OR N U N V E N U E B R L EMON S O P U S B A R R A G E S P L A U P T F I RM A L E A S E S HOO K I N I T I A L L A P E L S AME N HOO K E N R T R I P E L P ON D DOU B L E GU E S S E D D R E S S Y Y O B S B O S S E

E T HWA R T S T A I R O T D R Y L A N A R E D T T MA H A EWA Y ON O K A Y GO C R EWE D D MON A WE S N E RO T H D GR A E E K B L U N A T E S E T N L U R C H HO P ROO F R Y OU R S E D T R A C K F E R S Y R I I V A L S A N T I T A N P G L AMA S R P I E S U N T R A I N B B J OR N B OO B S F U NG I MA I ME S ME L L P S GU L L E S A L L O Y S GR E E N CO I N S S I R E N A K I V E S S P U D E S P E A R E T GH E T T S R A L P H L OR E Y E L OU NG E M ODG EM P I I GH T I R T E S P A N S E D B K R L OW T I D EMC E E N D D R E DG E

S A D D L E D A B S T A I N S A A T I S H O O Y R E A D S O U T P A Y H E E D

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 17

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Page 18 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

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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 ...

Garden Sheds Galore - one of Melbourne’s biggest displays of outdoor products. Established in 1990, Garden Sheds Galore has Melbourne’s largest range, and one of the biggest displays of sheds and cubbies. But at Garden Sheds Galore, we’re more than garden sheds and subbies, we also supply a giant vaiety of outdoor products for the garden.

So whether it’s a garden shed, playground equipment, kids cubby outdoor setting, water feature, or something for the garden, come and see us at our huge display centre. At Garden Sheds Galore we endeavour to provide customers with the best quality products and service, at affordable prices.

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 63

Melbourne Boulevard Pharmacy and Health Foods

Is your thyroid making you fat?

by Nutritionist and Naturopath Shoba Jay

Why me?

It can be frustrating, stressful and emotionally exhausting trying to lose weight especially when you're hitting the gym and being a dietary saint.

You may have known for years that your 'slow metabolism' had been affecting your weight loss goals but could there be a simple explanation as to why this is happening?

What is the link between weight, metabolism and the thyroid?

Metabolism refers to the chemical and physical processes that take place in order for your body to maintain homeostasis (to stay alive). This process involves transforming the food you eat into chemical energy for our cells to perform their many daily functions including breathing, regulating heart beat, digestion and concentration.

A key factor involved in metabolism is the thyroid gland, found just over the trachea (windpipe) in front of your throat. It works with the brain to secrete hormones that regulate energy burning.

When you don't have enough thyroid hormone circulating in the blood, the body will slow down, which consequently has an impact on all your daily functions.

What is hypothyroidism?

Hypothyroidism is the term used to describe a thyroid that doesn't function well and can be influenced by primary or secondary factors.

Primary hypothyroidism can result from damage to the thyroid gland itself whilst secondary hypothyroidism may result from stimuli like long term stress, environmental pollution and a not so perfect diet.

The symptoms: What to watch out 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 due to primary factors, stress or a not so perfect diet, an under active thyroid requires vital nutrients to function properly.* For more information please visit Melbourne Boulevard Pharmacy. Shoba Jay is a qualified Nutritionist and Naturopath, available for general advice and private consultations. *Please note that full investigative blood studies can be organised at your local doctor. naturopath.mbp@live.com.au

Shop 5, 401 St Kilda Road Melbourne, Vic 3004 9866 1284 naturopath.mbp@live.com.au ShowBiz Social Club At Bentleigh Club Monday night (Oct. 22) Photos: Gigi Hellmuth

Page 64 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 65

Travellers’Good Buys

with David Ellis

Vice-regal hillview hideaway ■ While bushranger Ben Hall and his lot were getting travellers to throw up their arms and part with their possessions on the roads of the Southern Highlands of NSW back in the 1860s, more law-abiding citizens were throwing up inns, grand mansions and public edifices that would remain a legacy for generations to this day.

And with the towns of Bowral and Moss Vale this year celebrating 150 years of their founding, visitors are flocking to these Southern Highlands, just 1.5hr by freeway south of Sydney, to soak-up a vibrant history and architecture that can be found at virtually every turn.

And to view public gardens and private half-hectare blocks planted to flaunt stunning seasonal flamboyances.

The first ex-convicts-cum-explorers here in the late 1780s recorded the potential for bountiful settlement… and Europeans’ first-ever sightings of koalas, lyrebirds and waratahs.

John Oxley and Dr Charles Throsby soon followed – Throsby carving the Old South Road from Picton and being given a 1000 acre (400ha) land grant by Governor Macquarie.

Here he established the settlement of Bong Bong in 1817

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

Observer Wines & Liqueurs Melbourne

with David Ellis

Global hit from 40 vineyards ■ New Zealand’s Giesen Wines used fruit from no less than forty vineyards to create one of their best-ever Sauvignon Blancs, a wine that’s already hitting the tables of Sauvignon Blanc buffs across the globe from Australia to the UK and China.

And while broadly referred to as Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, the forty vineyards that provided fruit for this wine were in fact all concentrated in just one area, the Wairau Valley.

Winemaker Andrew Blake says such a broad vineyard input enabled his team to create a wine with a multi-dimensional aroma and flavour spectrum, ranging from vibrant and tropical, to elegant, crisp and green.

“This is a truly Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc,” Andrew says. “Grapefruit and gooseberry characters mix with tomato and blackcurrant leaf on the nose, leading to a vibrant and fruit weighted palate, all balanced by a clean and crisp acidity.”

But how do you decide on a final blend when the fruit comes from so many different vineyards? “We fermented the juice from each in cool temperatures using a range of aromatic and complex yeast strains,” Andrew says. “Then the team evaluated the quality of the individual tanks and decided on the final blends and bottling.”

Pay $14.99 and put on the Sunday lunch table with simply a bowl of garlicky prawns and a couple of warm crusty baguettes.

One to note ■ Kangarilla Road at McLaren Vale in the Adelaide Hills has released its first-ever “A” grade certified organic Chardonnay, a wine that’s been four years in the making because of the lengthy processes involved in organic certification.

This first was made from fruit from the bumper 2012 vintage on the Edgehill vineyard, and which for the first time had been reserved solely for organic wine; maker Kevin O’Brien says he wanted to create a wine that championed McLaren Vale and the exceptional Chardonnay varietal characteristics organic and biodynamically grown grapes can exhibit. Well worth the $22 price tag to enjoy with barbecued chicken and garlic mash.

We’re archived on http://vintnews.com ■ Enjoy simply with garlicky prawns and warm crusty baguettes.

■ First-ever “A” grade organic Chardonnay from this respected McLaren Vale maker.

alongside the Wingecarribee River between today’s Bowral and Moss Vale, but regular floods forced its move further inland in 1831 to what’s now Berrima.

The original 27-room Throsby homestead, cottage and stables still stand today, managed by the Historic Houses Trust; the Highlands’ first church, Christ Church circa-1845 also still serves there today, having originally been Throsby’s family chapel.

In 1868 then-Governor, the Earl of Belmore leased Throsby homestead to escape Old Sydney Town’s oppressive (for newly-arrived British) summer heat, establishing a precedent that was followed more grandly in the early 1880s by Governor Lord Augustus Loftus: he had a vast mansion, Hillview at Sutton Forest, purchased purely as a cooler-climate escape that hosted every State Governor until 1957.

Staff included 35 butlers, cooks, kitchen- and stablehands, and full-time Chinese gardeners – with a Vice-Regal suite built at Moss Vale Railway Station for Their Excellencies’ entourages to await in luxury their trains back to Sydney.

Hillview has been privately restored at a cost of $2m and is today a palatial refuge for discerning holidaymakers.

Throsby also in 1864 subdivided part of his landholdings, naming it Moss Vale after loyal Irish convict-cum-servant at Throsby Park, Jemmy Moss – and giving Jemmy occupancy for life of the land on which he lived with his wife in a bark hut.

Governor Macquarie also gave 2500 acres (1000ha) to explorer Oxley whose sons Henry and John raised sheep and cattle on what was to eventually become Bowral, and with the Old South Road soon being bypassed in favour of the new road further inland to Berrima, the town of Mittagong also emerged.

George Cutter who built the Highlands’ first inn, the Kangaroo on the Old South Road in 1827, closed it with the demise of the road, and operated a second Kangaroo Inn in Mittagong from 1834; it traded under different owners and names until 1866, and is today Minnikin Lodge, an art gallery and annual Christmas Shop – with sandstone walls 54cm (21ins) thick.

Other inns and hotels included the 1834 Surveyor General Inn at Berrima that’s still trading today in this last, largely-intact Georgian village in Australia, the short-lived Argyle at ill-fated Bong Bong, and nearby the circa-1854 Royal Oak that’s now The Briars between Moss Vale and Bowral.

The Prince Albert Hotel at Braemar just north of Mittagong has had a chequered career since opening in 1845, now restored as the Prince Albert Inn motel.

Bowral’s first hotel, the Wingecarribee Inn opened on Bong Bong Street in 1862 where the Royal Hotel now is, and the second, the circa-1887 Grand Hotel, also on Bong Bong Street is still trading today. \ Ccontact 02 4871 2888 or w w w. s o u t h e r n - h i g h l a n d s . com.au

Page 66 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

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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.

● Collins St, looking west from Swanston St. 1898.

● St Kilda. Late 1950s?

● Opening tram, Deepdene to St Kilda. 1913.

● Digging up the old cable tramway, St Kilda Rd. 1925.

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013 - Page 67

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK The House By The Side Of The Road Among the popular poems composed by Sam Walter Foss, the American poet, is the gem entitled, "The House by the Side of the Road."

The Eye of Waterloo

One day when walking along a country road, Sam Walter Foss came to a seat where he rested and then noticed a sign directing him to a nearby spring, where he found a basket of fruit and a glass, so that thirsty travellers might refresh themselves.

Upon making enquiries he found that the fruit in season was pro vided by an old man who lived nearby and who also kept the spring clean, the seat in repair, and the basket filled with the fruit in season.

Touched by the kindness of the old man Sam Walter Foss wrote a poem which has gone round the world.

There are hermit souls that live with drawn In the peace of their self content There are souls like stars, that dwell apart In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran; But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by.

The men who are good, and the men who are bad As 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 of the road And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardour of hope, The men who are faint with strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears Both, parts of an infinite plan: Let me live in my house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook - gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height, That the road passes on through the long afternoon, And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by.

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish-so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

- Sam Walter Fess

Some Other Day There are wonderful things we are going to do, Some Other Day, And harbours we hope to glide into Some Other Day, So with folded hands and oars that trail, We watch and wait for a favouring gale, To fill the folds of an idle sail, Some Other Day. We know we must toil if ever we win. Some Other Day, But we say to ourselves, "there's time to begin Some Other Day." And so deferring, we loiter on, Until at last we find withdrawn, The strength of the hope we leaned upon For that Other Day. And when we are old, and our race is run, We think of That Day, We fret for the things that might have been done On that Other Day. And we trace the path, that leads us where The beckoning hand of a grim despair, Leads us yonder, out of the Here Some Other Day.

The Guy In The Glass

Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!

An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!

Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields!

King-making Victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm ! Arm ! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's pro phetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own love liness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; Who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips "The foe ; they come ! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun taineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, the day Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds closd o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe, in one red burial blent !

- Lord Byron

When you get what you want in your struggle for self And the world makes you king for a day, Then go to your mirror and look at yourself And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn't your father, or mother, or wife, Whose judgment upon you must pass; The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life Is the guy staring back from the glass. 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 difficult, dangerous test If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum And think you're a wonderful guy.

But the man in the glass sez you're only a bum If you can't look him straight in the eye. You can fool the whole world down the path of the years And get pats on the back as you pass, But your final reward will be heartaches and tears If you cheated the guy in the glass.

Little boys of three Look tenderly on little boys of three, Their softness is as fleeting as a flower, The cheeks like petals such a little hour, The deepest dimple theirs so transiently. Even tomorrow softness may be hard, The little cotton cushions on the knees, Turned into bony knobs for climbing trees; The fists so like a rose grow lean and scarred, His full-moon cheeks will narrow to a line The silken hair become the brush of bristle, As Mother's little flower turns to thistle, And there will linger not one little sign To prove the cuddly cupid that was he.

Look tenderly on little boys of three!

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Page 68 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, March 13, 2013

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK Strike and the world strikes with you "Strike and the world strikes with you, work and you work alone, Our souls are ablaze with a Bolshevik craze, the wildest that ever was known.

Groan and there'll be a chorus, smile and you make no hit, For we've grown long hair, and we preach despair, and show you a daily fit.

"Spend and the gang will cheer you, save and you have no friend, For we throw our bucks to birds and ducks, and borrow from all who'll lend.

Knock and you'll be a winner, boast and you'll be a post, For the sane ways of the pre-war days are now from the programme lost.

"Strike and the world strikes with you, work and you work alone, For we'd rather yell and raise blue hell than strive for an honest bone.

Rant and you are a leader, toil and you are a nut, Twas a better day when we pulled away 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 crazy times will go to the nation's dump."

- New York Sun, 1920

Her Old Armchair What does she dream of sitting there Nodding away in her old arm chair, Silver hair, sweet wrinkled face, Resting awhile by the fireplace.

Folded hands and feet so still That once were quick to do her will.

Is she dreaming of bygone years And living again their laughter and tears Does her lover come and take her hand To wander together in lovers' land ?

Or can she hear the children call ; The old clock ticking against the wall?

Does she see her home and its garden fair With the lilies and roses she planted there The birds that sang at break of dawn In tall trees close to the dewy lawn?

All that she loved and held most dear Have passed and gone for many a year.

She smiles as she dreams, and may life hold Only sweet memories for one so old, May she find the peace beyond compare As she sits alone in her old arm chair.

- ‘Mops’

The Song That Is Fit For Men We have sonnets enough, and songs enough, And ballads enough, God knows!

But what we need is that cosmic stuff Whence primitive feeling glows ...

In the ink of our sweat we will find it 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 boatman While his oar-blades fall in rhyme ; And the man with his fist on the throttle, And the man with his foot on the brake, And the man who will scoff at danger, And die for a comrade's sake ...

This be the song that is fit for men.

- Frederick Knowles

Cutting A Moonbeam The following extract will no doubt appeal to every lover of Great Britain: Mr Beverley Baxter, British M.P., formerly of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, and a brilliant journalist before he took to films and politics, wrote the ollowing in reply to a letter received by him from an American student who had "regretfully come to the conclusion that Britain is in the process of decay."

"You say that we shall be so busy de fending ourselves that we cannot prevent the Dominions leaving the Empire.

My dear sir, the Dominions can walk out at any time they choose. It is their right.

The bonds of Empire with us are no stronger than moonbeams-but did you ever try cutting a moonbeam?

"It is generous of you to feel badly for us, but don't spend too much on a wreath just yet. Britain has been finished three times in every century since she started as a nation. Besides, we are too busy just now to answer messages of con dolence.

"Finally, a word of advice to a scholar from one who has forgotten nearly all he ever learned at school-if you are

going to size up Britain, don't use arithmetic.

If you add, divide, subtract and multi ply, you will be wrong. Britain isn't merely a nation-she is a condition of mind and a lot of other things; therefore, may I suggest you fall back on Algebra, and say Great Britain equals the un known quantity - X. It is so much

safer. And, by the way, if you ever find out what X represents, please let me know.

"Come over and see us this summer, if you can. We shall be pretty busy patching up one or two gaps in the fence, but we can talk as we work."

- Beverley Baxter, MP, England

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 in the door He chews up the pillows all over the floor He chews up the laundry till nothing is whole, And buries the collars and socks in the coal We've got to get rid of our pup.

He's all the time digging things up, He digs up the garden as fast as we plant it.

He never lets anything grow where we want it; He digs up the pansies to look for a bone; He dug up the very last tulip we own ah me We'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 the street Then comes in the parlour to wipe off his feet; He tracks up the porch, and the rugs, and the stairs, And Ma's so unhappy she pretty near swears

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 best shirt; Then ate up the lawn hose next door for dessert; He eats up the shoe-strings of people that call, Till soon we won't have any friends left

at all.

Does anyone care, for a mighty good dog?

A well-bred intelligent, elegant dog ?

A dog that is faithful, affectionate, kind A burglar alarm, and a playmate combined If any one does-speak up We've got to get rid of our pup.

The Death of Nelson

'E fell wiv the stars on his bosom An' 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?" murmured 'Ardy, An' Nelson replies, "Yus, I'm bust!"

"Slime, Hi 'ope not," says 'Ardy, "Not seriously, Hi trust?"

"Hi'm sorefully wounded," says Nelson, "Halas, mortually, Hi fear.

Hi can 'ear me 'eart thumpin' an' bub blin', But, 'Ardy, don't you shed a tear!"

The brave hintelligent Captain Stroked the Hadmiral's face wiv 'is 'and,

A COCKNEY’S ACCOUNT

An' said, "Though the bloodstains is o'er yer, 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 !

Growing Old A 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's name; So we are nearing the journey's end, Mere time and eternity meet and blend; 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 the way ; 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 and dead; And so we are going where all must go, To the place the living may never know, A little more laughter, a little more tears, And we shall have told our increasing years The book is closed, and the prayers are said, And we are part of the countless dead; Thrice happy then, if some soul should say, "I live" because he has passed that way.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night my friend.

But is there for the night a restingplace?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yes, beds for all who come.

- Christina Rossetti

Measure Of A Man Not "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 a man, To measure the worth, regardless of birth.

Not "what was his station ?"

But "had he a heart ?"

And "how did he play His God-given part ?"

Was he ever ready, with a word of good cheer To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?

Not "what was his church ?"

Nor "what was his creed ?"

But "had he defended Those really in need ?"

Not "what did the sketch In the newspaper say ?"

But "how many were sorry when he passed away ?"