Ob 17jul13 bz

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 19

Observer Classic Books

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo VOLUME IV - SAINT DENIS BOOK SIXTH.— LITTLE GAVROCHE CHAPTER II IN WHICH LITTLE GAVROCHE EXTRACTS PROFIT FROM NAPOLEON THE GREAT Continued From Last Week On hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out of his “alcove,” pushing apart the netting a little, and carefully drawing it together again, then he had opened the trap, and descended.

The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom: Montparnasse confined himself to the remark:— “We need you. Come, lend us a hand.”

The lad asked for no further enlightenment.

“I’m with you,” said he.

And both took their way towards the Rue Saint– Antoine, whence Montparnasse had emerged, winding rapidly through the long file of marketgardeners’ carts which descend towards the markets at that hour.

The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their wagons, amid the salads and vegetables, enveloped to their very eyes in their mufflers on account of the beating rain, did not even glance at these strange pedestrians.

CHAPTER III THE VICISSITUDES OF FLIGHT This is what had taken place that same night at the La Force:— An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close confinement. Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefit, on the same day, as the reader has seen from Montparnasse’s account to Gavroche.

Montparnasse was to help them from outside.

Brujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell, had had time, in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second, to mature a plan. In former times, those severe places where the discipline of the prison delivers the convict into his own hands, were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagged pavement, a camp bed, a grated window, and a door lined with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon was judged to be too terrible; nowadays they are composed of an iron door, a grated window, a camp bed, a flagged pavement, four stone walls, and a stone ceiling, and are called chambers of punishment.

A little light penetrates towards mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers which, as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that they allow the persons who should be at work to think.

So Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber of punishment with a rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in the Charlemagne courtyard, he was placed in the New Building. The first thing he found in the New Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail; Guelemer, that is to say, crime; a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom it is high time that the reader should have a complete idea, was, with an appearance of delicate health and a profoundly premeditated languor, a polished, intelligent sprig, and a thief, who had a caressing glance, and an atrocious smile. His glance resulted from his will, and his smile from his nature. His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had made great progress in the industry of the men who tear off lead, who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the process called double pickings.

The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment peculiarly favorable for an attempt at escape, was that the roofers were re-laying and re-jointing, at that very moment, a portion of the slates on the prison. The Saint–Bernard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne and the Saint–Louis courts. Up above there were scaffoldings and ladders; in other words, bridges and stairs in the direction of liberty.

The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing to be seen anywhere in the world, was the weak point in the prison. The walls were eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the authorities had been obliged to line the vaults of the dormitories with a sheathing of wood, because stones were in the habit of becoming detached and falling on the prisoners in their beds. In spite

● Victor Hugo of this antiquity, the authorities committed the error of confining in the New Building the most troublesome prisoners, of placing there “the hard cases,” as they say in prison parlance.

The New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other, and a top story which was called the Bel–Air (FineAir). A large chimney-flue, probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de la Force, started from the groundfloor, traversed all four stories, cut the dormitories, where it figured as a flattened pillar, into two portions, and finally pierced the roof.

Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed, by way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that the heads of their beds should rest against the chimney.

Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story known as Fine–Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue Culture–Sainte-Catherine, after passing the barracks of the firemen, in front of the porte-cochere of the bathing establishment, beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in wooden boxes, at the extremity of which spreads out a little white rotunda with two wings, brightened up with green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques.

Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda an enormous black, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up.

This was the outer wall of La Force.

This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.

Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof, which could be seen beyond.

This was the roof of the New Building. There one could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars; they were the windows of the Fine– Air. A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed the dormitories.

The Bel–Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of large hall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and double doors of sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts. When one entered from the north end, one had on one’s left the four dormer-windows, on one’s right, facing the windows, at regular intervals, four square, tolerably vast cages, separated by narrow passages, built of masonry to about

the height of the elbow, and the rest, up to the roof, of iron bars.

Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages since the night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to discover how, and by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring, and secreting a bottle of wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues, with which a narcotic is mixed, and which the band of the Endormeurs, or Sleep-compellers, rendered famous.

There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers, half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police an unfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever they can.

On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped that morning, was waiting for them in the street as well as Montparnasse, rose softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found, began to pierce the chimney against which their beds stood. The rubbish fell on Brujon’s bed, so that they were not heard. Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors on their hinges, and created in the prison a terrible and opportune uproar. Those of the prisoners who woke, pretended to fall asleep again, and left Guelemer and Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit; Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher, who was sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormitory, the wall had, been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating which barred the upper orifice of the flue forced, and the two redoubtable ruffians were on the roof. The wind and rain redoubled, the roof was slippery.

“What a good night to leg it!” said Brujon.

An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from the surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they could see the musket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom. They fastened one end of the rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon to the stumps of the iron bars which they had just wrenched off, flung the other over the outer wall, crossed the abyss at one bound, clung to the coping of the wall, got astride of it, let themselves slip, one after the other, along the rope, upon a little roof which touches the bathhouse, pulled their rope after them, jumped down into the courtyard of the bath-house, traversed it, pushed open the porter’s wicket, beside which

r

e rv S se U N Ob N IO BO CT SE

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

hung his rope, pulled this, opened the porte-cochere, and found themselves in the street.

Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen in bed in the dark, nail in hand, and their project in their heads.

A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse, who were prowling about the neighborhood.

They had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and a bit of it remained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had sustained no other damage, however, than that of scratching nearly all the skin off their hands.

That night, Thenardier was warned, without any one being able to explain how, and was not asleep.

Towards one o’clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he saw two shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and squalls, in front of the dormer-window which was opposite his cage. One halted at the window, long enough to dart in a glance. This was Brujon.

Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough.

Thenardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure of precaution under the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambush, with armed force, was kept in sight. The sentry, who was relieved every two hours, marched up and down in front of his cage with loaded musket. The Fine–Air was lighted by a skylight. The prisoner had on his feet fetters weighing fifty pounds. Every day, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a jailer, escorted by two dogs,— this was still in vogue at that time,— entered his cage, deposited beside his bed a loaf of black bread weighing two pounds, a jug of water, a bowl filled with rather thin bouillon, in which swam a few Mayagan beans, inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his dogs made two visits during the night.

Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt which he used to spike his bread into a crack in the wall, “in order to preserve it from the rats,” as he said. As Thenardier was kept in sight, no objection had been made to this spike.

Still, it was remembered afterwards, that one of the jailers had said: “It would be better to let him have only a wooden spike.”

At two o’clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old soldier, was relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few moments later, the man with the dogs paid his visit, and went off without noticing anything, except, possibly, the excessive youth and “the rustic air” of the “raw recruit.” Two hours afterwards, at four o’clock, when they came to relieve the conscript, he was found asleep on the floor, lying like a log near Thenardier’s cage. As for Thenardier, he was no longer there. There was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, another hole in the roof. One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched off, and probably carried away with him, as it was not found. They also seized in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged. The soldier’s bayonet had disappeared.

At the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that Thenardier was out of reach.

The truth is, that he was no longer in the New Building, but that he was still in great danger.

Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had found the remains of Brujon’s rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap of the chimney, but, as this broken fragment was much too short, he had not been able to escape by the outer wall, as Brujon and Guelemer had done.

When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi-deSicile, one almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin. There stood on that spot, in the last century, a house of which only the back wall now remains, a regular wall of masonry, which rises to the height of the third story between the adjoining buildings. This ruin can be recognized by two large square windows which are still to be seen there; the middle one, that nearest the right gable, is barred with a worm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these windows there was formerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall, which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force.

The empty space on the street left by the demolished house is half-filled by a fence of rotten

Continued on Page 20

Page 20 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

From Page 19 boards, shored up by five stone posts. In this recess lies concealed a little shanty which leans against the portion of the ruin which has remained standing. The fence has a gate, which, a few years ago, was fastened only by a latch.

It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded in reaching, a little after one o’clock in the morning.

How had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able to explain or understand. The lightning must, at the same time, have hindered and helped him. Had he made use of the ladders and scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof to roof, from enclosure to enclosure, from compartment to compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then to the buildings of the Saint–Louis court, to the outer wall, and thence to the hut on the Rue du Roi-deSicile? But in that itinerary there existed breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he placed the plank from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Fine–Air to the outer wall, and crawled flat, on his belly on the coping of the outer wall the whole distance round the prison as far as the hut? But the outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line; it mounted and descended, it dropped at the firemen’s barracks, it rose towards the bath-house, it was cut in twain by buildings, it was not even of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as on the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls and right angles; and then, the sentinels must have espied the dark form of the fugitive; hence, the route taken by Thenardier still remains rather inexplicable. In two manners, flight was impossible. Had Thenardier, spurred on by that thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches, iron bars into wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a gouty man into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier invented a third mode? No one has ever found out.

The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man who makes his escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight; the effort towards deliverance is no less surprising than the flight towards the sublime, and one says of the escaped thief: “How did he contrive to scale that wall?” in the same way that one says of Corneille: “Where did he find the means of dying?”

At all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with rain, with his clothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his elbows bleeding, his knees torn, Thenardier had reached what children, in their figurative language, call the edge of the wall of the ruin, there he had stretched himself out at full length, and there his strength had failed him. A steep escarpment three stories high separated him from the pavement of the street.

The rope which he had was too short.

There he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the despair which he had undergone, still hidden by the night, but telling himself that the day was on the point of dawning, alarmed at the idea of hearing the neighboring clock of Saint–Paul strike four within a few minutes, an hour when the sentinel was relieved and when the latter would be found asleep under the pierced roof, staring in horror at a terrible depth, at the light of the street lanterns, the wet, black pavement, that pavement longed for yet frightful, which meant death, and which meant liberty.

He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded, if they had heard him, and if they would come to his assistance. He listened. With the exception of the patrol, no one had passed through the street since he had been there. Nearly the whole of the descent of the market-gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne, from Vincennes, and from Bercy to the markets was accomplished through the Rue Saint–Antoine.

Four o’clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments later, that terrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery of an escape broke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening and shutting, the creaking of gratings on their hinges, a tumult in the guard-house, the hoarse shouts of the turnkeys, the shock of musket-butts on the pavement of the courts, reached his ears.

Lights ascended and descended past the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along the ridge-pole of the top story of the New Building, the firemen belonging in the barracks on the right had been summoned. Their helmets, which the torch lighted up in the rain, went and came along the roofs. At the same time, Thenardier perceived in the direction of the Bastille a wan whiteness

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Observer Classic Books lighting up the edge of the sky in doleful wise.

He was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out under the heavy rains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable to stir, subject to the giddiness of a possible fall, and to the horror of a certain arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, swung from one of these ideas to the other: “Dead if I fall, caught if I stay.” In the midst of this anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still dark, a man who was gliding along the walls and coming from the Rue Pavee, halt in the recess above which Thenardier was, as it were, suspended.

Here this man was joined by a second, who walked with the same caution, then by a third, then by a fourth. When these men were re-united, one of them lifted the latch of the gate in the fence, and all four entered the enclosure in which the shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier. These men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the sentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces distant. It must be added, that the rain kept this sentinel blocked in his box. Thenardier, not being able to distinguish their visages, lent an ear to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels himself lost.

Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before his eyes,— these men conversed in slang.

The first said in a low but distinct voice:— “Let’s cut. What are we up to here?”

The second replied: “It’s raining hard enough to put out the very devil’s fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter. There’s a soldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here.”

These two words, icigo and icicaille, both of which mean ici, and which belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second to the slang of the Temple, were flashes of light for Thenardier.

By the icigo he recognized Brujon, who was a prowler of the barriers, by the icicaille he knew Babet, who, among his other trades, had been an old-clothes broker at the Temple.

The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except in the Temple, and Babet was really the only person who spoke it in all its purity.

Had it not been for the icicaille, Thenardier would not have recognized him, for he had entirely changed his voice.

In the meanwhile, the third man had intervened.

“There’s no hurry yet, let’s wait a bit. How do we know that he doesn’t stand in need of us?”

By this, which was nothing but French, Thenardier recognized Montparnasse, who made it a point in his elegance to understand all slangs and to speak none of them.

As for the fourth, he held his peace, but his huge shoulders betrayed him. Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer.

Brujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone:— “What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn’t managed to cut his stick. He don’t tumble to the racket, that he don’t! You have to be a pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up your sheet to make a rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers, make false keys, file your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself, and disguise yourself! The old fellow hasn’t managed to play it, he doesn’t understand how to work the business.”

Babet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken by Poulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, highly colored and risky argot used by Brujon what the language of Racine is to the language of Andre Chenier:— “Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have to be knowing. He’s only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be taken in by a bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as his pal. Listen, Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison? You have seen all those lights. He’s recaptured, there! He’ll get off with twenty years. I ain’t afraid, I ain’t a coward, but there ain’t anything more to do, or otherwise they’d lead us a dance. Don’t get mad, come with us, let’s go drink a bottle of old wine together.”

“One doesn’t desert one’s friends in a scrape,” grumbled Montparnasse.

“I tell you he’s nabbed!” retorted Brujon. “At the present moment, the inn-keeper ain’t worth a ha’penny. We can’t do nothing for him. Let’s be off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist.”

Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance; the fact is, that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who never abandon each other, had prowled all night long about La Force, great as was their peril, in the hope of see-

ing Thenardier make his appearance on the top of some wall. But the night, which was really growing too fine,— for the downpour was such as to render all the streets deserted,— the cold which was overpowering them, their soaked garments, their hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise which had just burst forth in the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the patrol which they had encountered, the hope which was vanishing, all urged them to beat a retreat. Montparnasse himself, who was, perhaps, almost Thenardier’s son-inlaw, yielded. A moment more, and they would be gone.

Thenardier was panting on his wall like the shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they beheld the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon.

He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything. An idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration; he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon’s rope, which he had detached from the chimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space enclosed by the fence.

This rope fell at their feet.

“A widow,”37 said Babet.

37 Argot of the Temple.

“My tortouse!”38 said Brujon.

38 Argot of the barriers.

“The tavern-keeper is there,” said Montparnasse.

They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.

“Quick!” said Montparnasse, “have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?”

“Yes.” “Knot the two pieces together, we’ll fling him the rope, he can fasten it to the wall, and he’ll have enough of it to get down with.”

Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke:— “I am paralyzed with cold.”

“We’ll warm you up.”

“I can’t budge.”

“Let yourself slide, we’ll catch you.”

“My hands are benumbed.”

“Only fasten the rope to the wall.”

“I can’t.”

“Then one of us must climb up,” said Montparnasse.

“Three stories!” ejaculated Brujon.

An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had been used in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and mounted almost to the very spot where they could see Thenardier.

This flue, then much damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen, but the marks of it are still visible.

It was very narrow.

“One might get up by the help of that,” said Montparnasse.

“By that flue?” exclaimed Babet, “a grown-up cove, never! it would take a brat.”

“A brat must be got,” resumed Brujon.

“Where are we to find a young ’un?” said Guelemer.

“Wait,” said Montparnasse. “I’ve got the very article.”

He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.

Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier; Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed by Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.

Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these ruffians with a tranquil air.

The water was dripping from his hair. Guelemer addressed him:— “Are you a man, young ’un?”

Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:— “A young ’un like me’s a man, and men like you are babes.”

“The brat’s tongue’s well hung!” exclaimed Babet.

“The Paris brat ain’t made of straw,” added Brujon.

“What do you want?” asked Gavroche.

Montparnasse answered:— “Climb up that flue.”

“With this rope,” said Babet.

“And fasten it,” continued Brujon.

“To the top of the wall,” went on Babet.

“To the cross-bar of the window,” added Brujon.

“And then?” said Gavroche.

“There!” said Guelemer.

The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and made that indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips which signifies:— “Is that all!”

“There’s a man up there whom you are to save,” resumed Montparnasse.

“Will you?” began Brujon again.

“Greenhorn!” replied the lad, as though the question appeared a most unprecedented one to him.

And he took off his shoes.

Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of the shanty, whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin’s weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon had knotted together during Montparnasse’s absence. The gamin directed his steps towards the flue, which it was easy to enter, thanks to a large crack which touched the roof. At the moment when he was on the point of ascending, Thenardier, who saw life and safety approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the first light of dawn struck white upon his brow dripping with sweat, upon his livid cheekbones, his sharp and savage nose, his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him.

“Hullo! it’s my father! Oh, that won’t hinder.”

And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent.

He reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as though it had been a horse, and knotted the rope firmly to the upper cross-bar of the window.

A moment later, Thenardier was in the street.

As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found himself out of danger, he was no longer either weary, or chilled or trembling; the terrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke, all that strange and ferocious mind awoke once more, and stood erect and free, ready to march onward.

These were this man’s first words:— “Now, whom are we to eat?”

It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent remark, which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder. To eat, true sense: to devour.

“Let’s get well into a corner,” said Brujon. “Let’s settle it in three words, and part at once. There was an affair that promised well in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate on a garden, and lone women.”

“Well! why not?” demanded Thenardier.

“Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter,” replied Babet.

“And she brought a biscuit to Magnon,” added Guelemer. “Nothing to be made there.”

“The girl’s no fool,” said Thenardier. “Still, it must be seen to.”

“Yes, yes,” said Brujon, “it must be looked up.”

In the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who, during this colloquy, had seated himself on one of the fence-posts; he waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him, then he put on his shoes again, and said:— “Is that all? You don’t want any more, my men?

Now you’re out of your scrape. I’m off. I must go and get my brats out of bed.”

And off he went.

The five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.

When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Thenardier aside.

“Did you take a good look at that young ’un?” he asked.

“What young ’un?”

“The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope.”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, I don’t know, but it strikes me that it was your son.”

“Bah!” said Thenardier, “do you think so?”

BOOK SEVENTH - SLANG CHAPTER I - ORIGIN Pigritia is a terrible word.

It engenders a whole world, la pegre, for which read theft, and a hell, la pegrenne, for which read hunger.

Thus, idleness is the mother.

She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.

Where are we at this moment? In the land of slang.

What is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect; it is theft in its two kinds; people and language.

When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave and sombre history introduced into a work written with the same aim as this39 a thief who talked argot, there arose amazement and clamor.—“What! How! Argot! Why, argot is horrible! It is the language of prisons, galleys, convicts, of everything that is most abominable in society!” etc., etc.

Continued on Page 101

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 21

Page 22 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Head Start Tuition So, you have received your child’s report? and the result is not what you were expecting!!!

Head Start provides a personalised learning program tailored to meet the needs of the individual learner through ● Strengthening Literacy and Numeracy scores ● Developing Higher Order Thinking through Analysis, Evaluation and Creative and Critical Thinking ● Developing a resilient and persistent learner

Contact: Anitha Haripersad Victorian Institute of Teaching Fully Registered Director of Curriculum (AusVELS F to Level 10) Post Graduate Diploma in Teaching Students with Autism Member of Specific Learning Difficulties Victoria (SPELD)

0430 275 400

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 23

Page 24 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

MARKETING FEATURE

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 25

BUILD YOUR OWN WOOD FIRED OVEN For those who have a passion for wood fired pizzas and bread baked in a time honoured tradition now there is an opportunity to be able to produce these wonderful foods yourself by learning how to build your own wood fired oven, at a fraction of the cost of one which is ready-made or in kit form.

Weekend workshops, to show you how, will be held at” MT. EVELYN - Sept. 28 and 29, BENDIGO - Oct. 5 and 6, and SEDGEWICK - Oct 12 and 13.

The workshop will consist of 'hands-on', realistic activities interspersed with discussions and practical demonstrations related to wood fired oven design; construction, material selection as well as oven operation and cooking tips.

Participants will be involved in the construction and completion of two ovens using different construction techniques - one will be an adobe oven using readily available cheap materials and the other from high temperature castable 'concrete' with other sophisticated refractory materials.

The high tech. completed oven will equate to a ready made oven of approx. $5000 and be built for well below a fifth of that cost.

The less expensive process of building a similar oven using brick will also be explained. ● Cooking in the workshop low tech. adobe oven on Sunday The tutor, Alan Watt, has previous conducted over 100 workshops, during the last 9 years, mostly throughout Australia, and in the last 3 years has been invited to conduct numerous workshops in USA and Canada.

His interest and understanding of wood fired oven construction derives largely from a 50-year involvement in ceramics as artist, kiln builder and teacher and before retirement was head of the Ceramics Department, National Institute of the Arts, at the Australian National University, in Canberra.

There are no special tools or skills required in building the ovens and all workshops in the past have had a mix of women and men.

While the activities are constant they are not strenuous and most enjoy the friendly social atmosphere that surrounds the co● A home oven built by participant ● A workshop high tech. oven Robert following the workshop operative building of an oven as a small group.

● High tech. workshop oven - Greta South, Victoria

On the Sunday participants will be treated to a pizza feast cooked in the adobe oven while still undergoing final construction stages.

Each participant can compose and cook their own pizzas in the newly completed wood fired oven.

Many who have attended past workshops have gone on to build their own individual site-specific ovens. [see photos under 'Participants' Ovens' on the web site].

The building of a low tech. oven was previously featured on 'Better Homes and Gardens' TV show and magazine.

For details visit www.woodfiredovenworkshops.com.

For bookings, and queries contact Alan at woodfiredovenworkshops@bigpond.com The cost of the weekend workshop is $200 [with 15% discount for couples] which includes the coloured CD handbook and pizza feast. $50 deposit is required to confirm a place. Bank details can be forwarded for direct transfer.

For those who prefer cheques a booking form is downloadable from the web site.

If you are interested in participating you are urged to make early application, as numbers are limited, and previous workshops have often been booked out.

● A test bake of bread in the workshop low tech. oven on Sunday

● A workshop participant finished his own wood fired oven just in time for Christmas - Jamie Oliver's 'Arrosto Misto' [mixed roast]

The workshops are featured in Earth Garden books - 'Back Yard Ovens', Vol. 1 & 2 and 'Wood Fired Recipes'.

Page 26 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Rural Pictorial

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Historic Photo Collection

● The engine of the ‘Better Farming’ train. 1924.

● Dairy farming. Gippsland. 1900.

● Dr A E V Richardson, Sup't. of Agriculture, delivering address at Bunyip. 1924

● Drafting sheep at Lubeck. Circa 1930s

● Bullock team at a logging camp. 1910.

● Baling and sampling tobacco. 1938.

● German fram house at Thomastown. 1934.

● Farming property at Jamieson. Circa 1930.

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 27

Victorian Rural News

DIGITAL GUARD CAM

Visit guardcam.com.au or call 1-300 66 88 35 for details

Page 28 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Victorian Rural News

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 93

Victorian Rural News

Page 94 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

FOR RENT ARE YOU THINKING OF EXTENDING YOUR PRACTICE/SURGERY/OFFICE? UNIQUE BOUTIQUE OFFICES IN COWES CENTRAL ● 2 Offices available leading off front verandah ● Private Entrance ● Heating and Cooling ● Each office with bathroom and kitchennette ● Surrounded with beautiful old established trees and garden ● Overlooking tranquil fish pond ● Easy street parking ● 10 minute walk to Cowes shopping centre ● Maintenance of garden included

FOR FURTHER DETAILS PLEASE CONTACT: SUSAN 0414 218 135 or 03 5952 3616

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne

Observer

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 95

Travellers’Good Buys

with David Ellis

Folly of being time-warped in Wales ■ When we were told to “expect something of a surprise” at the village of Portmeirion while on an already eyeopening self-driving trip through Wales, we had little idea just what a surprise.

I say self-driving, for while we had booked ourselves a rental car for our week, we’d also contracted a guide and driver in a remarkable fellow named John Greenwood – not out of indulgence, but because we needed to cover as much ground as we possibly could in our travel-writing week.

It was a good move: John knew every historic point, every major attraction and seemingly every minor one too, and every back-road in Wales to get us to what we were seeking in the quickest-time possible.

And on Day 3 he swung around a turn in the road to present us with our “something of a surprise.”

Because up ahead was not another pretty Welsh village, not another postcard-perfect farm setting amid rolling green hills, not even another Welsh Little Train.

Rather, on a headland bonding river and sea, a jaw-dropping, full-blown Italianate village whose pastel-hued buildings, white-washed walls, and tall central bell-tower, had us wondering if we’d been somehow plucked out of Wales and miraculously time-warped onto the Mediterranean coast of an Italy of yester-year.

And amid and surrounding this fairy-

● Sir Clough Williams-Ellis on his 90th birthday in 1973.

Observer Wines & Liqueurs Melbourne

with David Ellis

Riesling lives up to bold claim ■ The tiny village of Watervale in South Australia’s Clare Valley – population just 246 – has an enviable reputation for producing some of Australia’s finest Rieslings, so when a maker lays claim to a particular vintage having produced possibly his best Rieslings in a decade, he must be talking about some very, very good wines.

Jim Barry Wines’Chief Winemaker, Peter Barry made just such a claim recently about his 2013 Watervale label Riesling, and while we can’t say we’ve tried every one of his past ten vintages, we can certainly agree that the 2013 is an absolutely fantastic drop.

A traditionally Clare style with crisp natural acidity and a very dry finish, it’s the product of conditions that saw warm and then cool spells that allowed for excellent flavour ripening and good natural acidity.

And with a wonderfully full palate highlighted with excellent lime, grapefruit and citrus, fruit sweetness and a natural acid backbone, this is just the drop to match-up with a nice lobster salad.

The more so when you find its just $19 a bottle.

■ An excellent drop to enjoy with lobster salad – and it’s just $19.

■ Tomato-influenced Italian dishes make an ideal match with this one.

One to note ■ Another gem from South Australia we had the opportunity to taste recently was a 2012 Merlot from the small St Mary’s Wines, owned by the Mulligan family who’ve lived in the Penola/Coonawarra area for over 100 years.

The Mulligans planted their St Mary’s Vineyard 16km out of Penola in 1937, and while it’s on internationally-famed Coonawarra terra rossa soil over limestone, most parts of it are stony – and some virtually pure rock – with the result the vines produce relatively small tonnages of fruit compared with local district averages.

But that fruit’s wonderfully fullflavoured, the Merlot resulting in the 2012 being a wine with soft, ripe red cherry flavours, elegant spice and soft tannins, coupled with pleasant oak from its time in French barrels.

Excellent value at $30 to enjoy with tomato-influenced Italian dishes; if you can’t find it at your local liquor outlet, go onto www.stmaryswines.com for the name of your nearest distributor.

We’re archived on http://vintnews.com

tale folly with its also fountains and ponds, sculptures, lakes and beaches, were 70 hectares of gardens and woodlands that the encyclopaedic John Greenwood assured us contained some 5000 species from the farthest-flung corners of the globe.

More remarkably, most of this place was the work of one man, Welsh architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis (no relation) who spent fifty years from 1925 to 1975 creating his dream village … and preaching that development did not have to mean destruction of the environment.

Today Portmeirion is a major North Wales tourist drawcard, with a circa1850s hotel that after closing in disrepair was totally renovated and reopened with 14 rooms by Williams-Ellis in 1926 (it was badly damaged by fire and rebuilt again in 1981,) 17 self-contained visitor cottages, 28 tourists’ rooms in Italianate buildings from another era, boutique shops, an Italian restaurant, a pub and café, tea-room and an ice-creamery… all designed by Williams-Ellis.

And for good measure a “castle” too – actually a crenelated mansion called Castell Deudraeth that Williams-Ellis bought in 1931from his uncle Sir Osmund Williams, and which with help from the British Heritage Lottery Fund, the European Regional Development Fund and the Wales Tourist Board, he began renovating until his death at 95 in 1978; it finally re-opened as an 11bedroom hotel and restaurant in 2001.

And while he always fervently denied that Portmeirion was a copy of Italy’s extraordinarily beautiful Portofino, he did confess his love of the Italian Riviera village as “an almost perfect example of man-made adornment on an exquisite natural site.”

When he came upon the nowPortmeirion site on the River Dwyryd estuary in the early 1920s WilliamsEllis called it “a neglected wilderness,” but one whose history could be excitingly traced back through a collapsed country estate venture of the 1850s, an 18th century foundry, earlier boatyard, a medieval castle whose remains are still in nearby woods today, and home of cleric/writer Gerald of Wales (11461223.)

Throughout the fifty years he was building his village, Williams-Ellis also resurrected the former country estate’s sub-tropical woodland gardens, importing thousands of exotic shrubs and trees including Himalayan Rhododendrons, Californian Redwoods, New Zealand Kapukas, the-now tallest Chilean Mayten tree in the UK… even Australian Cabbage-tree Palms.

Portmeirion – “port” for its location on the coast and “meirion” from County Meirionydd in which it is located – is just outside North Wales’ major town of Porthmadog, and if you visit and it looks familiar… yes, it was the ‘The Village’ in the 1960s hit TV series ‘The Prisoner,’ and has featured in numerous other films since.

And famed Portmeirion Pottery has its connections too: its early tableware, bakeware and giftware were designed

by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis’ daughter, Susan Williams-Ellis who died in 2007.

Day entry to Portmeirion is currently 10GBP for adults, 6GBP children, 30GBP family (2+2.) For accommodation information and pricing, email info@portmeirion-village.com We hired our car through DriveAway Holidays 1300 363 500 (www. driveaway.com.au); if you are looking for a reliable and knowledgeable UK driver/guide, contact John Greenwood on jdgreenwood24@hotmail.com

Page 96 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Travel Extra

Reward yourself!

Sub-Tropical Island Escape Shearwater Villa - Norfolk Island

DI 35 S % OF COU FE NT R!

Paradise awaits you at Shearwater Scenic Villas. Set in a luxurious 16-acre natural environment, on a private peninsula, this is the place to take in breathtaking views, relax and let the world go by.

A world away, yet we are near to you. Comfy flights, booked online with Air New Zealand; code shared with Virgin. Two great airlines and just two short flights.

When transported to Norfolk Island life will be very different. There's no pollution here, no traffic lights, virtually no crime -we don't lock our houses, friendly folk that wave to you, and we grow all our own vegetables and eat seasonal produce, with taste.

There's lot do, if you choose to: There's our fascinating past, our Kingston buildings are World Heritage listed. Swim in our azure waters with tropical fish, or play a around of golf on an ocean fronted course (so cheaply), or play tennis, or have a massage or two on the balcony of your villa. There's a 100 things to do including great fishing and shops selling European shoes and clothes at half mainland prices.

Our property is truly stunning. To be sure you can get a taste by viewing this YouTube presentation: http://youtu.be/Ae7ams00z04 .

We are dedicated to you having the best holiday. We have just 5 villas plus 1 ocean front apartment, we live on site, we greet you at the airport, we care for you, we respect your privacy. As an introductory offer from now till the end of September please quote CCMO13 or mention this advertisement to receive a 35% discount plus a bonus hire car for the length of your stay: That equates to Say a couple requesting a one bedroom villa for 7 nights: $2800. Intro offer: $1820 per couple inc car

Shearwater Scenic Villas Norfolk Island P: 0011 6723 22596 E: charisse@shearwater.nf W: www.shearwater.nf M: 0421 670 725 YouTube: http://youtu.be/Ae7ams00z04

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 97

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Places To Go

Page 98 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Caravans, Camping, Touring

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 99

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Big Wheels

Page 100 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013 - Page 101

Observer Classic Books

From Page 17 39 The Last Day of a Condemned Man. We have never understood this sort of objections.

Since that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a profound observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of the people, Balzac and Eugene Sue, having represented their ruffians as talking their natural language, as the author of The Last Day of a Condemned Man did in 1828, the same objections have been raised. People repeated: “What do authors mean by that revolting dialect? Slang is odious! Slang makes one shudder!”

Who denies that? Of course it does.

When it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society, since when has it been considered wrong to go too far? to go to the bottom? We have always thought that it was sometimes a courageous act, and, at least, a simple and useful deed, worthy of the sympathetic attention which duty accepted and fulfilled merits. Why should one not explore everything, and study everything? Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a matter depending on the sounding-line, and not on the leadsman.

Certainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to undertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order, where terra firma comes to an end and where mud begins, to rummage in those vague, murky waves, to follow up, to seize and to fling, still quivering, upon the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping with filth when thus brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary each word of which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire and the shadows.

Nothing is more lugubrious than the contemplation thus in its nudity, in the broad light of thought, of the horrible swarming of slang. It seems, in fact, to be a sort of horrible beast made for the night which has just been torn from its cesspool.

One thinks one beholds a frightful, living, and bristling thicket which quivers, rustles, wavers, returns to shadow, threatens and glares. One word resembles a claw, another an extinguished and bleeding eye, such and such a phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab. All this is alive with the hideous vitality of things which have been organized out of disorganization.

Now, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady banished medicine? Can one

Melbourne

imagine a naturalist refusing to study the viper, the bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, and one who would cast them back into their darkness, saying: “Oh! how ugly that is!” The thinker who should turn aside from slang would resemble a surgeon who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart. He would be like a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language, a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity.

For, it must be stated to those who are ignorant of the case, that argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result. What is slang, properly speaking? It is the language of wretchedness.

We may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms, which is one way of attenuating it; we may be told, that all trades, professions, it may be added, all the accidents of the social hierarchy and all forms of intelligence, have their own slang.

The merchant who says: “Montpellier not active, Marseilles fine quality,” the broker on ‘change who says: “Assets at end of current month,” the gambler who says: “Tiers et tout, refait de pique,” the sheriff of the Norman Isles who says: “The holder in fee reverting to his landed estate cannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor,” the playwright who says: “The piece was hissed,” the comedian who says: “I’ve made a hit,” the philosopher who says: “Phenomenal triplicity,” the huntsman who says: “Voileci allais, Voileci fuyant,” the phrenologist who says: “Amativeness, combativeness, secretiveness,” the infantry soldier who says: “My shooting-iron,” the cavalryman who says: “My turkey-cock,” the fencingmaster who says: “Tierce, quarte, break,” the printer who says: “My shooting-stick and galley,”— all, printer, fencing-master, cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist, huntsman, philosopher, comedian, playwright, sheriff, gambler, stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang. The painter who says: “My grinder,” the notary who says: “My Skip-the-Gutter,” the hairdresser who says: “My mealyback,” the cobbler who says: “My cub,” talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely insists on the point, all the different fashions of saying the right and the left, the sailor’s port and starboard, the scene-shifter’s court-side, and garden-side, the beadle’s Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang. There is the slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieuses. The Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des

ObserverLooking for a

Professional to run the show? ★ Compere/Host ★ Auctioneer ★ Promotions ★ A-Grade Journalist ★ Voice-Over Commercials ★ Race Caller All Sports, Race Nights ★ TV, Radio, Press ★ Respected Member of the Media

Ted Ryan Phone 9876 1652 Mobile: 0412 682 927 E-Mail: tedryan@australiaonline.net.au ted.ryan@optusnet.com.au

Miracles. There is a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in a love-letter from a very great lady and a very pretty woman of the Restoration: “You will find in this gossip a fultitude of reasons why I should libertize.”40 Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the pontifical chancellery by using 26 for Rome, grkztntgzyal for despatch, and abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for the Due de Modena, speaks slang. The physicians of the Middle Ages who, for carrot, radish, and turnip, said Opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum, angelorum, postmegorum, talked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who says: “Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt,”— this honest manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criticism twenty years ago, which used to say: “Half of the works of Shakespeare consists of plays upon words and puns,”— talked slang. The poet, and the artist who, with profound understanding, would designate M. de Montmorency as “a bourgeois,” if he were not a judge of verses and statues, speak slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers “Flora,” fruits, “Pomona,” the sea, “Neptune,” love, “fires,” beauty, “charms,” a horse, “a courser,” the white or tricolored cockade, “the rose of Bellona,” the three-cornered hat, “Mars’ triangle,”— that classical Academician talks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang. The tongue which is employed on board ship, that wonderful language of the sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles with the whistling of the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets, the shock of the boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind, the gale, the cannon, is wholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which is to the fierce slang of the thieves what the lion is to the jackal.

40 “Vous trouverez dans ces potains-la, une foultitude de raisons pour que je me libertise.”

No doubt. But say what we will, this manner of understanding the word slang is an extension which every one will not admit. For our part, we reserve to the word its ancient and precise, circumscribed and determined significance, and we restrict slang to slang. The veritable slang and the slang that is pre-eminently slang, if the two words can be coupled thus, the slang immemorial which was a kingdom, is nothing else, we repeat, than the homely, uneasy, crafty, treacherous, venomous, cruel, equivocal, vile, profound, fatal tongue of wretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of all abasement and all misfortunes, a last misery which revolts and makes up its mind to enter into

conflict with the whole mass of fortunate facts and reigning rights; a fearful conflict, where, now cunning, now violent, unhealthy and ferocious at one and the same time, it attacks the social order with pin-pricks through vice, and with club-blows through crime. To meet the needs of this conflict, wretchedness has invented a language of combat, which is slang.

To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the gulf, were it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and which would, otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one of the elements, good or bad, of which civilization is composed, or by which it is complicated, to extend the records of social observation; is to serve civilization itself. This service Plautus rendered, consciously or unconsciously, by making two Carthaginian soldiers talk Phoenician; that service Moliere rendered, by making so many of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of dialects. Here objections spring up afresh. Phoenician, very good!

Levantine, quite right! Even dialect, let that pass!

They are tongues which have belonged to nations or provinces; but slang! What is the use of preserving slang? What is the good of assisting slang “to survive”?

To this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, the language which has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy of attention and study.

It is the language which has been spoken, in France, for example, for more than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by every possible human misery.

And then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities and infirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view to remedy, is not a business in which choice is permitted. The historian of manners and ideas has no less austere a mission than the historian of events.

The latter has the surface of civilization, the conflicts of crowns, the births of princes, the marriages of kings, battles, assemblages, great public men, revolutions in the daylight, everything on the exterior; the other historian has the interior, the depths, the people who toil, suffer, wait, the oppressed woman, the agonizing child, the secret war between man and man, obscure ferocities, prejudices, plotted iniquities, the subterranean, the indistinct tremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger, the counter-blows of the law, the secret evolution of souls, the go-bare-foot, the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, and the infamous, all the forms which roam through the darkness.

To Be Continued Next Week

Observer Crossword Solution No 1 GYMK H A N A Y O E L K O N A T UR I SM E H S T OG S R A S H E S M I ME T R SME L T E R E O L L I T A E NNOB L E R I C E I B A C K S D OWN R E R G E ME A N I NGS U W S A SO L OMON E I I O T E D E DUC E S T M ME R I P HOB I A E O E I R A N A S T R A L W D W I S A A C K MOA T S N L A C E D I N T AGGE D I R H A I R I MMU N E N E M R AGE A DOP T E D R MA I M R N A I ROB I G D R E S P I ND L E S N E R U I A R SON I S T S O K M U EMB A L MS R A Y E L A P I ND I A N A E C N SMA R ME AGR E W N O MA Z E ME D I A T OR L DD T O R S T E A D I E S

B U S Y BOD E U R C I V I LWA A E L U MA R K I NG E A E H C L OS E T N Y B U S CH E E R L Y A V OA S I S UN S I N P E S E T A S U O G T H R OW I N A A E A R E N A L S T C L A H S I E V E I M E D E N EM I R AG E B G ORN A T E L S L R K I W I L A O S A Y S ON S E T P D U L E I OMEGA R M Z N I E X C I T I N T A I G E RN E S T R E A RU F L A R E U N B E GA V E L S E I E S S P L A S H T A P O H E L I P A D E I R D MONGO L I G V E M I S H E A R

Y A UC K L A A I N S N M R N E PO T I N F E D W A I CH AMB E NN A L L A R E L I E E L E S S R X M T OK Y A R I C E E C G E DD I T E R I M T I A S CH I N A T S R N G E T H E R E G J S R A L S A CH A O MA E N MB U E NO T A S I T U E L E S S T H G I R R Y GR A Z I E P E E G T E R A L GY N N I C E R E E N URG R OUR A UGB Y R A B Y I E E G E N S N A R O I NG C D N V B Y L I DD I E R N O S OGR E L G I A N H A O Z A I R S E NC E N R A D V E N BOE S I O D H E A V I R E AM D S A B E A U T I I D E R C E D L EO T A R

ND

T UMB L MR S A SM I SO L A A J A R S E R L H A R T E S T Y E D N OB T A R I CH E R C O R D I T H V U D E E S U B S I D RO T L M SM B UMP S E S R A L T A I L E Y R E N N T RO T A T R A Y S V R E R WH A E EMMA S A I O L A T R OU T DO R S R R A A U P S E T N T L MA Y G J AMB E E D T RWA WE E D Y R B I ROU S NOV A N E D MOC K L A L N E S T E E R OD S I A S MUC K R A I O E L E K ME N A S T E F A N B T R N EGA A S S E S M E R W T OA ME A D C E S MA T CH OP S U D S S HOR T

E R S N O T E D E A R I S G I N S O E R S E I S E R F O F F N U OR S U E T E D V L E R N E S T B O B I D E A D A Y R ND A E I NG C E E R Y P S AGE C R K E S V C E D R T E D S S T S A E BOX L E E N S

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Page 102 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Observer Readers’ Club The Way We Were

Melbourne Photo Flashback

100 Years Ago Jealesville and Uarra Glen Guardian Friday, July 18, 1913

● The president of the Master Grocers' Association, Mr R. G. Withers, hands a cheque for £1120 to the President of the Royal Children's Hospital, Lady Murdoch, watched by Shane, 3½, from his bed. 1959.

Life’s Lessons

Reader Recipes

■ Anger is like drinking the poison, hoping someone else will die.

■ Polypgloisboian. Making a lot of noise or loud racket.

Trivia Challenge ■ What song played during Scott and Charlene’s wedding on Neighbours?

Your Stars with Christina La Cross A ARIES (MAR 21 - APR 20) I know you're feeling drained and tired after recent events, but every tiny positive change you now make in your life puts you a step closer towards a great future. A dream you gave up on can be yours.

TAURUS (APR 21 - MAY 21) Just because someone tells you that you can't, doesn't mean it has to be that way. Where's your stubborn streak gone? Fight for what and who you want. You're stronger than you think right now.

GEMINI (MAY 22 - JUNE 21) Talks of changes in the family circle give you reason to sit down and think long and hard about your own life and where it is going. Maybe now you'll make that phone call to the one who has been on your mind.

CANCER (JUNE 22 - JULY 23) Just because someone hurt you in the past, doesn't mean everyone is going to treat you that way, but I understand why you have your guard up. This week, someone works out how to take it down.

LEO (JULY 24 - AUG 23) News of an impending wedding or of a couple taking things to a more serious level could see you overanalysing your own situation. Give yourself a break. Your stars are leading you well, so follow them.

VIRGO (AUG 24 - SEPT 23) Dull skies don't always mean it's going to pour with rain Virgo. Remember too that it's still always sunny above the clouds. Present situations are going to be what you make them. Make yours count.

LIBRA (SEPT 24 - OCT 23) Hurtful words said at the weekend are still playing on your mind. Try not to dwell on what was said, as recent aspects saw us all spouting angry phrases. Use tonight to get back onto common ground.

SCORPIO (OCT 24 - NOV 22) All things become easier when we know we are not alone, but you are the one who has been shutting everyone out lately. You can rectify this by offering invites out sooner rather than later.

SAGITTARIUS (NOV 23 - DEC 21) Happiness never decreases by sharing it. However, spreading bad moods and feelings can make for a very stormy week indeed. You're in the driving seat. Ensure your destination is a good one.

CAPRICORN (DEC 22 - JAN 20) Don't get caught up in the trouble which is brewing between two people you care equally for. If you're not careful, you'll be the one who is left out in the cold when they have made up.

AQUARIUS (JAN 21 - FEB 19) Fun times are waiting for you Aquarius. All you have to is lift yourself out of the dull mood which you cast over yourself last night. Fresh talks about old problems give you a new starting point.

PISCES (FEB 20 - MARCH 20) You are going to have to give a close one more of a break. How many times do you expect them to pay for the mistakes they've made? Conversations had today can help you to build important bridges.

IN PRINT: Read the Melbourne Observer every week.

Buy at your newsagent, or by mail subscription.

FACEBOOK: Follow our updates, and post your own coments at www.facebook.com/ MelbourneObserver TWITTER: Follow our updates, and post your own Tweets at www.twitter.com/ MelbourneObs

BY POST: Mail contributions to Observer Readers’ Club PO Box 1278, Research, Vic 3095 FAX: 1-800 231 312 E-MAIL: editor@ melbourneobserver.com.au

Birthdays/Celebrations

Word Of The Week

Answer:Suddenly

Healesville Brass Band ANNUAL MEETING. The annual meeting of the Healesville district brass band was held in the practice room at Badger Creek on Tuesday evening last.

There was a full attendance of members, and the president (Mr W. Smith) occupied the chair.

The secretary (Mr J. Potts) presented the balance sheet for the half year ending June 30, which showed a credit balance of £8 18/8 after all expenditure had been met, including the final payment on the uniforms of £14/11.

The election of officers resulted as follows: President, Mr G Smith (re-elected); band master, Mr O. H. Potts, junr. (re-elected); band sergeant, Mr O. H. Potts, senr. (re-elected); secretary, Mr W. Potts; treasurer, Mr \V. Brown; auditors, Messrs Fysh and J. Potts.

The retiring secretary and treasurer (Messrs J. J. Potts and J. Poole) did not seek re-election owing to them leaving the district.

General satisfaction was expressed at the state of the finances and also the membership roll, which is now on the increase.

It was decided to write to the school committee relative to the reduction in rent for the use of the school, and ask them to refer the matter to the Education Department, as it was thought by the members that if the band could get the use of the school annually it would be much more satisfactory for them.

A social evening will be held by the band on Friday evening next, July 25, when a hearty welcome will be given to all friends and sup porters who may attend.

Join in our chat

● Punchy herb pork and white beans Courtesy: taste.com.au Ingredients 4 garlic cloves 2 tbs olive oil 1 tbs fresh rosemary leaves 1 tbs chopped fresh sage leaves 4 pork cutlets, French trimmed 2 tbs lemon juice 85g mild pancetta, coarsely chopped 1 red onion, finely chopped 1 red capsicum, finely chopped 400g can cannellini beans, rinsed, drained 60g baby spinach leaves Method: Step 1 Place 3 garlic cloves, 1 1/2 tbs oil, half the rosemary and half the sage in a mortar and pound with a pestle until crushed. Season. Transfer to a large bowl. Add pork. Toss to coat. Set aside for 5 minutes to marinate.

Step 2 Heat a large frying pan over medium heat. Cook pork, turning, for 8 minutes or until just cooked through. Add lemon juice. Transfer pork to a plate and the pan juices to a bowl. Cover both with foil to keep warm.

Step 3 Finely chop remaining garlic, rosemary and sage.

Heat remaining oil over medium heat. Cook pancetta, stirring, for 2 minutes or until golden.

Add the onion, capsicum, garlic, rosemary and sage. Cook, stirring, for 5 minutes or until soft.

Stir in beans for 2 minutes. Stir in the spinach for 1 minute or until spinach just wilts. Season with pepper.

Step 4 Divide bean mixture among plates. Top with pork cutlets and drizzle over pan juices.

Observer Mailbag ■ Did you know that Belgrave railway station was originally going to be called Monbulk?

■ Thanks to John of Beaumaris for the note with a quote: ““If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” - John Quincy Adams ■ Comedian Marty Fields says: “My friend texts me 'What does IDK mean?' So I reply 'I Don't Know' then he replies: 'Damn! No one seems to know'.”

■ Wedenesday, July 17. Happy birthday to Kate Neilson, holidaying in America.

■ Friday, July 19. Happy birthday to popular Melbourne publicist Julie Cavanagh.

■ Saturday, July 20. Birthday honours belong to Ken Sparkes.

■ Sunday, July 21. Many happy returns to Cecily Waters.

■ Tuesday, July 23. Observer reader Colin Nesbit of Ascot Vale is 86. Happy birthday to Geoff Brown, and Ken Henry, both 69.

Cheerios ■ Cheerio to Sheila Heath.

■ Liz Sullivan is still celebrating Carlton’s footy win at the weekend. Keith McGowan is not.

■ Observer subscriber Natalie Grosby has been spotted in Abu Dhabi.

■ Melbourne-raised James Hogan, chief of Etihad Airlines, has been named as the aviation industry’s Executive Leader of the Year. Congratulations.

■ Observer reader Don Davy has had the unenviable job of shifting house from Ferntree Gully to Ormond. Best wishes Don. ■ Cheerio to Observer reader Margo McLaren of Windsor.

■ We hope the weather is fine for Observer subscriber Dave Palmer.

■ Observer reader Catherine Shelley is currently competing in horses events in Nottinghamshire.

■ A special cheerio to Observer columnist Yvonne Lawrence, still nursing her wounds.

■ Birthdays in the past week we may have missed: Marg Hammond of Somerville; Barbara Macfarlane of Preston; Terence Mclellan of Burnside.

Quotes To Note

■ “Some people are at the top of the ladder, some are in the middle, still more are at the bottom, and a whole lot more don't even know there is a ladder.”

- Robert H. Schuller ■ “The wise man in the storm prays to God, not for safety from danger, but deliverance from fear” - Ralph Waldo Emerson ■ “Confidence comes not from always being right but from not fearing to be wrong.”

- Peter T. Mcintyre ■ “"The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, not to worry about the future, or not to anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly."

- Buddha