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Variety in Brief

James Cowan's interesting article in your April issue on Edward Tregear brings back memories. On my rounds as a reporter for the “Post” Mr. Tregear's office was one of my ports of call. On one occasion the American mail had just been delivered. With an angry gesture the Secretary to the Labour Department flung a letter across the table. “Read that, Tom—what an insult!” The letter was from the editor of a leading New York magazine asking Mr. Tregear to contribute an article on the progress of the experimental labour legislation in New Zealand. What angered Edward T. was that the editor offered a very substantial fee for the article! “You know very well, Tom,” he added, as I handed the letter back with a remark that I would take the commission off his hands, “that I never write to order for payment!” That was a fact—one of his peculiarities. Yet on another occasion he was full of glee as he handed me a letter from a London magazine editor congratulating Edward on the excellent article he had sent to the magazine. “And look, Tom—he sent me a cheque as payment for the article—and I did not expect anything for it!” Another phase of this altruist and non-observant scholar: One afternoon he asked me to go with him to his new home in Grant Road—“just to tell me what the devil is wrong with my new den.” The removal of his books and furniture had been done by a carrying company. “What's the matter with your den?” I asked. “I just don't know—but I can't find my books of reference now, and I don't seem to be able to work like I did in the old den.” The trouble was seen at a glance when I got into the den—the removers had put in the bookshelves upside down! The result was that his rare collection of duodecimo editions were right down on the floor and the vast tomes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica were away up on the top shelf, got at per ladder. “Well, Tom, do you know that never occurred to me,” was all Edward replied, as Mrs. Tregear called us to a cup of tea.—T.L.M.

Although many able men have discoursed learnedly on the wonders of the landscape as surveyed through the carriage window, no one of them has given his pen to describing the luxury, and feeling of infinite ease which accompanies a short train journey made, preferably, at night. The modest traveller has not the time to settle down to a period of unmitigated oblivion behind a languid cloud of cigarette smoke, or a yellow-backed novel; he must occupy himself for the space of a paltry twenty miles with the details of his carriage. He begins to understand each movement, each jolt and clang, as the lighted train sweeps on its way. He may even, with pardonable audacity, risk the disapproval of his fellow passengers by half-opening the window to catch a glimpse of the roaring red fire as the engine takes the bend. There is an incomparable relaxation in all this, a pleasure of which that bald-headed man in the corner, almost asleep now, is entirely ignorant. He cannot in that attitude of repose appreciate the elegant sway with which the train bears him to his destination; he does not notice the shadows of trees which flash by, gaunt in their night attire… Now that tall fellow opposite, who smokes his pipe so well, has the air of a plutocrat; he'll be going beyond Palmerston, surely; this is mere boredom for him. And perhaps that narrow-faced little gentleman blinking blissfully at the light … But the meditations are broken by the clatter of wheels over points as the train draws into the station, and the traveller, armed with a small bag steps down to the platform, pleasantly content with his short journey. —W.I.C.

Mention of James Edward Fitzgerald (one of our most distinguished statesmen, and certainly one of our finest orators), in a recent fine and illuminating article by James Cowan in the “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” recalls that his son, Maurice Fitzgerald, was responsible for compiling, without remuneration of any kind, the Parliamentary Debates for the years 1854–66, in order “to leave to his country something worthy of respect.” It was not till 1867 that Parliament had its debates officially reported; and, until 1884, the records for the first twelve years (the most interesting period, probably, of the country's history) considered solely of newspaper reports and miscellaneous journals. Though already suffering from the illness from which he died later, Maurice Fitzgerald threw himself heart and soul into the job, and, with the assistance of surviving members, he prepared “as full and faithful account as can now be produced,” in four large volumes, which now occupy the leading place in our Parliamentary Debates. Dr. G. H. Scholefield, O.B.E., in his “Historical Sources and Archives” (1929) mentions, justly, that “he is entitled to the thanks of New Zealand for his achievement.” —M.S.N.

A Nelson man while chatting with a local tobacconist began to clean out his pipe. “I wish,” he said, jokingly, “you could sell me a pipe guaranteed not to get foul in use!” The tobacconist smiled. “Afraid I haven't got any pipes like that,” he said, “pipes will foul, but some much quicker than others. It's largely a question of the tobacco, and the amount of nicotine it contains. Talking about that, I can give you a tobacco so comparatively free from nicotine that your pipe won't foul nearly so fast as pipes usually do.” “What tobacco is it?” came the question. “Why, there are four brands,” replied the tobacconist, “Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), and Riverhead Gold. They're all toasted, and contain so little nicotine you hardly know it's there. Fine flavour and aroma, too. And as they are so comparatively free from nicotine they don't affect throat, heart or nerves. If, by any chance, you haven't tried them, take my tip and do so.” He did. These are the only toasted tobaccos.^*