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acid remark that the place is abominably one-horsed.' The Queenslander has just the same story to tell, and so has the South Australian; while even the New Caledonian (on whom the use of the expressive term "one-horsed" has not yet dawned,) if pushed to speak out is forced to admit that la belle Sydney is alike without verve or elan. Even genuine Cornstalks are fast coming to the conclusion that the metropolis of New South Wales may fairly be characterised as 66 one-horsed." Those of them who have travelled with their eyes open, however loath they may be to confess it, have already come to that conclusion. We repeat, therefore, Sydney is a "one-horsed" City.

For such a distressing state of things there must be a raison d'être. What that reason may be, we not only intend to make diligent search after, but we would also invite our readers to bear us company during the investigation.

Why in all political and social matters does the average Sydney ite display such a somnolent apathy?

Why, when even if a reform (however slight) be initiated is it almost invariably left to perish of inanition?

Why is the would-be promoter of reforms or advocate of progress for ever having cold water thrown upon his schemes by the bland denizens of Sleepy Hollow?

Why is all this, thus?

Because, O reader, of the existence of an overgrown journalistic monopoly in the metropolis of the colony !

Sydney is the "one-horsed" city it is, because the S. M. Herald is what it is. What is the S. M. Herald, you may ask.

A very respectable journal, we answer. A splendid commercial success. A magnificent circulating medium. A paper eminently conservative, wonderously didactic, decorously dull. But no more a leading daily newspaper of the healthy, liberal, thoughtful, progressive type, than the Australian Churchman or the Weekly Advocate.

A

newspaper should be the detailed record of daily contemporaneous history, supplemented by comments, critical and exegetical. It should deal trenchantly with the personalto the exclusion of the abstract, the general, the abtruse. It should uphold the dignity of the Fourth Estate by loyally accepting the responsibilities that the epoch has cast upon the Press.

Can any one conscientiously say that the S. M. Herald is a journal of this type?

Do we not all feel that in grave cases it is pusillanimous-cravenly biding its time to see the way the tide will turn-never in the van, leading a great following by the magic spell of thoughts that breathe and words that crown?

Do we not all feel, more or less,

offended at the ultra-purism with which it complacently ignores many a stern fact, urgently demanding exposure and incisive treatment at the editorial scalpel-at the ostrich-like sagacity with which it accepts as invisible the things it does not choose to see?

In brief, do we not all feel that the conductors of the S. M. Herald are ever aping the cat in the adage, "letting we dare not wait upon we will?"

Should these queries require an answer in the affirmative, is it difficult to understand how it is that a community (to the majority of whose numbers the S. M. Herald is the sole journalistic pabulum) has drifted into that state of one-horsedness all thinking men deplore.

No other city in the empire of the same size and political and commercial importance is in a like predicament: but we do not hesitate to say that were any other great centre of population subjected to the same treatment for the best part of a quarter of a century it would reach the same degree of wretchedness.

The light of political life-of social life of all Life in fact must be struck out in the clash of forces. Absence of competition-monopoly-means stagnation, and stagnation is death.

In our next succeeding issues we shall proceed to show-I. how to the peculiarly circumstanced journalistic action of the S. M. Herald may be

traced the "one-horsedness" of Sydney. II. How urgent is the need for the establishment of a second daily paper. III. How the importance of a journal does not depend upon its size, but on its power to lead. IV. The practical means by which a leading journal may be economically established with fair hope of success

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY.

I REALLY did not think-even had they taken counsel together beforehand-that our sapient legislators could have provided such a wretched week's amusement for us as that terminating on Tuesday last. Counts-out were the order of the nights, and there appeared to exist, on all sides, an almost indescribable tone and manner of weariness on both sides of the House of Assembly.

Not a joke was heard, not an insult given,
As over the business they hurried.

I asked one honorable legislator what was the real cause of the count-out on Tuesday night. "Oh!" said he, "it was all of Jack Robertson's getting up. He knew that Windeyer wanted to push his Toll Bill Recision through, and was determined to prevent him getting a chance of bringing the motion forward, and so got his men to stay away." It was a candidly-given statement, at all reputable transaction, for, despite all the events, though, if true, not an

over

manoeuvres, the Toll discussion did come a night or two afterwards, when Windeyer gained his end by a very narrow majority.

However, I did hear a few little amusing remarks made in the gallery that evening good enough for report. There was a Volunteer Warrior-Major present, who, with a friend, dropped into the gallery, fully anticipating some special debate, and they had cozily settled down in the off-corner, with a business paper on the knee of each, ready for the sport. They had barely time to give the cushion reasonable warmth when the Speaker, with an air and voice of evident gratification, after the usual "Ring the bell, Sergeant," adjourned the House for lack

of a quorum (or, as some hon. members delight to honor it, a "korum "). The virtuous indignation of the Major exploded with, "Did you ever?" "What

a most disgraceful scene!" emphasizing the adjective con amore; and my friends abruptly left the chamber. I have been puzzled since as to what went they out for to see.

Mr. Dillon argued, of course, as unblushingly as he well could as to the new line of extension on the Northern railway being carried via Inverell, instead of that proposed by the Government, but John Sutherland's statistics, carefully prepared, were too much for him, and he subsided into a minority.

Neither Messrs. Hoskins nor Terry relished Farnell's explanation as to his intention regarding the upset Privilege Bill. The former gentleman doesn't by any means approve of the demeanour of, and the language made use of in, the Lords touching their brothers in the Commons. The rejection of the Bill was, said he, "a deeply-laid design on the part of the Upper House to bring this (the Assembly) Chamber into disrepute." Terry was full of wrath at the "Government allowing the work of the Assembly to be thrown out by the Upper House!" As if it were in either Fitzpatrick's or Farnell's power to force willing obedience in the matter, and compelling the Council to pass a measure already hacked to pieces before it was handed on for approval.

Mr. Hungerford, evidently a practical man, while defending the Bill, and arguing its positive necessity, couldn't see for a moment why, though the Council did not possess such a rowdy" element as was to be found next door, they should prevent such "disgraceful scenes" being enacted there, and wished to goodness that John McElhone could be transferred as a real live out-of-door "Honorable," so as to shew the well-mannered Councillors a specimen of life below stairs." It wasn't a bad idea of Hungerford's, after all said and done, but it's no use spoiling the utility of a 'necessary evil," such as is my friend Mr. Mac., by exalting him to a sphere in which his undeniable talents would be hidden under a bushel, before his time. Liveliness of debate, such as is his, may yet well be confined to his present location.

Mr. Fitzpatrick made, as he only can, the best of a bad job, and honestly con

demned the Bill, mutilated as it had been. He confessed that he did not regret the fate of their bantling, and said it was too bad to condemn himself and mates for the action of the Upper House regarding the measure. All in all, it struck me slightly that "old Fitz." (as his admirers will persist in terming the out-spoken Secretary) came through the fire with little scorching, and could, as he did, throw a few drops of dirty water at the heads of those who after forcing him to bring forward a measure, cruelly cut it all to pieces, and then grumbled at the fruits of their own handiwork.

Sir John Robertson simulated the Laodiceans, and the usually irrepressible member was neither hot nor cold. He bullied the Ministry for what he termed their defeat, and, indeed, had a wellaimed parting shot at them; while, as to the language used in the Upper House respecting their neighbours-well, all he could say was he wished he could get in among 'em for half-an-hour!" What to do when there, or what description of enjoyable satisfaction to be given them or secured to himself, I leave the readers of Once a Week to imagine. Doubtless, plain-spoken John would "wake" the Honorables up a little, at all events. He, like McElhone, should let well alone. We can't spare him from down stairs yet awhile.

Farnell ought to have "soft-sawdered" Terry a little more than he did on Friday night. Mr. T. is not an unsusceptible man by any means, and a little oil goes a long way in smoothing his troubled waters. McElhone could not help a little chaff escaping on the occasion. "You've got YOUR answer," says he to Terry, when Farnell had finished, and I don't think the latter liked it.

In conclusion, I think the Premier would have made another friend or two if he had candidly said, "Now, boys, I meant to present you each with a copy of my new Land Act, a New fencing Bill, and another little brochure or two next Tuesday, as you leave the Chamber. You can take them home with you if you like. I would have done it before, but I knew you would pester my life out about them, so I'll get quietly out of the way for a month or two and take a little quiet rest, so adieu," instead of the few curt sentences he uttered.

THE LOUNGER.