ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1156, 27 April 1894, Page 21

ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

Falire's mv weapon, but I'm t- o discreet To ion amuck and tilt at all I meet. PoPK. BY SCRUTATOR. Someone has been telling an Australian newspaper that one of Sir George Grey's peculiarities is that he is by no means like unto inost public men, an omnivorous devourer of newspaper literature. "My friends," he is said to have once told the Australian paper's correspondent, "send me anything in the newspapers that I ought to see, and, of courso, I get all the leading reviews. Do you know, promiscuous newspaper-reading weakens the mental forces, and I am sure it would weaken my power of expressing mysolf in English." The Bulletin takes this expression of opinion up, and moralises upon it in its own characteristic style, remarking "Not long ago a man cut his throat, leaving behind him the most pathetic lines on record : ' I can no longer work. I have spoilt my intellect by reading the newspapers/ The average man doesn't speak English ; ho only gibbers journaloso. In the papers certain substantives are always qualified by the same adjectives. Every fire becomes a "devastating conflagration ;" business is over "stagnant"; a site is always picturesque ; a fortune, princely; a citizen, prominent; a cry, heartrending ; a surgeon, skilled ; a theatrical performance, crowded from floor to ceiling ; a detective, clever; waves are invariably rippling ; darkness, Cimmerian ; and dawn, rosy. E. T. Gillon, of Wellington (M.L.) Post, has a list of 'Terms not to be used' pasted up in the reporters' room; and woe to him who transgresses."

The statement as to *the Post editor's list of " forbidden fruit" may or may not be merely an outcome of the Bulletin writer's imaginative brain, but if such a list does exist, it is often lost sight of by the Post reporters, for that journal is quite as much given to the use of. what is essentially "journalese" as any of its contemporaries. I wonder whether the Post editor keeps in his own oflico a list of what he considers choice expressions to bo hurled at the Seddonian head. I think he must. His vocabulary of anathema against Ministers and things Ministerial is too extended to be permanently stored in the editorial brain. No doubt he has a lengthy list of vulgar and abusive terms always by his side, for handy use when referring to Mr Seddon and his colleagues.

The Spectator, a London weekly, which, though a trifle old-fashioned as things go nowadays, is always eminently sane and respectable, has, I notice, delivered itself of a growl against the vast flood of what may be termed "morbid fiction" with which we are flooded nowadays. It was high time such a protest were made. Nine out of ten of our modern writers of fiction the " short story" authors are the worst offenders —ape the French "naturalistic" school. They don't deal in crude and brutal filth like Zola, but they pen the most unhealthyminded stuff with an apparent zest which is positively sickening. Kevolting crimes, all the hundred and one sides of sexual vice, the nauseating analysis of neurotic, morbid and vicious people —these are the stock-in-trade of a good many writers of the day. The women are worse than the men, which is saying a good deal, and the evil has reached such a pitch that a fair proportion of the fiction of the day is of such a tone that its evil consequences cannot be over-estimated.

" The sort of book it doesn't do to leavo about the house, the girls might got hold of it, you know," is how the average man would sura up a lot of these modern novels. For my own part lam no worshipper at the shrine of that respected British social goddess, Mrs Grundy, and I am far from believing that all fiction must ignore sexual and social problems the open discussion of which would be held to be unsuitable for the Young Person, but it is possible to go to the other extreme, and when one finds the taint of Ibsonism and of Guy de Maupassant permeating so many English-written books, it is time to bo careful as to the literature which is carelessly " left about the house." The "naturalistic" and " realistic " school may prate as they like about what they call the thick - headed and bourgeois literary prejudice which takes objection to some of the most talked of novels of the day, but first and foremost, I, for my own part at any rate, hold the opinion that because a filthy sewer exists there is no reason to give a photographic view of it, nor can I see that the contemplation of a loathsome sore is either pleasant or profitable. What is the reason for this new departure, this straying away from the time - honoured traditions of modern English fiction—say, since Thackeray and Dickens—l caunot imagine, save it be the influence of Continental writers.

Thank goodness, however, we have still novelists who prefer cleanliness to filth, who interest without disgusting us, and who can deal with human emotions and human passions without picking out all the evil in mankind and glorying and gloating over the vices of fashionable society, a very small and insignificant section of society at the best. For heaven's sake let us keep the stage clean and fiction clean. These two things are capable of affording busy men and women many hours of pleasant and profitable recreation. The play that is full of dirty double entendres, the novel that distorts human life by assuming that the majority of men and women are vicious j or—and this ia equally important—-

that the majority of men and women lovo to hear and read of vice, should bo ruthlessly boycotted by all such as wish to seo a clean stage and clean fiction, and who object to " dirt" either in a theatre or in a book. These may be old fashioned sentiments,and the " up to date," tho fin dc siecle theatre-goer or novelreader may laugh at me as they please, but " them's my sentiments," nevertheless. And not only mine, but those of the vast majority of both theatre-goers and lovers of fiction.

The namo of that highly respectable lady Mrs Grundy, has, I see, cropped up in tho above note. This reminds mo that a good many people who use tkat lady's namo may not know how the phrase " What will Mrs Grundy say ?" originated. Well, you shall know, for thanks to a pleasant little article in the March number of All the Year Round I am able to afford the desired information. Tho namo of " Mrs Grundy," this writer points out, occurs in " Speed the Plough," a farce by Thomas Morton, produced at Covent Garden Theatre in 1800. Mrs Grundy is tho wife of Farmer Grundy, and a neighbour of the Ashfields. She lias no part in the action of the piece, but figures constantly in the conversation of Dame Ashfield, who is jealous of Dame Grundy. They are rivals, apparently tocially and in business. When the curtain rises, Dame Ashfield comes in from the town, and tells her husband that " Farmer Grundy's wheat brought five shillings a quarter more than ours did." Then follows tho reference to tho other Dame's butter; and it becomes clear that Mrs Grundy is a favourate subject of talk with Mrs Ashfield. "Be quiet, wool yc ?" cries old Ashfield; " aleways ding dinging Dame Grundy into my ears. ' What will Mrs Grundy say?' 'What will Mrs Grundy think ?' I do verily think, when thee goest to t other world, the vurst question thee't ax'll bo if Mrs Grundy's there."

Tho Temperance News, a weekly journal published at Melbourne, is a very estimable and no doubt useful periodical, but I think that in introducing tho temperance question into the stories which appear in its columns it is pushing its zeal for tho Cause to a somewhat exaggerated extent. A correspondent having sent me a copy of tho News, and having put a mark against a short story headed significantly " A Temperance Tale," and entitled "How Rob Denison made his Fortune," I read down the column until I reached a passage which had evidently been the cause of my correspondent thinking he had got hold of "something good for 'Scrutator.'" Tho story commences with a description of two young lovers who had been out for a stroll, and who were just about to say good night outside the young lady's residence. I now quote the story : At last, after traversing tho length of the pavement five or six times, Clare Raleigh stopped at tho gardon-gato of hor home and said, " Well, Rob, if you won't come in tonight I must really say erood-byo. Mother will be thinking I am lost." " No, she won't think you are lost when you are in my care, pussy," said tho young fellow, as he gently stroked the fur cap* that protected her shoulders. " Hut I take my dismissal, nevertheless, as I must write that letter to Uncle Joe to-night: ho will think I havoput it off too long already. So lam really to accept the invitation, am I? and forego the pleasure of spending Christmas with my little lovie?"

" Yes, I think you ought to go, Rob. It isn't overy day one gets an invitation to discuss a subject that may bo ' for one's advantage.' " Of courso if it is anything about putting something good in my way apart from his business I shall be glad, but if it is about his trade I shall decline with thanks."

" Yes, certainly," said Claro, with great decision, " I would not come to terms with him if it would make you a millionaire and give you a seat in the House of Lords !" " It is just a real comfort to me, Clare, to hear you speak like that. lam so glad that wo pull heartily together in a matter so important, and that it is not only 011 one side that thore is strong conviction. It always seems to me a sad thing whon one's happy love-making days have to bo clouded over again and again by the necessity that the one feels t» bring the other to take different views on certain questions of vital importance —religion, for instance, or temperance." 41 No, there is nothing of that in our case, Bob, dear," said Claro, slipping her hand into his arm once more and cuddling up against his shoulder. " There is'nothing that we want to convert each other to, as we think and feel so comfortably alike upon everything important—religion, temperance, politics, everything!''

Now I ask any sensible man who has ever had the pleasure of making love to a pretty girl, who has stood outside his future mother -in - law's gate on a frosty night, if he thinks there were ever in real life such a remarkable pair of lovers as the Clare Raleigh and Rob Denison of the above narrative. And, also, does any sane man, with any experience of his fellowman, believe that any young man wou.d ever talk to his fiancee in the strain adopted by Mr Rob Denison. Whnt a delightfully priggish sentence this is for examplo : "It always seems to mo to be a sad thing when one's happy lovemaking days have to be clouded over again and again by the necessity that the one feels to bring the other to take different views on certain questions of vital importance —religion, for instance, or Temperance." What a horrible young prig this Rob Denison must have been. lam sorry for the girl, though sho was about up to his standard, judging by her reply : " There is nothing we want to convert each other to, as we think and feel so comfortably alike upon everything important—religion, temperance, politics, everything."

By the way, I notice that in both speeches the editor of the Temperance News is careful to print Temperance with a capital T—he

doesn't think that such a comparatively minor matter as religion is worth a capital R. Ho is only exhibiting an idea of the relative values of Religion and Temperance which is held by too many of the extreme temperance party, and which is not altogether calculated to be of permanent advantage to the public, the younger generation thereof more particularly.

Everyone who reveres tho namo of Gladstone will bo glad to notice that the old gentleman is recovering from his recent illness. I should never be surprised, however, were tho aged statesman, whose name has so long been made a potentiality in English politics, to bo taken away to his last long rest before very long. Divorced from the strain of office, from Uie unceasing excitement of political strife, he may, like many others who have suddenly ceased what has for years engaged their paramount attention, be killed by sheer inaction. It is true that Mr Gladstone is a many sided man, and that ho may temporarily find congenial employment amongst his beloved books at Hawarden, but I fear me that this will be but a temporary relief only, and that ho may soon find himself hankering after the old activity of Downing street and Westminster, and that failing, the one great tonic of his long life —political excitement —ho may gradually flicker out. When that day does como there will bo sincere sorrow from "John O'Groats " to tho "Land's End," and indeed wherever the good old English speech prevails, for tho Great Commoner is greater a thousand fold than ho who first held that title, is universally beloved and respected. Long may that day be postponed. Meanwhile, let one of the younger English poets, brilliant young Mr Le Gallienne, bo hoard. Tho following exquisite verses are takon from a recent London Daily Chronicle: —

THE GRAND OLD MAN. The world grows Lilliput, tho groat men go ; If groatness bo, it wears no outer sign ; No more tho signet of tho mighty lino Stamps the great brow for all the world to

know. Shrunken the mould of mankind is, and lo!

Fragments and fractions of tho old divine, Mon pert of brain, planned on a mean design, Dapper and undistinguished—such we crow. No more the leonine heroic head,

Tho ruling arm, great heart, and kingly eye ; No more th' alchemic tongue that turned poor themes Of statecraft into golden-glowing dreams ; No more a man for man to deify : Laurel no more—tho heroic is dead.

Richard Le Galliennk.

Worthy indeed of any poet's muse is the Grand Old Man, and what a flood of verse will be poured forth whon at last tho pathetically venerable figure finally disappears from this earthly stage, and its pious reverent soul goes back to its Maker.

From time to time the subject of anthrax in cattle crops up in the "agricultural" pages of our weekly journals, and the dangers of the disease are frequently expatiated on by experts. But has any ever heard of human life being lost through anthrax ? For my part, the instance recorded below is the first of which I have heard, but others may be able to supplement it. The case, however, to which I refer is curious enough to be deserving of notice, although it did occur at the other end of the world. From the London Weekly Dispatch I take the following pathetic story:— "We wore only married on Christinas morning," said Catherine Poiuton to Mr Langham on Tuesday night in telling tho sad story of her husband's death. He was a waterside labourer, and they Hvod at Rawlin's Buildings, Melior street, Bermondsey. On Friday, tho 19tii ult., a small pimple made its appearance on his cheek, but ho took no notice of it until the following Monday, when he became very ill, and went to tho hospital. At tho time the pimplo appoared he had been trucking' buffalo hides and sheepskins from Gun and Shot Wharf to Flack, Chandler and Company's warehouse, which adjoined the wharf. Tho hides (it was explained by a fellow-worker) had been shipped from Penang, and the sheepskins from Australia. Dr R. H. Luce stated that an operation was performed and the pustule cut out, the deceased appearing to progress very favourably. Secondary inflammation yt the neck subsequently cet in, however, and ho gradually sank and died from blood-poisoning, following anthrax, on Friday. In reply to a juryman, the witness said the microbe could be killed by very strong chemicals, but he could not say whit effect they would have on hides and skins. The witness added that he discovered tho insect in tho pustule. The Coroner : What kind of thing was it ? Witness : It was very tiny, one of the smallest of microbes, and was absolutely invisiblo to the naked eye. The jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.

Does any reader know of a colonial (either Australian or New Zealand) parallel to tho above case ? If so, he will much oblige by sending " Scrutator" particulars of the same.

Turning over an odd copy of the excellent little paper published at Stratford, Taranaki, the Egmont Settler, I came across the extraordinary headline, "Morality in Horses." Eagerly pouncing upon the article, keenly anxious to see the full extent of equine "morality," or the reverse, I was considerably amused to read an elaborate description of the evil doinjs in the equine interior of that abominable little pest, the Bot Fly. Alas ! the " morality " had, by a compositor's slip, been but a misprint for " Mortality." There is much virtue in the simple letter " t."