ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVII, Issue 2691, 14 December 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

Patira's my weapon, but I'm too 'llacreet To ran amuck and tilt at all I meet. Pop*.

Christnan is coming, and with it, of j ccwrec tho Christina!) numbers. As a |j 'matter of fact tho said numbers are already l! tint. Tho Mail is, I think, the last to appear, and I sincerely trust that when my I readers have read all tho yarns, have looked at all tho pictures and turned to tho regular departments which interest them tho most directly, they will agree with me that we have made a big advance on anything we have done in the past.

Mark Twain has been with us and on Tuesday night delighted a largo audience with a selection from his richly varied stock of yarns,both graveandgay,merry and wise. The preternatural solemnity of the man whilst delivering himself of stories of a riotously humorous character took people’s fancy amazingly. Of course Mr Clemens is not a lecturer in tho sense that tho Eovs. Charles Clarke and Haskett Smith are lecturers. Ho is no orator, at least not off a Fourth of July celebration platform, and oven then I fancy ho would stutter out his patriotic funnyisms with tho same inimitable drawl which so amused us on Tuesday night. ''Doors open at 7.llo—the trouble to begin at eight ” was, as readers of “ Tho Innocents at Homo" will doubtless remember, tho concluding line of tho advertisement of Mark’s first lecture in San Francisco, and although ho has long ago got over tho nervousness which then afflicted him on appearing in public, it is easy to see that lecturing is still none too congenial or facile a task.

What a grand head the man has. Tho keenness of tho eyo is remarked by everyone who meets tho humorist at close quarters. It rivals tho keenness of eyesight of that famous solitary blnojay who dropped tho acorn down tho chimney of the miner’s deserted hut and then popped down himself to see where in creation that acorn had gone to. It is fashionable with a certain class of tho genua idiot to sneer at a man who wears his hair long; they quote the German pianist familiar in Kladdoradatsoh pictures, and maintain that long locks signify conceit. So they may in some cases, but that fine grey head of hair of Murk’s seems peculiarly fitting in his case. It is tho head of a shrewd, clear - brained social philosopher, whose mordant wit flashes out and wraps itself round tho frauds and shams of life, enveloping them in a garment labelled "Humbug,” so that they may be known of all men for what they really are. And there is no conceit about Mr Clemens. In his case, at least, tho long hair theory does not apply.

Talking about long-bairod' men, I see a good story about the much paragraphed celebrity Paderewski, the pianist, is going the rounds of the English and American press. If over "Paddy,” by the way, breaks down, sinks his fortune in a " wild cat ” goldmine, or otherwise descends to a financial Avernus, tho newspaper proprietors ought to subscribe and give him a handsome pension for tho rest of his days, for he must have provided many miles ,of " copy ”in his day. But to the yarn. Tho story goes that an enterprising Now Yorker has advertised a portrait of M. Paderewski with a chrysanthemum head of hair, while underneath are printed tho words, " Use Dr Baldy MoGluck’s Hair Tonic.” assuredly tho Yankee pill merchant, or dealer in quack nostrums generally, has not the slightest modicum of reverence in his composition for any celebrity, howover famous, so long ns, to uso what is no doubt Ids own expression in such a case, " there’s dollars sticking out.”

Poor George Augustus Sala has gone at last. Ho was a groat journalist, a past master in tho art of concocting a palatable “ mado dish ” out of what were seemingly tho most unpromising materials. But his terrible discursiveness used to discount tho attractions of his chatty and interesting gossip on what woro frequently the most recondite of subjects. He had seen too much, read too much, yes, oven remembered too much, and thus when once ho tackled a subject he would wander away into recollections of this or that place, this celebrity or that celebrity, weaving his reminiscences into a web which, however intelligible and apparently picturesque of appearance to him, was, for the average reader who likes a “ straightforward story,” an irritating maze into which the latter feared to enter lest ho should never emerge.

Sala was a link which bound latterday journalism to the " good old times ” when Dickens and Thackeray were, the rival lions at tho Garrick Club, when Edmund Yates Mark Lemon and others were; alive and very much kicking in periodical literature. In Yates’ “ Reminiscences,” one of the beat books of its kind I over read, there is more than one good story of Sala, who in hie ” sallet days ” was a most mysterious personage, given to disappearing for months in Paris or Germany, and after a long absence popping in again at the Bohemian haunts round about the Strand.

Although mainly known to fame as a journalist Sala wrote sov era! novels, one of which, “ The Seven Sons of Mammon,” I tried to read recently, but gave up tho attempt in despair at the irritating patchwork padding introduced with such fatal facility and such annoying frequency. But two books of travel Sala wrote, and that many years ago, which to my mind ought to find a place in every good library. One consists of sketches of life in the West Indies, and Mexico, and Cuba, including one of tho most interesting descriptions of Havana over written, and the other is a description of some journey ings in Spain at the time of the earlier Carlist wars. At the time of writing I cannot recall the titles of these two hooks, which are now, I am afraid, out of print. Perhaps some reader of “ Echoes ” can assist me in the matter.

Why are journalists not legally exempt from service on juries ? I am sure I can’t supply a satisfactory reply to my own query, but if ever there were a class of men who, in the interests of the public, as well asofithemselves,should beexemptfrom jury service, it is the journalists. The literary staffs of newspapers are rarely overmanned, besides which an editor has depending on him for the control of their work a number of other men who have often to deal with dehateable matter over which it is most desirable the regular systematic check should never bo relaxed. The sub-editor in a journal of any standing is oven a less easily spared officer. He is largely a creature, of routine, but a break in tho handling of the newspaper machine (I speak metaphorically, of course, and don't mean the actual printing press) may cause the gravest inconvenience and delay in the issue of a paper. In a minor degree a chief reporter is also oho whose compulsory service on a jury causes considerable inconvenience. The newspaper is no longer a luxury, it has become a public necessity, and to impede its regularity of publication, to injure its value as a news-sheet by depriving it of tho services of those who are mainly responsible for tho gathering and arrangement of the news is as unwarrantable as to do anything which might result in our gas or electric light being cut off, orour water supply beingirapaired or endangered. ' Surely therb are” hosts of men who are only too glad to servo their country and draw, as they should, but do not always do, a reasonable foe from the State, without descending upon a newspaper office and robbing it of its most indispensable workers. I make this little growl because within the last few days a Wellington journalist was drawn-on tho jury list.

Chemists, too, are a class who ought to be able to obtain exemption. As to the absolute danger to thd public, well, we have the historic precedent chronicled in the Bardell-Pickwick trial, but I am afraid that would hardly bo accepted by tho Chief Justice any more than it was by Judge Staraloigh. But if doctors are exempt, so

also should chemists be. The question of ournaliats and jury service should be advocated by the Now Zealand Institute of Journalists and that of similar service by tho gentlemen who use tho pestle and mortar by the Now Zealand Pharmaceutical Association.

The English Corrupt Practices Act must contain some rather drastic clauses or tho payment of a miserable two shillings to a voter by one of Mr Chamborlayno’s agents would not have unseated tho member for Southhampton. An English election costs a pretty tidy sum to fight, and I have no doubt it cost Mr Chamberlain quite -£IOOO to get in for Southampton, which is a sea : port town and isnotoriously a “ beery "place. Tho two bob paid as a railway fare did the business however. What a farce it is, this corrupt practices business, I’d like to wager there isn’t a single English election at which a pot of money isn’t spent on the j supply of liquid refreshments to the “free and independent,'’ but tho trouble is to prove it. To have your election upset all through a wretched two bob piece seems very hard linos and Mr Chamberlayne has my sympathy.

A few weeks ago anyone who posed as an authority on European affairs would probably have hot a guinea to a gooseberry that a British fleet would have been anchored in the Bosphorus by this time, but tho Turk has evidently profited by the mutual jealousies of the Powers, and the position is still "as you were." Will the big burst up which so many consider absolutely inevitable come before Christmas ? It would bo a curious commentary on the “peace and goodwill” theory if the coming Christmastido were to he ushered in with a big blaze in Eastern Europe. Yet more unlikely things have happened.

In describing the “ mixed ” character of tho population of Nevada in tho early mining days, Mark Twain said they “ had assassins, burglars, horse thieves, stage robbers —a pause—lawyers, liars, and rogues of all kinds.” The audience laughed right heartily at this, but there were two or three “ gentlemen of the long robe ” in the dress circle who grinned a very sickly grin and who looked very uncomfortable. Curious, isn’t it, that a colonial audience always applauds any sarcastical reference to the legal profession ? Expcrieniia docct.

The “ unco guid ” still flourish in Edinburgh, and from time to time the outward evidences of their inward “ perniokettyness" are of a character much more humourous than anything even Mark Twain ever.desoribed. A correspondent at Palmerston North sends me a clipping front The Scotsman in which is published a most remarkable letter addressed by the secretaries of the Sabbath Observance Association to Messrs W. S. Brown and Sons, upholsterers, 05 Goorge-stroet, Edinburgh: —“ Dear Sirs, —As secretaries of the Sabbath Observance Association, wo regret to observe in your interesting price-list, received this morning, that you have included an extract from a letter received from Trinity, dated Juno 23rd, 1895. This day fell upon a Sunday, and we,' ■as secretaries, trust that in the interests of the Scottish Sabbath you will refrain from circulating any more of the price-lists, as wo are certain that they are likely to have a most pernicious influence on the preservation of what wo are sure you, as a firm, must have at the Scottish'Sabbath. —We are, yours faithfully. Lisle and Drummond." Tho price-list contains brief extracts from a dozen customers of the firm in England, Scotland and Ireland, and tho one to which exception is taken read as follows:—“From Trinity, 23rd June 1895. Tho furniture and draperies looked lovely."

Meanwhile, despite all this keen regard for tho holiness of tho “ Sawbath,” Scotland continues to hold the record for illegitimate births, and in its leading cities drunkenness is said to be worse than over. The “ unco guid ” aro a curious lot. To write a letter on the “ SawLatU ” is a terrible sin, but immorality and drunkenness are apparently regarded as merely peocadiloes. I

The decrease in the marriage rate in New Zealand has been unfavourably commented upon from time to time, and various reasons, more or less tangible, for tho backwardness of our bachelors in coming forward—to tho Registrar of Marriages—have been given. Meanwhile those of our maidens who are blushing, like the rose,unseen and unadmired, might do worse than pack up their belongings and take a trip to Coolgardie. In his “ Innocents at Home,” Mark Twain has told us how in the early days in California and Nevada a decent woman in some of the more out of the way mining camps was such a rarity that the whole population would turn' out ,to do

honour to a new arrival, if. only she happened to be of the weaker sex, and on one occasion, so Mark relates, he mado one of a party who waited for hours and then took it in turn to peep through the chinks of a log hut to see the first woman in Red Gulch or Roaring Dick’s Gully, or whatever the place was called. And when his turn came at last he took his peep and saw —a withered old hag of some eighty summers frying flapjacks! There is the same rush to see the latest woman in camp in some parts of the Western Australian goldfields, and according to tho Western Australian, a Perth paper, some rather curious incidents occur

as a result of this “ woman famine.” In one instance a good-looking young woman who had just lost her husband, was proposed to by all tho parties with whom.she had come into contact during his last illness and subsequent to his decease. These included the doctor who attended him, the chemist who prepared the prescriptionsthe undertaker who provided for his funeral, the person who read the burial service, and even tho keeper of the cemetery. However, tho lady, being in debt to her landlord, a well-to-do man, adjusted her differences with him by marrying, him. -If there is any truth at all in this story, it shows what an opening there must be in that particular colony’ for unmarried females, when there was such a run made upon a widow. New Zealand .spinsters should hurry up to Western Australia before the market is flooded by importations from the other Australian colonies.

' Mr C. O. Montrose, a well-known New Zealand journalist, the founder and first editor of the. Auckland Observer, is now in Wellington on a visit.- Mr Montrose, it may he. remembered, acted as secretary for the Colonial Treasurer when tho latter was at Home recently, and accompanied him to Canada and through the Dominion to Vancouver, whence ho travelled to Sydney by tbo same steamer, which brought Mr Ward to New Zealand. Mr Montrose gives me an amusing account of the awful pertinacity' of this American interviewers, who, meeting the steamer at New York, followed Mr Ward to the hotel and lay in wait for him to get tho much longed-for “ copy.” There were quite a score of them, so-Mr Montrose .says, and after Mr Ward had been pestered for about an hour on every conceivable detail of his private and public life, he not unnaturally got " full up,” and departed privily from the hotel for a drive with Mrs Ward to see the sights of tho city. The secretary received the remainin' 1, reporters, and being a press man himself had no difficulty in stuffing them asfull as the proverbial egg, with readable matter concerning his principal. Judge his surprise and that of tho Treasurer when nest day every New York paper had a flaming account of tho interview, tho personal appearance and remarks of Mr Ward being described in every case, without exception, in great detail Three reporters only saw tho Simon Bure, but not one of the remain-' ing eighteen or nineteen ever admitted in print that their information was obtained second-hand. Tho American reporter fully believes in his paper’s " end ” being “ kept up.” Whether a man is interviewed in person or by deputy the public is no wiser; the paper “gets there just the same.”

Talking about American reporters and their sang /retd—sumo might call it

" cheek ” under the most adverse circumstances—M. Paul Bourget, the French novelist whoso recently published book on America has been much discussed on both sides of tho “ Big Drink," tolls the following characteristic story of tho übiquitous American news getter ;—“ Last summer I was passing through Beverley, near Boston, at the time of the death of one of tho most distinguished officers of the Federal Army. Tho corpse was to be carried to Baltimore, and a funeral service was first celebrated in tho little village church. In the midst of the ceremony a young man entered, drew near to the coffin, gently raised tho pall, tapped the cover with his finger, and said softly, ‘ Steel, not wood.’ The n he disappeared. It was a reporter!”

Now that tho Supremo Court sittings I are on, and town talk is mainly of juries and lawyers, a story told by Mr Andrew Lang in a recent issue of the Illustrated Loudon News possesses a timely interest: — “ Of all the words that over made the heart sing,” writes Mr Lang, “these, by the foreman, must bo the most grateful, ‘ Not Guilty,’ especially, perhaps, when you owo thorn less to tho excellence of your cause than to tho skill of your counsel.” Mr Lang tells a story of a prisoner who wrote from tho dock to his counsel on a slip of paper, “ If you get me of (sic) I’ll give you one of them,” referring to some banknotes which formed the subject of the charge against him:and,” Mr Lang adds, “ the young barrister continued to demonstrate the innocence of hie grateful client!”

The present is not, I hope, the last opportunity I shall have before Christmas is actually upon us, of wishing my readers the usual compliments of the season, but as this is our special Christmas number it is only fitting that I should say a few words of personal greeting and good fellowship. Just let me seize the opportunity to thank the many readers of the Mail, who from time send me clippings of interest or tit-bits of local interest. Such clippings and contributions are of very great and welcome assistance in the compilation of my weekly gossip, and I should be ungrateful indeed did I not admit the fact. I always try, as far as human weaknesses will allow me, to avoid objectionable personalities or unfairness of criticism on public men and public affairs, but alas, who is infallible ? It is quite possible that during the year I may have trodden upon someone’s pet corn. May I now ask pardon if I have unwittingly and certainly unintentionally caused any pain. A writer of a free lance column like this is bound sometimes fo express opinions which iblash'-with those of some of his readers, but these, latter will, I feel sure, admit that it is impossible for us all to think alike, and agree with mo that a little difference of opinion, honestly and independently expressed, often has a good result in provoking useful public discussion. And now I will doff my penitent’s role—it’s a sort of garment which doesn’t sit very comfortably upon my shoulders—and will say au revoir to my readers, new and old, regular and casual, with the time honoured, but in this instance most sincere wish that one and all may enjoy A Veby Mebby Chbistmas and A Happy and Peospeeous New Year. ' —“ Scrutator ” in the N.Z. Mail.