Æstetic Journalism.
They got a new reporter on the Portland Slasher the other day. He was a young man with a high forehead, hair parted in the middle, and a dreamy, poetic eye. He was just from college, and he knew he could make a success as a journalist, because he had written a short story for " Godey's Lady's Book." He remarked to the editor that Ouida was the only writer whose style was worth imitating, and that there was a soft, idyllic charm about William Black's books that was simply inimitable. The editor said he " shouldn't wonder," and sent the man down to see what was going on at the police court. Later on the graduate handed in the f ollowiug report : — " Biddy M'Giunis, did you strike the defendant with the beer mug ?" asked his honour as a woman with a red shawl and nose took the stand.
The soft spring zephyrs rustled the papers on the dusty desks. Through the open window came the distant chirp of the bobolink, from the meadows fragrant with the breath of daisybespangled grain.
"I'll not bo desavin' yer honour; I guv'im ther full of me fist in the eye, sur." From the fresh hedgerows and primroseflecked dell floated the delicate scent of the honeysuckle and trailing arbutus. A huge bumble bee droned lazily across the foreground carrying its golden store of rifled sweets.
" It's the lie she guv me that begun it " remarked Mr Hoolihan from his seat. " It's not ther first illigant dance she bruck up wid her ructions intirely, so it isn't."
_ JLhe judge wiped his cardinal-tinted brow, and his gaze waridered out through the checquered squares of sunlight that drifted down from the idly stirring leaves of the maple trees to where the hazy outlines of the far-off hills melted into the blue evanescent mist of the evening sky The [dying sun threw a tender flood of purple light over the slowly reddening expanse, while in the middle distance an implacable crag lifted its fevered forehead to the slow-coming dew. " The whole gang of 'em were b'iliu' drunk yer honour," said officer Grabby. ." The woman's been up twenty-one times already." It was the clear note of the quail in the stubble tho refreshing breeze brought faintly but sweetly to their ears, miugled quaintly with the twitter of the moth-pursuing orioles flashing through the orchard opening, and away into the dim gathering shadows.
" It's a loio, yer honour— only nineteen times : divil the wan more."
By this time the solemn, slow clouds had piled in a far-reaching minister shape above the couch of the slain and dying day. At their summit two steadfast eyes came out to see, as though in the far greyness of remote antiquity some sphinx-like Cain bent steadfast and unremorseful gaze above his fresh-murdered kin.
" Six months," said the court. " Next."— San Franciscan.
Æstetic Journalism.
Otago Witness, Issue 1777, 12 December 1885, Page 27
No known copyright (New Zealand)
To the best of the National Library of New Zealand’s knowledge, under New Zealand law, there is no copyright in this item in New Zealand.
You can copy this item, share it, and post it on a blog or website. It can be modified, remixed and built upon. It can be used commercially. If reproducing this item, it is helpful to include the source.
For further information please refer to the Copyright guide.
Log in