MIND LIKE A RIVER.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19240, 29 November 1930, Page 31 (Supplement)

MIND LIKE A RIVER.

Flow like a mind is to a river! Both may be pure and transparent and lovable, and strong to support, and admirable; each may mirror the beauties of earth and sky, and still have a wonderful beauty of its own to delight us; both are always moving onward, bound irresistibly to be absorbed in a great ocean mystery, to be swept away irreclaimably, without hope of return, but leaving memories of themselves in good or evil wrought by them: and both are pure at the outset, but can be contaminated, when they can in turn contaminate, and being perverted in their use because accursed, and curse again, with all the more effect because the province of each was to bless.—Sarah Grand.

At. the first command, “Charge! One two-tliree!” there was tremendous shock of—horses. The charger leaped from the desperate plunge of the Creole, while the slash from Sliamburg's sword fell on Couvillier’s bat. As combatants dashed past their seconds La Sure leaped from his saddle, picked up the beaver and restored it to the head of liis principal. After “breathing and tightening girths” there was a second charge, the horses now foaming with excitement. Even more furiously the cavaliers rushed together. Shamburg’s horse was seen to rear, Couvillier’s to plunge madly against him, and the rider's sword, directed at the body of Shamburg, passed through the neck of the noble animal. The Seconds examined the wound. Nothing could be done. No one would be responsible to Colonel Olivier for his horse, and a new beaver was ruined The day of tourney were over. When there was nothing else, the opera was cause d’affaires, and for six months. Critics were ready to die for tlieir critiques. Emil Her riot of the. Delta wrote so violently of one performance that he received two challenges from Canonge, critic of the Bee, and Locquet. He pinked the clothes of Canonge and killed Loquet. A Hissing Party. The public was passionately partisan to its dugazos and contraltos. Duels were over their merits. The most wholesale occurred in 1557 when Mile Colson, a fascinating light soprano, was engaged to replace Mine. Pretty-Bailie, “beautiful but cold,” and the intimate friend of Mile Bourgeois, the contralto. When Bourgeois announced her benefit performance she gave Mile. Colson the cut and asked Pretty-Bailie to sing the Galathee to her Pygmalion in Masse’* opera. The news spread. Feeling ran high. Colson’s partisans vowed PrettyBailie would never Ire allowed to sing. Pretty-Bailie’s defenders swore that any one hissing her would rue it. Hissing parties were formed. At Ponton's Salle d’Armes nothing else was talked of. Emile Bozonier ana Gaston Coppens, handsome young beaux were idling in foil practice. Bozonier was silent, uninterested in the argument. Suddenly Coppens turned and asked his opinion. Bozonier paused, then answered deliberately, “I think that a man who goes to the theatre for tHe purpose of hissing a woman, is a blackguard and should have his face slapped.” It is recorded that Coppens turned pate. “Do you know I have proclaimed myself one who will hiss that woman down ?” “No. Nevertheless, I mean what I said.” “Would you slap a man’s face who hissed on that night?” “If he is close enough I assuredly will,” from the now definitely interested Bozonier. “Very well, you will have your hands full.” Fancy the night of that opera. The house, as described, was packed to suffocation, the young men’s determined looks bespeaking tires of concentrated emotion smouldering through tne audience. When the curtain arose all went smoothly for Bourgeois’ Pygmalion until the portiere was drawn and Galathee began to come to life. What a life! Opera and uproar! Hisses and yowls from one side, applause and liuzzahs from the other'. Cold and white as marble, Pretty-Bailie continued her role. Ladies fainted and were carried out. Others collected bombazines and panniers and left. One act finished, another began. Not for one second did the tumult cease. Slaps, visiting cards, insults were bandied back and forth. Not a note of music was beard, yet not a note was omitted. ►Singers roared their parts. Orchestra crashed the score. Pandemonium reigned.. Once the flashing glances of Bozonier and Coppens met amid the din. Several days later, Coppens crossed the street with a smile. “What about those slaps, Bozonier?” The answer sent him sprawling. The duel, with cavalry sabres took, place at the Oaks, by the Allard tomb. Some Shrewd Blows. The account is hair-raising. Bozonier is described as a Hercules, Coppens as a leopard, both as dandies in uress and lions in courage. Nothing more could be asked of a auellist. In a trice coats were on the grass and principals placed, with a recommendation to light until one or both, were disabled. at the first pass, Bozonier s feint was followed by a swinging stroke that would have taxen off uie otner's head. Coppens’ parry did not save him from deep gashes on nis cheek and chest, though riuzonier generously refrained from following the advantage and dispatching him. The consideration nearly cost his life. Coppens, it is related, gave the leap of a wounded tiger and with a furious coup de point, all but severed Bozonier’s sword arm. The seconds did not see, Coppens did not. realise, and Bozonier went down, with both arms, side and chest slashed; in fact, a very slaughtered Bozonier. Yet he lived to go turough the Civil War, and the brave Coppens died flag in hand at Seven Tines, iorty yards in advance of his command, leading a Florida regiment after his own had been cut to pieces. Sometimes one meets old Lorenzo m Royal Street, puttering along with a mysterious antique under his arm. Jtie remembers l’epe Lulla, the incomparable; how he could toss a dime in the air and shoot it, and shoot an egg off the head of his son. How once" he fought a duel with double-barrelled shotguns, one empty/ one loaded, and challenged all Spanish revolutionists in America and the West Indies. Ah, there was a duellist! Surely that modern word “pep” must be derived from him! But. there you are. There are few left who remember. Behind old courtyard doors, in shadowy old French mansions, dying in their memories, eyes grow dim and flash no more . . . brows grow cold and white as marble.