THAT WICKED PARAGRAPH.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XV, Issue 27, 28 October 1887, Page 3

THAT WICKED PARAGRAPH.

(By Maubicb F. Egan in the Aye Maria.')

I. They—the critics—say that the art of letter-writing has gone ont of fashion, and that the speed of the mails and the cheapness of postage have forever blighted any hope of there being another Madame de Sevigne in these times. For myself, however, the hasty notes of our daj particularly if they suggest any kind of a story, or show the workings of character, have an inexpressible charm. As I am sure lam not alone in this, I am unselfish enough to open a little packet of notes —enclosing a newspaper clipping among them —which came to me from both the writers, with the consent of the persons to whom they were written, of course. Of Mr. Redmond O'Connor and Miss Auna Arthur, I have nothing to say, except that they were the persons last alluded to.

11. The paragraph inclosed in one of the letters of the packet reads this way. It ia printed in leaded bourgeois. It was written because the editor-in-chief of a metropolitan daily journal suddenly dashed into the office of one of bis staff to say : "There's nothing going on. I've exhausted myself on the present appearance of the tariff question ; but I need a couple of ' stickfula 'to • fill out.' Can't you think of a paragraph or two ?" The member of the staff took his cigar from his mouth and thought and grinned.

"Pitch into the Pope!" " That's played ont, you know very well," answered the tha editor-in-chief irritably. "It used to be different. I want ' copy. Hurry up !" " Very well," the member of the staff said amiably ; " I'll see to

And the editor-in-chief left the room sighing with relief. The member of the staff turned up his gaslight, picked up a pile of " exchanges " and looked for prey. " Indian question," he murmured ; "we have had enough of that New novel by James— Judkine has too much literary stuff iv already, Lecture by Ingersoll — don't know whether the paper is for or against him just now. Tariff— oh, bother ! Theatricals— enough of them too. Sermons in St. Paul's Roman Catholic Church : unity — unchangeable — infallible. Good gracious 1 what awful claims that priest makes I It would be pretty bad for us who are neither hot nor cold, who neither believe or disbelieve, if he should happen to be right. ' One Faith, one Lord, one Baptism.' He talks as if he knew — ah, here's poetry ! ' Tower of David, Tower of Ivory, House of Gold.' Well it is queer that a fellow in the Protestant Church should be taught to believe in Christ, and yet told to hold an attitude of reserve and almost of dislike towards His Mother. It is queer— by George, I've been dreaming 1 It will not do. I must find two ' stickf uls ' of something." He turned over the papers and ran his eyes up and down long columns of print with the dexterity of long practice, " What's this ? ' Mr. James Vernon's failure in business struck the community like a thunder-clap. The closing up of his factory will leave over a hundred men without the means of subsistence. His inability to meet the demands of his creditors is attributed to careless management.' "

The member of the staff cut this out of the Evening Cablegram with speed and a new pair of scissors. " Not remarkable," he said, '• but it will do, unless the chief brings me a hint from the telegraphic reports. Let me see. Roumania — bothei Roumania ! — Bis* marck— well, he ought to die 1 French Republic— M. Ferry— always talking about ' revenge 'on Germany, and taking it out of the priests, who can't fight. That's an idea, but the chief woudn't like me to put that in ; too ultramontane ; some light sneer or something else would be better. But — confound it !— l can't find anything to sneer at tonight !" Having come to this conclusion, he lighted his cigar again and wrote the paragraph.

"Another disastrous failure is announced. It is alleged that James Vernon, the only surviving member of the solid old firm of Vernon and Vernon, has allowed 'carelessness' to force him to close the factory of the firm. ' Carelessness ' is a very light and frivolous way of putting a phase of our life which ought to be called criminal ; for it is criminal to reduce workingmen to despair by taking the bread out of the mouths of their wives and children. If Mr. Vernon cho9e to rob his rich creditors, we have nothing to say against it. That is the affair of the law, and the rich can easily secure the law's assistance. But what of the poor 1 They may die in dumb despair in their close unhealthy rooms— die, yes, my lords and gentlemen, with James Vernon's carelessness written on their hearts — their withered and pulseless hearts. ' Carelessness ' like this brought on the French Revolution. Public opinion should frown down —

" No, not ' frown down.' That's too weak," said the number of the staff, drawing bis pencil through the phrase —

" Should scoriate these ' careless ' individuals — oppressors of the poor — until th«y should be forced out of the precincts of every decent community." " A sweet thing 1" he said meditatively. "The chief will like that. Judkins' aristocratic notions have lately made some of the people think we are going over to the bloated bondholders. I know that he has a. long 'story' on the first page about the ewellß that have taken boxes for tne Italian opera. This will even things up a bit." He pushed the "copy" into the tube that led to the printing department, and, humming a tune, took up several letters which he had not yet had time to read. Then be yawned — for it was after midnight — took up his pen and answered them. 111. 11 Dear Red : — When I looked at the signature of your letter — which I always do — and saw the old scrawl, ' Redmond O'Connor,' it gave me new energy : for I was almost fagged oat by a night's work. You ask me whether anything has happened to me. Nothing mush. The most interesting event was the receiving of your letter, and another one to-night after I had finished my work on the paper. It was a little note containing one of those silver medals you Cathalics are so fond of —a representation of the Virgin (after all I don't see why I Bhonld hesitate to call her blessed, since the Scripture does so) with outstretched arms. The note was made up of a few words. It had no signature, but the delicate handwriting— not at all like the big pprawling English style that ladies of fashion have adopted — as that of one of the most interesting young gentlewomen I have ever seen. She only said • Thank you,' and I shall never see her again, but I shall never forget her. You think all this is very romantic coming from a materialistic and utilitarian fellow like me, don't you ? "The other day the chief asked me to go up to the Brevoort House and do an ' interview,' which I hate. But in journalism one has to do what one is expected to do, so of course I went. It was hard work ; for whenever the dignitary said anytning particularly interesting, he always paused and said that he told it to me as a gentleman and not as a reporter. This waa very unpleasant, and I went away in a gloomy state of mind. " I was trying to disentangle the parts of his talk that were for the public from those that were not, and feeling that his views on the tariff question were about as incomprehensible as possible, when I heard a little scream. I looked up. There was an elderly man looking pale and helpless, in the middle of the street, in a regular tangle of drays, waggons and street-cars. The policeman was looking after a group of ladies who were just crossing, and the old man ■eemed utterly bewildered by the shouts of the drivers and the turmoil around. You know, Red, that as a New Yorker, I know my Broadway : it is like the proverbial nettle — you must attack it boldly if you want to come out unscathed. " The old man's foot slipped in the slimy mud ; he went down almost under the forefeet of a huge dray horse. But I had the horee by the bridle in an instant. I pulled the old man up. Then the policeman with charming coolness cleared a space, and together we dragged him to the sidewalk. The old man thanked me and asked for my caTd, which I gave him in a courteous impulse. As I did this I noticed a young woman by his side. I saw her for only a moment -just a glimpse of her face. It was she who had Bcreamed. She took her father's arm and gave me such a look of gratitude 1 Oh, my dear boy, a look that makes a man look chivalrous 1 I did not moke note of the colour of her eyes, but I know they were the colour I like — that is — whatever colour they were I like— that is— but never mind sneering at me ; lam a confirmed bachelor. " I shall never see her again, and, besides, she is a Catholic : the old man smiled a little and said : ' St. Raphael sent this young gentleman.' And his daughcer— of course she is his daughter — answered : we must thank them both.' " She would not marry a Protestant, nor would I a Catholic. You people are right in your objections to mixed marriages. lam not a bigot, but I could not endure a wife who prayed to saints, and who would interrupt a dinner party to say the Angelus, and who would amaze her Protestant friends by giving them pious little pictures. It would not do. There must certainly be a great discord in the married life of two people of different religious practices. "It was so kind of the unknown to send me this medal I I shall always wear it. Ido not see why I should not. I fancy you are sneering at my inconsistency. I am a Christian, although I have never thought much about religion. Ido not have time. I fancy if I were married I would adopt my wife's form of belief— not if she were a Catholic, though ; I really could not go that far. But at present there is no chance of my marrying, as the French poet says : 11 ' Si voub croyez que je vais dire Qui jose aimer, Je ne saurai, pour un empire Vous la nommer.' " You ask me if I would not like to go back to the law and work over Blackstone with you in a musty old office again. No ; as you say, a journalist has great responsibilities, but I bear them without acquiring those deep lineß of care which you seem to think ought to furrow my brow. Perhaps if 1 were a Catholic, and scrupulous about many things, I might lie down under the weight of my tears, and hesitate a long time "before I wrote a paragraph or even a line. But my conscience is not abnormally tender, and I write about what comes in my way without troubling myself about it. I suppose I do some harm occasionally ; but a man has to ' fill space,' and what is the übo of bothering 1 " You ask me what the twentieth century wiil bring forth if we young men coDtinue to doubt. Nothing, my dear boy— nothing. We shall all have committed suicide by that time, and your Church will remain alone in the ruins like Macaulay's New Zealander. Of course I'm a Christian, if I'm anything ; bui I don't know anything. And you cannot blame me from your Papal height of certitude, I have been educated to believe onlj what I see.

[am what I hare been made. Good-bye ; it is 3 o'clock in the morning." IV. " ' The curse has come upon me.' dear Red — the curoe of weariness of all things. I uring the chief's vacation I took his place, and when he came home be complimented me and said he could not bare done better, and he sent me off to this town to recuperate. It is a quiet spot, as all watering places are in April, I suspect. " Here lam at. Atlantic City, wuli my pipes and a few books. I can look at the sea from my window all day long. But I aoa tired of it, as lam tired of everything. Life it not worth living. The only other persons in the house from New York, too. Ttiey are a young girl and an old man or woman, I believe. But I don't care. I shall get back into 'he journalistic harness us soon as I can. " Why didn't I write ? Because I did nothing I could help doing. Now do not try to convert me (although I am under obligations for the books you sent me). I never read books ; and it's too late for me to try to go against the spirit of the age. I don't know ; and the Christians I meet seem to have as little reason for the faith that is in them as I have for going occasionally to the Episcopal Church, which is very well served here by a gentlemanly rector. " The wind is howling, and you should see the sea ! It tears along the beach and upon it with a fury truly awful. Just think of it 1 A thin pane of glass separates me from the cold, the pitiless wind, and the rush of water outside my room I A thin pane of glass 1 But, old fellow, the partition between life and death is thinner." V. " What an April I I have been on the outskirts of this queer, straggling city a week. The wind still howls. Every morning I see one of the other inmates of this cottage go out early through the howling storm. I asked the landlady where she goes. She said to church. I concluded that she must be a very advanced Ritualist. 1 She's very " High Church," I suppose,' I said. "'" ' Hi^h ! ' said toe landlady, ' She's a Catholic. I never met anyone else who would run out in weather like this just to go to church. But she does, and I never met a kinder or sweeter girl. She takes care of that father of hers as if he were a baby.' " ' It's strange I never met them.' " People don't go promenading on the beach in a storm like this,' she answered ; ' and they take their meals in their room. I'd like them better if they were not so particular about having meat on Fridays ; but we all have our weaknesses.' "The day after this I was up earlier than usual. The boom of the waves was like the sound of tne dead march of some giant beaten cut of colossal drums. The spray spouted against the gray sky. I thought that a morning like this would certainly keep my neighbour at home. It did not. She went out closely wrapped up, and was soon lost to sight in the mist and spray. This amazes me. It is the first time I have seen a woman look upon church-going as a serious business, unconnected with new bonnets or new frocks." (2b be concluded in our next.")