A PERSECUTED JOURNALIST.

Akaroa Mail and Banks Peninsula Advertiser, Volume 4, Issue 362, 9 January 1880, Page 3

A PERSECUTED JOURNALIST.

That the editor of every daily paper is persecuted by poetasters is an unquestionable fact; and it is probable that some of the worst of the sufferers would be justified in tricing extreme measures to * protect themselves from such outrages. But that Major Slott of Tlie Patriot ever proposed to murder a poet in selfdefence I doubt. The editor^of, a, rival ** sheet in our county declares, however, that the major actually thirsts for blood ; and in proof of the assertion he has printed the following narativo, which, he says, he obtained from Mr Grady, the policemai: " One day recently the major sent for a policeman; and when Mi Crady, of the force, arrived, the major shut the door of his sanetuin and a&ked him to * take « seat. 41 ' Mr Grady,' he said,' your profession necessarily brings you into contact with the criminal classes and familiar- * izes jou with them. This is why I have * sent for you. My business is of a confidential nature, and I trust to your honor to regard it as a sacred trust confided in you. Mr Grady, I wish to ascertain -if among your acquaintances of the criminal sort, you know of any one who is a professional assassin—who rents himself out to any one who wants to destroy a fellow-creature ? Do you # know of such a person V " ' I dunno as I do,' slid Mr Grady, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. < There's not mucli demand for murderers now.' *. « W«ll,"6aid the editor,' I wish you'd look around and see if you can light on such a man, and get him to do a little job for me. I want a butcher who will slay a person whom I will designate. I don't care how he does it. He may stab I him or drown him, or bang him with a shot-gun. It makes no difference to me j I will pay him all the same. Now, will you get me such a man V "' I s'pose I might. I'll look round, any way.'

"' Between you and me,' said the editor,' the chap I'm going to assassinate is a poet—a fellow named Markley. He has been sending poetry to this paper every day for eight months. I never printed a line, but he keeps stuffing it in as if he thought I was depositing it in the bank and drawing interest on it. Well, sir, it's got to be so bad that it annoys me terribly. It keeps me awake at night. I'm losing flesh. That man and his poetry haunt me. I'm getting gloomy and morose. Life is beginning to pall upon me. I seem to be under the influence of a perpetual nightmare. I can't stand it much longer, Mr Grady ; my reason will totter upon its throne. Here, only this morning, he sent me a poem entitled ' l Lines to Hannah." Are you fond of poetry, Grady?' " < Oh, I dunno ; I don't care so much about it.' " ' Well, I'll read you one verse of the " Lines to Hannah." He says—to Hannah, mind you— " The little birds sing sweetly In the weeping willows green, The village girls dress neatly— Ob, tell me, do I dream ?" Now, you see, Grady, that is what is unseating my mind. A man can't stand more than a certain amount of that kind of thing. What do the public care whether he is dreaming or whether he is drunk? What does Hannah care? Why, they don't care a cent. Now, do they V " l Not a red cent.' "* Of course not. And yet Markley sends me another poem, entitled " Despondency," in which he exclaims, " Oh,|bury me deep in the ocean blue, Where the roaring billows laugh ; Ob, cast me away on the weltering sea, Where the dolphins will bite me in half.' Now, Mr Grady, if you can find a competent assassin, I wouldn't make it a point with him to oblige Mr Markley. I don't care particularly to have the poet buried in the weltering sea. If he can't find a roaring billow, I'll be perfectly satisfied to have him chucked into a creek. And I dare say that it'll make no material difference whether the dolphins gobble him or the caffish and eels nibble him up. It's all the same in the in the long run. Mention this to your murderer when you speak to him, will you ? Now, I'll show you why this thing takes all the heart out of me. In his poem entitled " Longings " he uses this language:

" Ob, eing to me, darling, a sweet song to-night, While I bask in the smile of thine eyes, While I kiss those dear lips in the dark

silent room, And whisper my saddening good-byes Now, you see how it is yourself, Grady, don't you ? How is she going to sing to him while he kisses those lips, and and how is he going to whisper goodbye? Isn't that awful slush? Now, isn't it ? And then, if the room is dark, what I want to know is how he's going to tell whether her eyes are smiling or not ? Mr Grady, either the man is insane or I am ; and if your butcher is going to stab Markley, you'll oblige me by telling him that I want him to jab him deep, and maybe fill him up with poison or something to make it absolutely certain.

" * I know that when he sent me that poem about " The Unknown " I parsed it, >nd examined it with a microscope, and sent it around to a chemist's to be analyzed, but hang me if 1 know yet what he's driving at when he says,

" The uffiah spectral gleaming of that wild resounding clang Came hooting o'er the margin of the the dusky moors that hang, Like palls of inky darkness where the hoarse, weird raven calls, And the bhang-drunk Hindoo staggers on and on until he falls." Isn't that— Well, now, isn't that just the most fearful mess of stuff that was ever ground out of a lunatic asylum ?'

" ' It's the awfulest I ever saw.'

" 'Well then, I get eighteen of them a week, and .they faadden me. They keep my buain in a frenzied whirl. Grady, this man m,ust die.'Self-preservation is the first law of nature. I have a wife and children ; I conduct a great paper ; I educate the public m ind. My life is valuable to my country ; Destroy this poet, and future generations will praise your name. beeped out, exterminated, obhterated'frons the face of the earth. Kill him dead andhury him deep, and fix him in so's he will stay down, and bring in the bill for tombstone. I leave the case to you. You need not tell me you have done thl s job. When the poems cease to come me, I will know that he is dead. That will settle it. Good

morning.'" / It is believed that the poet must have been wameq by Grady, for the supplies suddenly ct ase d ; and Markley is saving up his effusi ons f or some other victim.

Max Adeler,