THE GLOBE. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20, 1881. A STALE DODGE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2229, 20 April 1881, Page 2

THE GLOBE. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20, 1881. A STALE DODGE.

At this period of the year when political activity is dead, or at any rate torpid, it is amusing to see the dodges resorted to by onr contemporary, the “ Star,” to achieve a quasi kind of notoriety. At one time, it is discoursing learnedly respecting the moral and social conditions of the Patagonians. At another, giving ns a moral lesson on the enormi tyof any thing but Shakespeare and home-made drama being patronised. But yesterday it must have been at its wits’ end to find any subject in which to pose before the public as the great moral instructor of the age. What was to bo done ? It was holiday time, and ono of the heavy stock melodramatic pieces as to the Cabnl difficulty would never do. A brilliant thought flashed across the mind of our contemporary. The truthful James of the elder brother of the “ Star ” had—so it was said—narrowly escaped being murdered in Wellington. Should it bo permitted to morning journals only to go in for the dark cloak, slouch hat, and stiletto of the bravo? Not at all. The “ Star ” must bo threatened. That great, good, and noble genius who for months past has wielded the destinies of nations under the motto of “Fiat Lux,” must, for half an hour at least, enjoy the delicious feeling that thousands of hearts quaked for his safety. To this end a letter was received—no, it was not written in the office, as some malicious people want to make out—from one of the pets of the “ Star,” and hey presto ! a leading article was straightway written, in which “ our journal” was self-glorified to a most remarkable degree—-We are your friends, misguided working men ! Stick to us, and we will never desert you —no, never—well, hardly over—unless something better turns up. This is the song of the “ Star,” varied with a Peckeniflian modesty as to purity of motives, which is perfectly refreshing to read. But supposing the threat to be real! The thought is too horrible. The death of the most truthful “ special” of modern days would sink into utter insignificance beside the martyrdom of the editor of the “ Star” in the right-of-way near his sanctum. But what a colonial, nay local, drama would it make, say, in five acts and seven tableaux. The proposed victim might arrange all the scenery and details as if it really took place, substituting a lay figure at the critical moment when the mythical unemployed ruffians rash on their prey. There is just one fault in the whole affair. The little dodge is too transparent. We do not for one instant believe that the precious life of the editor of the “ Star ” is in danger. He may desire to play the role of the martyr, but he lacks dignity, and instead of sympathy evokes laughter. Judging too from the fact that the business of the city appears to go on as usual, and that there are no signs of any national calamity having befallen us, wo are inclined to believe that the public are also hard to convince, and refuse to believe that there could be found in our midst anyone so base as to meditate a crime so heinous as to threaten so great a public benefactor.