THE DEAD SEASON.

New Zealander, Volume 9, Issue 722, 16 March 1853, Page 3

THE DEAD SEASON.

(Prom the"" Nonconformist," September I.)

Pity us, good reader! pity the sorrows of a journalist in "the dead season." Compassion is erratic—often travels to the ends of the earth in search of an object, when it might find a more appropriate one close at home. Some persons betake themselves to the realms of fiction with a view to give exercise to their kindlier sentiments, and save up their sighs, and bottle their tears, for imaginary heroes and heroines —mingling, after the most approved fashion of modern times, pleasure with duty, and indulging no end of virtuous emotions without entailing upon themselves the cost of a single practical effort. Some delight rather in the Jellaby line, rejoicing in the distant, and the unknown, and expending on "fancy" benevolence more feeling than would have sufficed, if wisely directed, to remove an immense amount of the raw material of misery lying at their very feet. It is impossible to determine beforehand, in any given case, what peculiar feature of it, if any, will evoke sympathy. Now it is attracted by the colour of the skin —then it rushes off to convicted crime, especially of extraordinary turpitude—anon we find it quitting the sphere of humanity altogether, and making Us home with the brute creation. Is it from ignorance or indifference, or both, that it systematically overlooks the journalist in "(he dead season?" Certain it is, that like the martyr to tooth-ache, he suffers, hut finds no pily.

Yet he deserves commiseration. His sad case might swell a heart of gulla percha. His embarrassments are cruelly torturing. He is worse off than a slave. Like the Israelites, compelled by their Egypfain overseers (o furnish their tale of bricks when there was no straw, so the journalist is bound by the public to produce his comment when there is no text. Picture him to yourself, ye who sit at ease, under no obligalion lo reflect and moralise, when occasion is wanting. The hour of publication is drawing nigh, with all the inexorableness of fate, and he, poor man, is under heavy bail to say something pertinent, wise, and well polished into smartness. See with what a penetrating eagerness his mind's eye ranges from pole lo pole, in search of a timely topic at home, not a speck to be seen at which he can level his remarks, unless, perchance he can descry, as he mostly can, a railway accident or a colliery explosion, and even then he is deterred from letting off his observations by a reminiscence of taujours pedrix. He keeps a keen look-out for the overland mail, but, alas! when it comes, it brings with it nothing but the old story—political disquietude up somewhere, military aggression, involuntary annexation. He hopes better things of the Kaffir war —something decisive as a peg upon which lo hang Out a few rellections—he is miserably disappointed, for the last despatches are as like the preceding ones, on which he has exhausted comment, as one pea is like another. "Foreign intelligence" is a dreary monolony. Transatlantic doings and sayings, now that (he fishery dispute is disposed of, lack interest. the very "gold regions" have ceased lo glilter. Emigration is no go. Prison discipline is confining. Convocation is a sham. What can he do? Where can he settle? On what question can he concentrate his thoughts? He is on an unbounded expanse, without chart, without compass, without purpose. Is be not to be pi lied ?

It is in ''the dead season" that the vices of journalism come out; and no wonder. When the atmosphere is stagnant, the weaknesses of the constitution inevitably make their appearance. If ever editors grow savage, or go mad it is sure to be then. The mind is driven in to prey upon itself. Do you want specimens of extravagant indignation, abuse more virulent then common, mole-hills magnified into mountains, prophecies, portents, and mysteries, secrets " looming in the distance? 1 ' you must look for them in u the dead season." It is the harvest-lime of those bureaucratic reformers, whose business it seems to be to write up an additional government commission, to create a complicated and expensive machinery, and to secure snug appointments, the duties of which may be summed up in two words— laisser [aire. It is the birth-period of almost all panics—but particularly of those periodical ones which j.recede an enlargement of our defensive establishments. The Militia Bill of last year is a fruit of '•the dead season." Those alarming letters from the United Service —those editorial lucubrations, half-deprecatory, half-encouraging — that advantage taken of artificial excitement — those insertions of every scrap of scribble on the subject which may chance to come to hand — why, all this, which our statesmen are too glad to interpret as public opinion, comes out of journalists having no substantial business to do. The anti-papal tempest of the preceding year could not have occurred in any but the "dead season/' It was brewed by the press for want of something belter to employ it. Have a care, good reader—have a care of excitements and manias got up during this unhealthy period of journalism! Regard them, for the most part, as the fermentation of enforced idleness, which when real business resume its place, will either disappear, or settle in a scum of unnecessary or mischievous legislation! "The dead season" has its advantages, of course. It clears the stage of bustling, noisy, obtrusive topics, and gives a chance to more modest, but not less important ones. Some of those exquisite essays on social morality which sparkle as gems above the front of our daily and weekly press, have been occasioned by incidents which, in more stirring limes, would have attracted no notice. Now, more than ever, we may expect to find luminous expositions of first principles, and whole treatises of political or moral philosophy, packed up within the narrow limits of an editorial leader. Of what use are Parliamentary " blue books" but for the "dead season?" These are the "diggins" of the newspaper world, to which political lit rait would mot betake themselves but for a previous bankruptcy of topics. They who search in these unfrequented regions for precious material have to do the work of " navvies," and oflen without

a '' navy's reward. But incalculable altogether is the aggregate of lore which they exhume—and much does society owe them for extracting from cart-loads of raw material a " porlable essence" available for (he most indolent. This, also, is the season of Archaeological, Meteorological, Geological, and all other " ological" conferences and festivities—institutes which are fain to con* lent themselves with the public pleasure-taking time in which to make themselves heard, just as House of Commons' third-rale orators crowd their speeches into the dinner-hour, and pleas themselves with the sweet echo of their own voices, when no one is left to address but Mr. Speaker. Moreover, it is only in the "dead season," dearly beloved reader, lhat we are at liberty to offer you such an article as this. The moral of the whole subject is obvious. The "dead season" calls for sympathy on behalf of the unfortunate class whose heaviest trials are then undergone. Now, how can pity best express itself in this case ? These poor men ought to be encouraged generally, but especially during the period we have described. It is worth while reading their lucubrations at such time, for they are then moslly ingenious, and sometimes wonderfully suggestive. And if, in " the dead season," they hear that marvel of marvels, that the circulation of their journals is increasing—potent, and even magical, is the fillip which the tidings will give to their intellectual faculties, and soothing and sweetening is the influence the good news will exert upon their temper. If you have " bowels of compassion," neglect not your paper in the day of its straits. Tisn't considerate —'tisn't indeed ! " England's adversity," O'Conncll used to say, "is Ireland's opportunity." " The dead season" of a journal is, in like manner, the time for its readers to honour it. AVe put in this claim, not for ourselves alone, but for our whole fraternity. Moreover, we have the good of the reading public at heart—for surely there is no more suggestive sight for those who can reflect on what passes before them than a newspaper struggling with the difficulties of "the dead season."