MORTON.

Putaruru Press, Volume II, Issue 14, 17 January 1924, Page 3

MORTON.

THE MAN AND HIS MANNER. k t h By Gratiano. cl Not only in Matamata, but 3 throughout New Zealand, nay, ovei e all the continent and islands of the South, will the pen of Morton b2 missed. With all its versatility, its 1 Freshness and its charm, it has dropped from his fingers only too soon. The wiekler of it is dead—a literary - Fyoklas—dead ere his prime and none 1 to take his place. He should have t died, hereafter. We need him yet. t Frank Morton lived and moved and svrote beneath the Southern Cross. ! Of course, he was in Singapore for a while (I don’t know whether Singapore is too far north to see the Southern Cross therefrom) and India (which is), but all the same Morton was a --on of the South. His sketches, his stories and nis songs are moist with the spume of Southern Seas. A regular contributor to the journals of Australia and New Zealand and the associate-editor of what is claimed to be the national magazine of both these places, the writings of Morton are as familiar as household words to most of as. I shall never forget the first tiling 1 ever read of his—it was when I was at school—somewhere back in the kite ’noughts. Tt appeared in a magazine published by a New Zealand shipping company, and it had to do with, the penal days in Tasmania. It referred to the convict station being situated on a peninsular, the neck to which was guarded in a way to make escape impossible, and the surrounding water “ infested with sharks—fed by the Governor’s genial bands.” I remember that transferred epithet until this day —it was so Mortonesque. His versatility was wonderful. As a writer has ’ said, “ His output of words was immense and he wrote on every sort of subject. Yet everything* he wrote bore the marks o*' his authorship, the distinctive Morton touch. He was discussive, provocative, bursting with knowledge and bubbling with fancy, exaggerative, flippant, .scornful, vehement, a master of delicate persiflage, a wizard of words.” He was a journalist in every sense of the expression. He not only could write on anything but he could write anywhere at any time. We have pictures of him hanging* out a long descriptive article on a portable typewriter in a guard’s van of a travelling goods train: inditing on “ the stone,” a tvouch anc criticism, while waiting* for proofs; scribbling a sonnet between the soup and the fish. The last of Ins articles published by an Auckland daily has been described as .typical of the man —r “ a quaint medley of some sentiment and cynicism, but, withal, a powerful Christmas sermon.” This is the article in which,* referring* to Christmas generally, and in particular the Christmas just past, Morton suggests, “ Let each of us say, as he joins hands with each, ‘ maybe T shall never see this really good fellow again.’” . .Turning ov-.n* the pages of fihe latest isffuo of the magazine already referred to and published only five days before his death, one is more amazed than ever with the wonderful versatility of Morton. From:— Once in New Zealand, ’mid the apple buds, I’d bathe wherever T could doff my duds. At Orepuki pub. I had to wait—’Cause why? The only bath was full of spuds. Or:— A little bit of fun at times is right, But it don’t do to keep it up all night. It’s pleasant spoonin’ for an afternoon: But why stay longer and get tied up tight ? So:However faint my hopes may be, I’ll woo her humbly till I die. She’s still the life and soul of me, However Faint my hopes may be. Though friends all Fail and fortune fi ee And age come swiftly, what care I ? However faint my hopes may bo, T’ll woo her humbly till T die. And the diversity of his prose’-in *he periodical is absolutely astouiidmg. And although the style varies it Is always of his best. And here, in tho December Triad, writing of “ Things Visible.” over his nom-de-plume of “ Epistemon,” are his last words:— “What does it matter? Christmas is a splendid season chiefly because it commemorates the coming of the Babe of Nazareth, and the birth of the noblest religion that ever com- < fortecl weary man and made the cruel roads of life more kind. I don’t care whether you are orthodox or heterodox, whether you believe (as I do) that Jesus of Nazareth was God of 1 very God or not, whether you are old or young, rich or poor, I don’t care whethei yoa think me a fool for believing or are (as may be) a. greater fool than I because you will not believe, I don’t care for anything on earth save my own deep conviction of the fact that Xmas is the one festival that rings still very true in the hearts of men. You may bo positivist or Methodist, Protestant or Catholic, slave or seer, but I that am I, l who must eat and sleep and think and suffer and hope with this same Epistemon till I die, I know that every Christina-, do T well or ill, I somehow feel poignantly in my heart that I and ah my fortunes are very safe with God.”—Amen !