In the Mirror

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 3, Issue 4, 1 October 1924, Page 2

In the Mirror

REFLECTIONS ON VARIOUS THEMES BY “KNAVE O’ HEARTS”

Dear Lady in the Mirror, — I hope, dear Lady, that you were not amongst the many who were deprived by force of circumstances from reading my last mouth’s notes. There were so many who, being ready and willing to produce the nimble shilling- -to read my words of wisdom (and incidentally to enjoy the other features of the journal that a generous Editor considers necessary to amplify my epistle), were disappointed because, Mother Hubbard-like, the cupboard was bare: the newsagent’s stock was exhausted. Should you be amongst the disappointed, accept our apologies and incidentally our advice. The circulation of The Ladies’ Mirror is advancing by leaps and bounds —a very gratifying condition of affairs, for which we thank you most heartily, but one that is a little difficult to keep pace with, and though we have done our best, even the limits of our optimism have been exceeded. Hence the fact that you may not have been able to obtain your copy. I might add that there is one perfectly certain way to ensure against disappointment. On page 33 will be found a form, fill it up, attach the necessary, and leave the rest to us. THAT SPRING FEELING! Spring at last! Though, to be quite honest, I always feel that there is something missing in New Zealand Springtime. The transition of the seasons is so easy. The blazonry heralding the advent of warmer days is a fine, inspiring thing in less favoured climes: dead is the tyrant that has ruled so harshly for so long, and all nature decks itself in its brightest to welcome a new and gentler ruler. Here it is like the passing of some worn-out but well-beloved king: though we may rejoice at the coining of a more lively rule, we cannot find it in our hearts to make too great a parade either of sincere mourning or of flamboyant gladness. Goodness! there must be more in this Bpring feeling than 1 realised: 1 thought that I was past so adolescent an emotion. If I am not careful I shall find myself breaking into rhyme, and too well 1 know the Editor’s feelings, poor fellow, about Spring and the curious effect it has in making the sanest of us burble poetry. This, by the way, is a fact; you probably thought it a tag on which humorous artists depend for a precarious existence, hut with the burgeoning of the leaf, so does our mail become overladen with the efforts of amateur poetasters. Possibly I have libelled our New Zealand Spring. It may be something within myself that is at fault. When one is no longer “tall and slender and of the masculine gender,” when one has accepted responsibilities, Spring means but fresh expenditure; one is fortunate if one can still summon up enough enthusiasm to wonder if tennis is still within one’s powers, and whether the price of a new racquet (and how expensive they seem to be getting, don’t they?) will not be better invested in more sober channels. Away with such dismal thoughts: let the spirit of Spring course joyously through our

veins. Let us get out into the open, and regardless of Mr. Massey’s dismal forebodings, squander our hard- cash on such necessities to the real enjoyment of the season as motor cars and sporting gear, lawnmowers and deck-chairs —and, greatest necessity of all, new clothes. Who are we that we should know better than Nature? When the very hedges decide that their winter garb is shabby and threadbare and must needs be renewed, surely we are entitled to think the same! Hence the amount of space you will find devoted, dear Lady, to your sartorial needs in this number. Follow Nature’s example, and look your gayest —-but was there ever woman yet who needed such encouragement! JOURNAL! PECKSNIFFS Hypocrisy is the most loathsome of all vices. It has nothing to commend it. In the old melodramas the villain had at least the one virtue that he was sincere in his villainy-—his every word, his appearance, his very walk announced his purpose in life, ami should (though it usually didn’t, as otherwise there would have been no play) have warned his innocent victims the moment he hove in sight. One felt that there might be something very attractive about so thorough-going a rascal —he was, at least, no hypocrite. On the other hand, we cannot tolerate for a moment the Pecksniffs and Uriah bleeps of life. Smirking hypocrisy, masked under the veil of high moral motives, leaves a bad taste in the mouth of even the most hardened of us, and yet it is such a common vice. We have just had a flagrant example of it in the way one or two of our popular journals have cast up their righteous eyes to heaven and displayed disapproving palms, while they rolled the salacious details or the Sydney orgy around their tongues: relishing with gusto the spicy morsels and inviting all and sundry to share their horrid repast. ‘ Terrible, terrible, dear readers, but did you hear what happened in the Bargain Basement? — special correspondents on the spot will tell you all about it. So it is with every divorce case that reveals sufficient of the seamy side of life to make it palatable to a certain section of the public. In goes the almost, but unfortunately not quite unprintable evidence: beautifully alliterative placards are spread broadcast to contaminate the minds of our youth —and all in the name of Morality. I am no prude, the Press is the modern pillory more pitiless than the stocks of old, and, possibly, more efficacious, but if such things must be said (though I, for one, see no necessity), let it be admitted that they are published for the sole purpose of getting a circulation amongst those who appreciate offal, and for no other motive. Leave the question of morality to the better section of the Press that does not batten on vice. And possibly a more strict censorship of our placards and cinema posters would be no bad move. Some of the expressions that are flaunted in every public thoroughfare are worse than Rabelaisian—-many of the pictures that decorate our hoardings are nothing less than highly coloured incentives to immorality.