BUR LONDON FLANEUR.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIV, Issue 4310, 15 March 1884, Page 3 (Supplement)

BUR LONDON FLANEUR.

SOCIAL, THEATRICAL AND LITERARY,

Disappearance vsf the Sun—The Winter Art Shows—Gkosvenor Gaiuiky-Police Sui'ekvision■«*' Public Men an Germany— I'ROI-KSSOK KUSKIN — STORY ABOUT AN yKsthistic Professor—" Tns Bittkh Cky op Outcast Bklgravia" —A Fooi man's Wail—The New Pkincks Theathe: Its Marble Halls, Moorish Annexes, and Conservatory—The " Palack of Truth " Rkvived, Mrs Lingard as Zkolide—Nkw 'Operas at Covent Gakden—"Comedy and tragedy," grilbkrt'B play for jilss anderSON at the Lyceum — Extraordinary Thiumwi—Plot of the Piece—Miki Anderson's Realisation ok "Clarice"— — The American Accent — Books — James Payn's " Canon's Ward " — Twae .Latest Thino in Magazinks—Walter Bksatit's New Stouies—Cheap EditionsNew Muhic—Popular Songs, Sentimental te&iD Othkrwise.

London, January 31. Here we are in the last week of January. without having experienced even so much' cs the pretence of a frost this year. Rain we get in plenty, likewise fog, boisterous "winds, and a general atmosphere of dulness., The sun seems to have entirely disappeared. Old England is nfraid of none. She fears no foeman'B threats, For on her mijthty empire The sun it never aetß. He who retails this axiom in His generation wibc is ; The sun it never sets, because The sun it never rises. Let me say at once I am not the wirtihorof this somewhat feeble jtu d't*}t:nt. It appeared in an evening newspaper the other day, and tickled my fancy go that I felt I must clip it. Parliament meets next week, and town is already very full. All the winter picture exhibitions are now open, and, in conjunction with most of the West End theatres, seem to be dointj a " roaring" business. The art show par excellence is as usual at the Grosvenor Gallery, where most of the masterpieces of Sir Joshua Reynolds are on view. Looking in there last Saturday afternoon I found several well-known AngloColoniale, notably Sir Penrose Julyan, Sir Charles Clifford, and Mr Richard Laishley (of Auckland), " doing " the Exhibition. Subsequently I visited the watercolour views of South New Zealand at the Burlington Gallery. They do nut seem to be particularly well patronised. The landscapes are interesting, but only a few really rise above respectable mediocrity. I hear, by the way, that Sir Samuel Wilson has turned art patron, and is buying largely for the picture gallery at his new " ancestral mansion " in Hertfordshire.

Dining out with a German Count the other evening, I learnt something I never knew before. The Berliners .are very particular about the characters of their public men. A special department of the police gives its sole and undivided attention to the antecedents of all persons who become candidates for any sort of ofjjce or appointment, or who desire to extend their relations with the public. Theeeinvestigationsastoqualification, reputation, honesty, &c, are conducted without the knowledge of the individual concerned, but should he after being thus weighed be found wanting.he (vulgarly spoaking) " gets the office " to retire, or if he ignores hints is publicly ex posed. How would this admirable plan work in New Zealand, think you ? Fancy a private inquiry into the antecedents of certain M.H.R.'s. What revelations you would have, and how entertaining that "dry sheet," the "Police Gazette" would suddenly become.

It is just on the cards, if his health continues fairly good, that Mr Ruskin may winter at the Antipodes this year, leaving England in October. His recent lectures at Oxford were, everyone admits, wonderfully interesting, and tho Fors Clavhjera, which still appear pretty regularly, show no falling off whatever. Talking of aesthetics reminds me of a good story that is going the rounds just now. During the past year the Professor of .Esthetics at the University of Munich, whose lectures are proverbially tiresome, delivered his course (as ußual) to a somewhat exiguous audience. There were five students in all, who week by week melted away and grew beautifully less, until at last but one was left. This solitary individual, however, seemed to concentrate in his own person all the diligence, application, and punctuality of his frivolous fellows. At tho conclusion of the last lecture of the course, the Professor approached him and praised him for these admirable qualities, and proceeded to inquire of him, " What is your name, my young friend ?" No answer. •' What country are you from ?" Absolute silence. The matter was soon elucidated, for it was discovered that the patient and persevering disciple was a poor deaf mute, who had taken refuge from the severe cold of winter in the warm lecture rooms of the University. A letter from a London footman, which appeared in the " Times" the other day, has created quite a sensation. John Thomas complains that the menservants in the houses of great noblemen are lodged far worse than the poor, and instances cases of footmen who parade marble halls in velvet and plush during the day, Bleeping in dog-kennels and slush-tubs at night. George R. Sims (most irreverent of wags) mocks, I regret to say, at John Thomas. He suggests the ■publication of a pamphlet to be styled, "The Bitter Cry of Outcast Belgravia," •and (under the familiar signature of " Dagonet," in the " Referee ") offers some '.humorous suggestions as to filling it up. I will send you a bit of the article amongst my " cliptomania." Jesting apart, I believe the London foot men have some cause of complaint. Servants' quarters even at certain Royal palaces are notoriously inadequate, and in London houses, where every square foot of room is valuable, I can quite imagine any hole is considered good enough for a flunkey to " pig " in. One hears little or nothing of the " outcast poor " nowadays. The movement to better their condition was earnest enough, in all conscience, whilst it lasted, but, alas ! like most "nine dayB1 wonders," it didn't last long. One desirable outcome has, however, resulted in consequence. We are to have a Royal Commission to investigate the whole question.

Tho new Princes Theatre in Coventrystreet waa opened on Friday,the 18th inst., in the presence of the Prince and Princess ■of Wales and an unusually friendly audience of representative " first-nighters." It is a very fine house in all respects, but special pains seem to have been taken to make what people call the "front" attractive. Entering from Piccadilly,the amazed visitor •finds himself in a spacious foyer, whence he can wander at will through bijou retiring rooms, Moorish annexes, luxurious refreshment buffets, either to his seat in the stalls or to a delightful smoking conservatory. We live truly—at least, playgoers do— in a luxurious age, when their corridor conversations during the intervals of a play are carried on under groves of palms; and the seductive cigarette is smoked to the splashing of many fountains. At one time the flaneur -can warble to himself, " Here in cool grot and mossy dell," and at another, noting the luxury at his feet.and overhead, "■I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.' Gilbert's clever comedy, "The Palace of Truth," firet played at the Haymarket in

IS7O, was the piece dc resistance of the opening programme at the new theatre. It went, I am sorry to say, very badly— in fact, fell so flat that any but a really friendly audience would have expressed open disapprobation. As it was, not a soul applauded. An evening which began with an inaugural address, hearty cheers, and exuberant clapping, -ended in depressing silence. The cause of the fiasco was unquestionably the weakness of the principal members of the company—Mr Anson, Mr Kyrle Bellew, and Miss Lingard, who, despite thek well-ear»ed reputations for comedy acting, showed themselves quite incapable of doing justice to Gilbert's subtle and delicate satire. After the rich, spontaneous humour of poor old Buekstone as King Phunor, people found Mr Anson's overstrained antics any thingbut laughable. Mr Bellew, too, evidently thought more of his personal appearance than his part; whilst Mies Lingard had •evidently wholly misconceived the character <of Zeolide. The press has condemned the representation in unmeasured terms, and I •expect the "Palace of Truth" will soon disappear from the bill.

The second-rate English Opera Company now playing a short season at Covent Garden have achieved a sxtcces d'estime with " The Piper of Flamelin," a work by a ■German composer, founded on the famous legend of "The Pied Piper of Flamelin." The music is severely Teutonic, and would not, I fear, suit the popular colonial taste, but there are one or two fairly pretty songs in the opera, which I will name directly it iis published. Another lyric novelty, " Victorian," by Julian Thomas, was produced by the same company last Saturday, but without success. It is said to be a version of Longfellow's " Spanish Student." "Lords and Commons," which has not boon a big draw at the Haymarket, will be withdrawn shortly to make room for a revival of "Peril," Mr Bolton'Rowe's popular version of Sardons " Nos Intimes." This piece had a prolonged run at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre some years ago, when the parts now to be undertaken by Mr Forbes Robertson, Mr Conway, and Mrs Bernard Beere, were played by Mrand Mrs KendallandMrCoghlan. TalkingofMrCoghlan reminds me that this most promising of all Je.ttnes premiers is suffering from Boftening of the brain, and has lost (only temporarily the doctors hope) all histrionic power. The last nights of " La Vie" at the Avenue are announced. I wonder myself how it has ka.pt the boards so long. Planquette's longpromised "Nell Gwy>ne" follows, with ■ clover Florence St. John in the title r6le. The Belgian composer is coming over to conduct the first performances himself. The one-act play, " Comedy and Tragedy," written for Miss Anderson by "Pinafore" Gilbert, was produced at the Lyceum on Saturday evening last, and proved an extraordinary puccess. It occupies barely forty minutes in performance, but daring that time the heroine is never off the stage, and has opportunities for high-class acting which would delight even a Bernhardt or a Modjeska. Clarice, the actress heroine of "Comedy and Tragedy," is the kind of character that no lady, even of transcendent ability, would disdain. In course of time we shall probably see all the greatest living artistes in the part. Meanwhile, Miss Anderson is in luck to have secured euch a piece, and might well Bhake Mr Gilbert's hand cordially as she led him across the stage to acknowledge the tumultuous congratulations of the firstnight audience. The story of "Comedy and Tragedy," which originally appeared in narrative form in a Christmas Annual called "The Stage Door," runs as follows : The scene ie France, the time the Regency of the notorious Duke of Orleans, and the heroine Mdlle. Clarice, a famous actress of the Comedie Francaise, who, with her husband, Monsieur D'Aubray, co-operates in a scheme for tho punishment of an offensive admirer, no less a per3on indeed than the Regent himself. For a long time D'Aubray haa been anxious to avenge in a duel the insults offered to his wife in the form of odious attentions by the Royal voluptuary. But the Regent has steadily refused to meet the indignant husband, who, for love of his wife, abandoned his social position as officer of the Royal Guard and became an actor, forfeiting thereby his rights as a gentleman. Burning with the recollection of an attempt at abduction made by d'Orleans, the actress consents to turn her profession to account. By pretending that she is separated from her husband, she will lure her persecutor tuto her own house, where d'Dubray can confront him and compel him to fight To a supper party, accordingly, she invites the Regent and his profligate friends, the Abb 6 Dubois, de la Ferte, de Courcelles, and others, and it is just before this party begins that the play opens. An interview between Clarice and her sister Pauline, who knows nothing of the plot, suffices to indicate the pressure which the actress puts upon herself to sustain the role of a careless wife, who holds husbands to be "out of fashion, and no longer worn," and who is ready to receive her princely admirer the moment that she is free. Clarice gets rid of her sister, replying to her remonstrances in such a way as to leave no doubt of her reckless demoralisation, until, in a hurried conversation with her husband before the guests arrive, her true nature is made manifest. The Regent arrives, and, surprised at his own success, renews his advances directly he is left alone with his hostess. She acts, intrigues, faints, flirts, lies and deceives this vain coxcomb until she gets him fairly into the trap she has set for him. The Regent of France is embracing her, pouring the poison af his unholy passion into her ears. Her husband stands over her would-be seducer with adrawnsword. The crisis has come. Regent or no Regent, he must fight the man whose honour he has outraged. The Duke refuses ;he cannot sully his honour by indulging the vanity of a mere actor with a duel. Straightway the actor tears up his commission from the Theatre Francais, and throws it at the Regent's feet. Still the Regent is obdurate. He appeals to Clarice—he is an expert swordsman ; his death-thrust is a certainty. The woman, with quivering lip, and. in an agony of apprehension, settles the question : " You must fight my husband !" And so the two men go out into the moonlight to kill or to be killed, whilst Clarice, swears they shall not be interrupted, cost what it may. What a fearful moment for a fond woman ! The door of the garden has scarcely closed on the combatants, when the guests of Clarice return, heated with wine, from their supper. She must do something to distract their attention. She is nervous, hysterical, flattered, and agitated; but something must be done to stifle the noise of the duel. "Hark!" says one of the guests, " there is the clashing of swords in the garden." But Clarice, half-hysterical, is on the alert. She rushes to the door, locks it with feverish impetuosity, and hands the key to the doctor, who swuars to obey her orders. She has a surprise in the garden for her guests which phe cannot reveal. She will recite. What shall it be? Somebody proposes an improvisation. Clarice is remarkable for her power at impromptu. It shall be comedy first—she promises them "tragedy afterwards " —and away the feverish woman dashes into the wild extravagance of comic art. She is making her audience roar with laughter at her variety and imitations, when the cry, the despairing cry of a

wounded man, falls upon her ears. Her husband is dead or dying. In an agony of emotion she explains the situation, and on her knees implores the doctor to hand her back the key of the closed door. But this is supposed to be the "tragedy" which was to follow the " comedy." How superbly Clarice is acting ! The more passionate she becomes the more the .spectators admire her splendid genius. She is not acting. She declares in tones of agony that ring with truth to one man alone—the doctor. In spite of the protests of the guests, this good man ventures to interfere. There is something in the woman's emotion no art can counterfeit. It is not acting, it is truth. So the key is delivered up. In a frenzy of doubt Clarice unlocks the door, and there stands her husband, pale as a ghost, but unhurt, while his rival lies out in the garden wounded to the death. This was the surprise of Clarice, and as she bows her thanks to her guests for their "generous applause," the curtain falls upon as strong and valuable a little play as lucky actress ever secured. On the whole, Miss Anderson achieved a signal success. From first to last she held the vast audience silent and enthralled. During the forty minutes she was on the stage you could have almost heard a pin drop ; indeed, the curtain had fallen two or three seconds before the entranced throng woke up and burst into the heartiest congratulatory applause that has been heard within those walls since Irving went to America. Much of this fine effect was, of course, due to the play itself, which is one of the neatest and most powerful one-act dramas ever written. It does not contain a superfluous line or a dull moment. Miss Anderson acts best in the hard parts. When bracing herself up for revenge she is excellent, and the cruel look Clarice turns on the trapped Regent ought to freeze him. What the actress lacks is tenderness and pathetic power. Clarice's love for her husband docs not seem sufficiently indicated. Mrs Kendal, in the same part, would literally tear at one's heart-strings. Mary Anderson fails even to draw a tear. She is very beautiful, very clever, and at times very powerful. Her Clarice is a thing to see and remember, but to pretend that she does full justice to the character would be absu»d. lam talking now, please remember, of the initial representation. In time, no doubt, her conception of the part will greatly improve. Especially is it to be hoped that some effort will be made to overcome the obnoxious American twang which, strangely enough, only makes its appearance in Miss Anderson's voice at exciting crises. Everybody knows how narrow is the line separating the sublime from the ridiculous. Well, last Saturday evening I more than once trembled lest it should be crossed, for as the culminating point of Clarice's agony approached, Miss Anderson's American accent became so pronounced as to be almost funny.

What a delightful novelist James Payn ifs! I have just finished his new story, "The Canon's Ward," and I enjoyed it thoroughly. He has not evolved a very striking plot, but what there is to tell is told admirably, and (as usual in his books) one meets quite a gallery of charming characters. " The Canon's Ward " strikes me as being about on a par with " Thicker than Water," and "A Grape from a Thorn," which, by the way, are now out at two shillings. The newest thing in magazines is " Home Chimes," a weekly (also bound up in monthly parts) on the plan of " Bow Belle," "Tho London Journal," etc., etc. The price is one penny weekiy (sixpence monthly), and the idea seems to be to bowl over existing rivals by supplying at less cost equally interesting and exciting, but far better love stories, romances, etc. F. W. Robinson, author of that famous sensation novel " Grandmother's Money," is the editor, and contributes one of the serials, a tale called "A Fair Maid." James Sime, author of the successful novel "King Capital," is writing another entitled " Old Gold," and amongst the celebrities who contribute short tales, etc., to the first monthly number may be mentioned Phil Robinson (of "Poets' Buds" fame), Algernon Chas. Swinburne, the poet; Clement Scott, Savile Clark, Alice King, Emma Marshall, and Mrs Gregg. Walter Besant, I hear, is engaged on a new novel for the " English Illustrated Magazine," called "Julia." The tale he has just finished, " Dorothy Forster," began to run through the "Graphic"last week. Mrsßiddell succeeds Payn in the " Illustrated London News." Her story, " Berna, " does not commence well; indeed, I don't think she is at all the sort of novelist to suit a weekly paper. MacMillan and Co., who recently purchased the copyright, announce a new seven-and-sixpenny edition of Lord Tennyson's works, which will be exquisitely gotup, and contain many poems not to be found in other series. I must not forget to mention, too, that a very remarkable novel by the author of that extraordinary hook "John Herring " is just out in a six-shilling form. This is "Mehalah, a Story of the Salt Marshes," and was reviewed very flatteringly some time ago. Blackwoods also announce a cheap edition of the muchtalkedabout " AltioraPeto."

I ought, I am well aware, to say something about new music, but I have not been to many concert* lately. In "My Sweetheart," the other night, little Minnie Palnrer sang some of the new Yankee notions, but probably they have already reached yon. "Sweet Violets" was one, and "Peck-a-Boo" another, likewise "Only a Pansy Flower," which I am getting rather sick of. A first-rate lady's song is "The Broken Pitcher," by Pontet, and someone recently spoke well of " Daddy " to me, I remember. "Laddie," which was mentioned in these columns two months ago, is now selling at the rate of 10,000 copies a month, and Louis Dtehl's " Going to Market" is almost equally popular. "A Maid of Kent," by Diehl, seems_ much advertised, but I don't know anything about it personally. Marzials, whose " Summer Shower" was such a favourite last year, has just completed two new songs, " Never to Know " and " When My Jim Comes Home." They are favourably criticised, but one can't always judge from thnt. There will be a tremendous run on " Princess Ida " when the score is published six weeks hence, and I expect "selections " from the opera will be tho "rage" all summer. A friend tells me the best dancing waltz of the season is tho "Estuditiana," but the name of the composer he doesn't know. I should think Straus?, probably. Bucalossi's new waltz, " Maiden Dreams," is pretty.