TOPICS OF THE DAY.

Evening Star, Issue 8249, 21 June 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

TOPICS OF THE DAY.

[From Our Special Correspondent.] London, May 2. STANLEYS WELCOME HOME. Stanley's welcome home on Saturday last was, I am sorry to state, a horrid muddle. A tram load of the right people—officials, explorers, artists, journalists, and'what not went down to Dover by special early in

the afternoon, and if they had had a portion u * the AdmiraLy Pier to themselves on which to receive ths “ Buccaneer of the Congo ” everytniug would have gone well. Unfortunately the Mayor and Corporation of Dover had determined (despim Stanley’s telegraphic petition that he might he spared ceremony) to lire off an address of welcome at the much-tfied explorer. The police ucrc instructed to enable their chief maMstrafe to achieve this at all hazards, and so well did they carry out their duty that the hero’s personal friends failed for a long time to get near him. Stanley (looking tired and a trifle surprised) soon found hi:nseff.in the midst of a seething, shouting, staring mob of nobodies, through which the ponce forced a difficult passage. At length the special train was reached, and artists, explorers, friends, and noboclies fought wildly with one another to enter the Stanley saloon. You should hear little Paul Du Charllu s description of the scone. He was fortunate himself, being one of the very few people in whom the grim hero of the hour evinced the faintest interest. Stanley also spoke courteously rather than cordially to Melton Prior, and uttered a few commonplace phrases concerning his pendmg visit to the Prince of Wales. Otherwise he declined brusquely to be drawn, treating the band of deferential journalists who flocked hopefully around with a cool contempt they are not likely to either forget or forgive, Strange, isn c it, that this man, who is an exspecial himself, and must know all the difficulties and awkwardnesses of an interview's journalist’s vocation, should rejoice in caulking the tired pressmen of the few words they required to work up into copy. There are some who see a deep-laid scheme for enhancing the value of his own writings (magazine articles and what not) in Stanley’s studied rudeness to the Press. I confess I don’t believe in anything of the kind myself. The truth is more probably that the poor fellow has been pestered on the Continent by foreign reporters till he loathes the sight of a man with a pencil. Nevertheless, in flouting the smart interviewers of the Press on Saturday, and almost ignoring his old employers^—the Lawsons—the Buccaneer of the Congo acted unwisely. The acidulated tone of the descriptive articles in the various papers showed this. Hero is an amusing account of the scene in the Stanley special train by young Moriey, of the ‘ Pall Mall Gazette.’

“ Poor Stanley ! Our new lion and hero looked horribly bored and miserable on Saturday afternoon during his ride up to London from Dover. Can you be surprised ? There was Mr Ashmead-Bartlettt-Burdett-Coutts sitting on his knee, Sir William Mackinnon treading on his corns, Sir Francis De Winton struggling to embrace him, the Lawsons fighting for him, and a score of other notables making themselves very obvious. The poor man was suffocating. The squash was awful. Twenty pressmen pressed in vain, and shoved and fought, and fought and shoved, but to no purpose. Half a dozen artists, sketch books in hand, also tried to catch a glimpse of the hero’s physiognomy, but I doubtjf any of them was successful in seeing anything but his boots. Poor Stanley read his letters and telegrams during all the turmoil, and never turned a hair, though I have no doubt that he was privately wishing he had all the mob in Central Africa. There

were few exceptions; everyone stared at the poor man as if he had been some curious wild beast. In twenty minutes the excitement subsided, the crowd dispersed without the assistance of the police, and Stanley pulled away at his cigar with a phlegmatic air. No interviewer drew him, and seldom a word spake this grim and saturnine hero v/ith the snowwhite hair and the face of uaburnt clay. There were, however, other heroes in the carriage. Lieutenant Stairs, tall and taciturn ; Mr Jephson, short and smiling; Surgeon Parke, a regular young Apollo ; and Captain Nelson, had taken back seats, but came in for some close observation. The polish of capitals has supplanted the tan of vho tropics, and there is nothing of the savage left in these young gentlemen. It is disappointing, but it is true. Mr Bonny, another of ytanlcy’s young man, bad even gone so far us to sport a pair of patent leather Dimes, a tall hat, and coat cut in the latest fashion. Could this neat and fashionaoly dressed young man be the survivor of the rear guard, the man who carried the living skeleton of Troup down to the boat, who buried Barttelot, and starved for manv terrible months at that famous cainn on the banks of the Arawhimi ? Can this effeminate little man who sits there twisting his moustache be the Jephson who fought and intrigued with Emin ? And that slim and delicate young Apollo with the open countenance, ho the plucky Parke we have heard so much of as the man who saved Stanley’s life ? What a contrast these innocent young gentlemen present to that foxy old Ulysses who puffs away in the corner—grim, imperimpenetrable ! Except for his snow-white hair and Ins Chinaman complexion, Stanley seems to have changed but little during the last three years. He looks fat and. well. What effect the London season will have upon him it will be difficult to say. The London bore is far more deadly then any African fever.” THE MURDER OS’ MARIE DAVID. They certainly manage things oddly in Prance. Listen to this little story of jealousy and revenge. Madame Laurent, of Chartres, a young married woman, and devoted to her husband, returned homo from a visit one night unexpectedly, intending to give him a surprise. This she did, and thoroughly, for the faithless wretch was caugat in the very act of kissing and cuddling madame’B_ pretty maid, Marie David. The outraged wife was furious, not curiously enough with her husband, but with the unfortunate girl. Although it was past midnight, and bitterly cold, she then and there was turned into the streets with hicks and blows. Marie (a good girl in the main) fortunately found shelter with one of the neighbors, and next day returned home, thinking little more of the contretemps. Madame Laurent, however, could not forget the incident. She was consumed with jealousy, and laid traps innumerable for her husband, but wholly without result. Nevertheless, the miserable woman persuaded herself he met Marie David somehow. At length, hearing the girl had taken a place at Dourdau, Madame resolved to go there and force the truth from her lips, both with regard to the past and the present, En route she bought a pistol, and gradually worked herself up into a state of hysterical fury. Marie met her with the calm indifference of innocence. This so enraged Madame Laurent that • she produced

the pistol, and, before anyone could interfere, cruelly shot Marie David dead. At \ ersailles Assizes the woman was tried for murder and acquitted by a sympathetic jury, the Court being of opinion that a fine of L6O paid to poor Marie’s father would meet the ease. This is tho more remarkable as Madame’s suspicious concerning Matie and her husband were shown to be groundless. TURF Tories, Mr Abington Baird had LB.OOO on Pioneer for the City and Suburban. Had the horse won ho would have taken L 30,000 out of the Ring, whilst its getting a place would have hedged his stake. Lord Kdvrard Somerset, who invested LlO (starting price) on Partington for the Great Metropolitan, was the sole patron of the Fyilcld stable who had a coat down. The money was all right, however, the following day, when Heve D’Or did the Duke of Beaufort such a good turn. His Grace does not bet like he did during the Vauban-Rustic era, but he won, ’tis said, several thousands. A classic winner was again to the front on Friday, when Lord Randolph Churchill’s L Aobesse dc Jouarre (still styled Abscess ongthe Jaw) beat a large field for the Princess of Wales’s Plato, of LI, OOO, at Sandown. The big Hurdle Race on Saturday fell to Toscano, and the Mammoth Hunters’ Steeplechase, of L 1.500, to the Duke of Hamilton’s Weather Witch (by Lord Gough Weatherglass), the rankest outsider of a baker’s dozen, which included St. Galimor, The Sinner, Innisi'ail, and Cloister. In the Grand International Steeplechase the Liverpool disappointment M.P, beat Pan, Gamecock, Alcaens, and Baccy—a small field—ivnich finished in the order named. Sainfoin’s ridiculously easy victory in the Esher Stakes caused Porter’s colt to become a good favorite lor the Derby, and 7 to 1 is taken the Kingsclere youngster wins the blue riband for the popular trainer. THE TWO THOUSAND. Surefoot landed the Two Thousand in a common canter, making the whole of the running, and winning anyhow by a length and a-half from Le Nord, who was five lengths in front of the third, Blue Green. The followers of Jcusiffe’s stable backed Mr Merry’s colt to a pretty tune, and but for the heavy metal - on Le Nord, whom the Rothschilds were equally certain couldn’t lose, the Ring would have had a very bad race indeed. Even as things were there seemed to be many long faces when the numbers went up. ’ You see a great many people laid 2 to 1 on the favorites coupled, and Blue Green was the popular fancy for a place. The Australian colt Narellan did not run.

The death of the renowned Hermit—-un-questionably the most successful sire since Stockwcll—breaks one of the last links that binds us to the notorious Hastings era, With the exception of Mr Chaplin and the Duke of Beaufort, the gay comrades of the racketty young Marquis have now almost all gone over to the majority. Hermit died full of years (the horse was born in 1864) and honors. As lately as Tuesday one of his progeny, Heaume, carried off a big race (the Hastings Plate), and there will be members of the old sire’s family running for some years to come yet. After the Two Thousand even money was laid on Surefoot for the Derby, and 10 to 1 offered bar one. This rate a Kingsclere patron accepted to a trifle about Sainfoin,

whose chance Porter should be able to gauge pretty accurately through Blue Green.

THE QUEERCUS CLUB. Mr George “ Abington ” Baird, having expelled from the Pelican Club, has provided what he gracefully calls “ the spondulicks ” to start a rival establishment, and last Sunday night the Glaucus Club was formally opened. Curiously enough, the one thing that Mr Herbert Standing (the secretary) and his committee appeared most anxious to impress on possible members was that Mr George Baird had no locus standi whatever in the place. Ho has (we were told) been elected an ordinary member, but he will not be permitted to disport himself noisily in the establishment, nor to introduce therein any of the noble brethren of “ bounders.” Altogether, Mr Baird’s position seems at once dignified and useful. G. R- Sims suggests Qaeeicus as a more suitable nomenclature for tho new club than Glaucus, and offers for the Committee’s consideration the- following rules :

The Quearous Club shall consist of a limited number of tnembois aad unlimited drinks. Any member convicted of conducs unbecom■y;S a gentleman shall have the option of Branding drinks round or fighting the proprietor.

rhe members of the Committee will wea r gold knuckle-dusters, with which they will knock one another down in tho event of any disagreement dmiog tho Committee meeting. iNo member to throw another member out of any window higher than the second floor. No member to irritate any member who may be under remand lor assaulting him. Kvery member may bring his own poker, but must leave it in the umbrella stand until required.

The proprietor to have the privilege of introducing sis professional pugilists during the day and twelve after midnight, A respectable solicitor and a skilled surgeon will be in attendp.nco day and night. Tolcphonio communication with the principal police stations and hospitals. All overdue subscriptions will be collected by a champion.

H.B.—The housekeeper has strict orders to take charge of all ears, eyes, teeth, noses, Augers, whiskers, or moustaches found on the club promises after they are closed, and to return them to the owners on application the next day. THEATRICAL JfOTES. ‘ The Cabinet Minister,’ Mr Pinero’s new play at the Court Theatre, depends for success wholly on its brilliant dialogue. Plot there is none worth mentioning. Lady Tvyombley, wife of a mild old Cabinet Minister (with a mania for tootling on the flute at all sorts of convenient aad inconvenient moments), has, through extravagance in dress, fallen into the clutches of a lady milliner and her Jew brother, needless to say a money lender. This precious pair want to get into smart society, and utilise their power over Lady Twombley by making her introduce them to her friends. The unhappy lady takes them (amongst other places) to Dumdum's Castle, the pallaiial home of a Highly exclusive and aristocratic Earl and Countess. There the little Jew Lebanon’s gaudier ies become so appalling that Lady Twombley bribes him with what she supposes to be a valuable State secret to go away. Fortunately, Sir Julian has discovered his wife’s manoeuvring, and after frightening her a bit, lets out that the secret she thought valuable is no secret at all, and won’t be of the slightest use to Lebanon, lie also casually mentions, however, tidings it would be possible to make a fortune out of. Lady Twombley promptly takes the unintentional hint, and proceeds to speculate on the Stock Exchange. Fortune favors her, and in a few hours she has made enough to pay off both harpies. The piece bristles with smart sayings and brilliant retorts, and is capitally played. As the little Jew Lebanon, Wcedou Groasmith made the success of his career so far.

The grant feature of the coming Italian opern season nt Covenfc Garden will be the revival of Goring Thomas’s ‘ Esmeralda,’ with Jean Do Reske, Lassalle, and Melba in the leading roles. It will be performed in Trench, and the 7ni.se tn scene is to be unusually gorgeous even for Covent Garden. Patti has half promised to sing four or five times in mid-season (the end of June), and Mdme. Melba will appear in at least two new roles.

Miss Mary Anderson’s marriage to Mr Ivovarro is to take place at Brompton Oratory ia about a fortnight. Amongst her bridesmaids will be one of her great friend Lady Lyliun’ii daughters and her own sister. Miss Anderson has retired from the stage, and (save possibly in the cause of charity) will not appear in public again. The quiet way in which sho has arranged matters finds little favor with the profession in general, who opine that an actress who retires without three or four last appearances and as many farewell benefits is false to precedent. The part of Clarice in ‘ Comedy and Tragedy,’ hitherto Mias Anderson’s special property, will bo played next week at, a Haymarkct matinee by Misa Julia Neilaon.

Lionel Brough is on his 'way home from the South African goldfields, where he lest in speculation most of, if not all, the money lie made out of acting. At a banquet given in hia honor at Johannesburg, tho funny fellow seems to have been quite unable to resist giving the Africanders a piece of his mind. They were (he said) the most hospitable people in the world, but he never wanted to see them again. A BARRACK ROOM BALLAD. The ‘Athenaeum,’ belated as usual, has, some two months after everybody else, discovered Rudyard Kipling, and in its current issue blandly reviews ‘ Departmental Ditties ’ and ‘ Soldiers Three ’ as though they were nc.iv hooks:. The beautiful part of this ia that throe years ago, when these works were originally published in India, young Kipling sent copies over to the great literary journal, and for months after anxiously scanned its pages for a notice. At length the expected review appeared. It filled two lines, under the heading of “ Our Library Table,” and briefly described Air Kipling’s verses as “ Anglo Indian rhymes,” and ‘ Soldiers Three ’ as “ stories of barrack room life.” Evidently the reviewer had not opened either hook. Last Saturday the ‘ Athenaeum ’ devoted all but Jive columns to the same works, comparing the freshness and originality of ‘ Soldiers Three ’ with ‘Sketches by Boz,’ and hinting pretty broadly that ho may, if he works hard”, become a second Dickens. One is glad to notice this adulation does not seem to he spoiling tho qaaiityof the youthful Anglo-Indian’s “ copy.” Take the following barrack room ballad, clipped from a weekly paper. Isn’t it redolent of the strange mixture of prejudices, bombast, jollity, self-pity, and slang which compose Tommy Atkins cn deshabille? And jet beneath the surface one can detect a tone of the subtlest pathos : VII.—THE -OXi, OF THE WIDOW. 'Avo you ’card o' the Widow at Windsor With a hairy gold crown on ’or ’cad ? She ’as ships on tho foam —she ’as millions at ’#inc, An* she pays us poor beggars in red, ' (Ow, poor beggars in red I) * There’s ’or nick on the cavalry ’orses, There’s 'er mark on the medical stores— An’ ’er troopers you’ll find, with a fair wind be'iud That takes us to various wars, ’ (Poor beggars!—harbarious wars !) Then ’ore’s to tho Widow at Windsor An’ 'ere’s to the stores an’ the guns, The men an’ the ’orsos what makes up the forces O’Missis Victorier’a sons. (Poor beggars 1-Victorier’s sous I) Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor, For 'alf o’ creation she owns; Wo ’.WO bought ’er the same with tho sword an’ th“ name, An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones (Poor beggars !—it’s blue with our b'one= ') Hands off o’ the tons of the Widow, Hands off o’ the poods in ’cr shop, For the Kings must come down an’ tho Emperors frown When the Widow at Windsor savs " Stop ” ' (Poor beggars ! -we’re cent to nay “ Stop ” ’ Then ’ore’s to the Ledge o’ the Widow, From the Pole to the Tropics it runs— To the Lodge that we tile with tho rauk an’ the flic, An’ open in form with the guns. (Poor beggars!—it’s always them guns I) We ’ave ’card o’ the Widow at Windsor, It’s safest to let ’or alone; For ’er sentries wo stand by tho sea an’ the land Wherever tho bugles are blown. ’

(Poor beggars !-an’ don’t we get blown !) Take ’old o’ the wings o’ the morain’, An’ flop round the earth till vou’re dead • But you won’t get away from the tunc that they i.isv To tho bloomin’ old rag ovet’ead. (Poor beggars I—it’s ’ot ovci’ead !) Then ’ere’s to the sons o’ tho Widow Wherever, 'owever they roam. ’ ’Ere’a all they desire, an’ if they require A speedy return to their ’ome, (Poor beggars!—they’ll never see ’ome !)

THE NEW JOURNALESE. It is a strange fact that many of tho men who have benefited most materially by the progress of modern journalism are amongst

the bitterest opponents of what they (of all people) call, with slighting contempt, the “new school.” In the * Scots Observer ’of Saturday last there is a savage attack on the ‘ New Journalese,’ in which an imaginary disciple of the worst gang of sensationalists is held up to public obloquy. This worthy the writer paints (effectively enough, if it were only a true picture) os a long-haired msthetio, _ wearing a soft felt hat and a Liberty tie, and e irrying Ibsen and Ruskin in one pocket and a note book full of pleasing scandals, ’orrible revelations, and ghastly alliterative headlines in the other. We are told that “ he is stuffed to the brim with, views and ideas and Thought (with a capital). Ibsen and Ruskin are his constant companions, and yet be is content to borrow hm method from California, to write a hideous jargon of Yankee slang bombastud mit with ‘preciosity,’and to trample all the obligations of hospitality and acquaintanceship. The democracy which buys tho organ he adorns has ordered him to be ‘smart’ ; and, being a gentleman and full of yearnings and questionings and soul, he instantly complies. It is hia daily bread to break the confidence of his friends, to set style at naught, and to think that he has achieved success when he has only tickled his reader’s eye with a raving headline.” This new journalist, who boasts a university education and temperance principles the 1 Scots Observer ’ asks us to compare with the drunken pot-house reporter of “ the fearless old fashion,” who, “ even if he had no keen sense of the fitness of things, had yet a wholesome disdain of vulgarity, and refused to tackle all his subjects in a uniform tone of insolent familiarity.” Curiously enough the writer of this misleading tirade is, if I am not blundering, himself (though he would probably deny it angrily) one of the brightest ornaments of the best section of new journalism. How (one wonders) twenty-five years ago, when as the ‘ Scots Observer ’ says “journalism was classed with bookmaking and card-sharping among tho professions which a gentleman could not adopt,” would our laudator ternports acti have earned a living ? Into what newspaper then existent would his delicate social sketches, skits, and storyettes have been admitted ? He might certainly have got an occasional article into the magazines ; but c:uld he possibly, by any conceivable means, have earned L 2,000 a year, as he docs now ? I trow not. It is in truth the much-contemned new journalism which has opened the doors of prosperity to him and to many like him.

As for the portrait of the resthetic pander to vulgar sensationalism, it is clever, it is amusing, but it has no foundation on fact. The reporter whose gross banalities bring the new journalism into disrepute has not had a university education, nor does he, as a rule, wear clean collars or drink lemon squash. On the contrary the “ old man,” as he likes to be called, is generally a clever, dissolute scamp, who mixes tho worst vices of both new and old schools. Eis writing, like his life, is coarse, indecorous, ribald. Nevertheless, editors tolerate him, partly because his broad humor tickles the masses (and the masses make a paper pay), and partly because he can do good work of a common sort at a pinch.

. 1 notice, by the way, the ‘ Scots Observer ’ gives the oft-quoted ‘Jerked to Jesus ’ as a sample of the new journalese headlines. This is as unjust as the rest of the article, since the phrase was used for the first, last, and only time by an American “ rag” at the hanging of Garfield’s murderer years ago, and excited disgust and reprobation even in the by no means particular United States. LITERARY NOTES. William O’Brien’s ‘ When We Were Boys ’ is, on the whole, worthy of the author. It contains enough matter for six storks, and would have made a lengthy book in the conventional three volumes. The publishers. Indeed, wanted to bring it out in this form, but the fiery William insisted that the book should bo within reach of the middle classes, and of small school and village libraries. The ‘ Daily News,’ naturally enough, gushes over ‘ When We Were ’ just as the ‘St. James’s’ scornfully picks it to pieces. I have not had time to read the book yet, and so reserve judgment. Berry, the hangman, following the example of M. Sanson, has written, and is about to publish, his ‘Memoirs.’ Chapter 1 explains how Bony came to adopt his profession; chapter 2 tells of ‘Mv First Job ’; caapter 3 describes ‘My Apparatus ’; cnapter 4 ‘My Patients’ ; chapter 5, ‘ Relations with the Public ’; chapter 6, ‘ How Murderers Die ’; chapter 7, ‘Travelling Experiences’; chancer 8, ‘ Views on Capital Punishment’; chapter 9, ‘Celebrities I Have Met.’ Need Isay that the publisher will be the incorrigible Trischlcr, and I strongly that suspect the book has been written after the Benzon-cm-Vcro Shaw method. Rider Haggard's ‘ Beatrice ’ and the first two volumes of Justin H. M‘Carthy’s ‘French Revolution’ are promised for the 12th inst. Save, perhaps, ‘The Dilemma’ (which was by the able author of ‘ The Battlo of Dorking,’ and can be get from Blackwoods for six shillings), I have never read a better story of too Indian mutiny than ‘ Tiie Rajah s Heir.’ From the first page to the last the narrative is spiritedly told, just enough horrors being introduced to give lady readers an occasional and enjoyable shiver. Tom Gregory, an English-bred lad, with a commonplace future before him, wakes up one morning to find himself Rijjh of Gumilcund, in Upper India. How this comes about, and how Tom proceeds to India, and after being thoroughly Orientalised is welcomed by his people, I need not tell; suffice it to say the mutiny almost at once breaks- out, and Tom refusing to be drawn into the intrigues of the Ranoe of Jhaosi cud Dost Mahomed Ab, converts Gumilcund into a city of refuge. On her way thither with a party of tonified women and children, Grace Elton (the heroine of the story, and Tom’s beloved) >3 kidnapped by Dost Mahomed in the hope that through her he may influence the young Rajah. Heedless to savthe latter promptly proceeds to the rescue, and tempted in vain by the wily Indian, the pair have scarcely ceased talking when the English arrive" and blow’up Dost Mahomed’s palace. Then Tom finds Grace ia not there, and a harrowing search, for clues ensues. At last a vague hint reaches the young Rajah that Grace may be found somewhere in the jangle. To the jungle, therefore, Tom aud a small party of faithful followers betake themselves. The terrible dangers of tho weary journey through this pestilential region are vividly described, and when Grace at last turns up the suffering she |has undergone proved to have disturbed her mental balance. However, of course, things come all right in tha end.

. Tlic Ma Y ‘ Blackwood ’ contains the opening chapters of a new novel entitled ‘A. Secret Mission,’ which is founded, we are told, on events arising from the present; state of armed tension between the Great European Powers. The. plot has a foundation on a tragic incident which was scarcely allowed to pass beyond the knowledge of the official circles under whose notice it fell The conditions of -life on a fortified frontier line, under a system of suspicion, surveillanes, and ordinary despotism, are full of novel and dramatic situations which the* author, from personal knowledge, has beern ab!e to turn to full account. ' Either the Messrs Blackwood arc modifying their manners and customs or thsv must tVilnLhighly of ‘A Secret Mission.’ as never beforo have they thus advertised a novel about to appear in ‘ Maga.’ Captain Andrew Hae* gard is mentioned as the probable author. ' Tne reissue of the Household edition of Dickens, with the whole of Barnard’s admirable illustrations, but iu a smaller and handier shape, sells well. ■ Dombev 3 and Copperueld are now complete, and at 2a 8d per volume, handsomely bound in red seem very cheap. Those, however, wh» prefer the illustrations of “Phiz” to Barnards, should order the new crown edition of the great novelist’s works at 5s ner> volume. ‘Pickwick’ and ‘Nickleby’ ar«j