MISS COLONIA IN LONDON.

Evening Star, Issue 8279, 26 July 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

MISS COLONIA IN LONDON.

GIRLS’ GOSSIP FROM THE GREAT CITY. [Specially Written ior this Journal. J London, June 5. Dearest Couain, —The London season is now approaching what fashionable folks call its apogee, and wc (even we, my dear) are going out a great deal. You will bo surprised to hear the .Agents General do not entertain at all. Lady Blyth has, of course, dinner parties of her own private friends, and Lady Samuel occasionally gives informal “ at homes,” but there are no official receptions to which Anglo-colonial society generally is invited. The meetings of the Colonial Institute, indeed, afford the only opportunities for Australians in London to come across one another, and they are dreadfully dull businesses. Wo went last Tuesday week (I think it was) to hear a paper read on ‘ Colonial Defences,’ and I must say I was bored nearly to death. To tell the truth, mia cara, Agents-General are not nearly the important persons we young people used to fancy them, and can really do very little for one. The social side of their duties has been neglected, or rather ignored. The representatives of great colonies like ours in London ought as a matter of fact in the first instance to be wealthy men, and in the second to be granted entertaining allowances like country mayors. They could then take their proper place in London society, and be of help to families like ourselves, Saturday last was a glorious morning, and we set off comparatively early to be present at the first meet this season of the Coaching Club. The park proved to be unusually crowded, even for an occasion of this sort. A report having gone forth that Lady Florence Dixie and a contingent of aristocratic amazons Intended to appear riding astride in the new semi-masculine habit. Lady Florence subsequently angrily repudiated any such intention, and we certainly could see no ladies astride, though there were plenty of bizarre habits. The meet was a good one, no fewer than twenty-four coaches putting in an appearance. The handsomest teams were Mr Hanbnry’s light chesnuts and Mr 11. Brassey’s dark browns. Owing to the presence of two new members (somewhat indifferent whips) the distances between the coaches were not well kept, and the effect of the drive past was consequently spoilt. We expected to see Mr Stanley on one of the box seats, but he disappointed expectation, and so did the Royal Family, none of whom were present. Prior to the arrival of some of trie coaches, we were treated to the spectacle of Viscountess Dunlo driving a spirited bay in a high dogcart, and supported only by the tiniest of “ tigers.” Father was lucky enough to secure a small box on the pit tier at Covent Garden in conjunction with the dear D s. of Melbourne, and we go alternate opera nights, I was to sorry for poor Etelka Gcrster on Thursday. They tell mo she had once a grand voice. Even Patti trembled for her supremacy when G-erster was in her prime. Mapleson, you may remember, tells us that when the two were rival prima donnas in New York, Patti used to attribute every trifle which went wrong to La Gerster’s malign influence. Then the latter fell ill and lost her voice. She is now said to have recovered it, and on Thursday mado her rentrie at Covent Garden as Amina in the still popular 1 Sonnambula.’ Patti came from Wales specially to be present, and occupied Mr Harris’s box. The little lady’s smiling face and generous applause told its own sad tale. Patti has indeed no longer cause to be jealous of poor Gerster, The latter’s voice has lost all its roundness, beauty, and power ; only the art of the singer remains to atone for what is gone. The audience at Covent Garden is very exacting. Madame Gerster was kindly received, but as soon as it became evident her once glorious voice was but the shadow of its former self the house grew very cold. I’m told the cognoscenti mostly occupy the pit and amphitheatre at Covcnt Garden, and are not rich people. They have to pay 10s and 15s (which is a good deal for them) for their comfortless seats, and they resent having an indifferent prima donna or a third-rate tenor passed off on them. Madame MelbaArmetrong’s railHe on Tuesday proved a

far pleasanter occasion. The opera was ‘Romeo et Juliette,’ with the handsome young Pole (Jean Da Raske) as Romeo and Madatha Melba as Juliette. They tell me the latter’s voloe has wonderfully improved since her debut two years ago. On Tuesday she met with an enthusiastic reception from a crowded house, and sang with a strength and feeling which delighted ns. To hoar Melba aud the De Reskd brothers together is indeed a glorious treat. The only other prima donna we have heard is a little dark girl (not unlike what PattJ was) called Zelie de Lussan. She is devpted to her widowed mother, whom she supports, and who accompanies her everywhere. J . On Friday afternoon last papa sent jiS girls out with an English cousin of ours,' is horrid boy, who suggested Kennedy’s mesmeric seance at the Aquarium ae a suitable entertainment to visit. My dear, it was horrid. The man looks a brute, and behaves like one. He had a long, cruel nocdlo in bis hand most of the time, with which ho continually prodded bis hypnotised subjects to show, they felt nothing. Many of the so-called experiments were nauseatingly nasty. For instance, Kennedy made onegreat hulking man believe he was a small froy, and that a tallow candle given him was a sugar stick. The hypnotised creature snuggled into a corner, and, squatting on his haunches after the manner of imps of seven or.eight, munched the candle with the intensest relish. After consuming all the tallow, he even drew the wick backwards and forwards through his yellow teeth. Notwithstanding the assurances of the mesmcrieer that neither the /weMtfo-iufaut nor another poor wretch who had consumed a filthy decoction of neatsfoot oil, mustard, and some vile-smelling chemical, under the delusion that it was hot whisky aud water, suffered any inconvenience afterwards, we had proof positive to the contrary. An unfortunate subject, munching a raw onion, under the delusion it was some delicious fruit, was carelessly brought to by Kennedy. He gave one horrified look at the vegetable, and vomited on the otago. We hit.

Dorothy , who is at ftewnham, and holds advanced views on dress', women’s rights (or wrongs), and the “ olcgics," insisted on our going to the literary ladies’ dinner nt the Criterion last Friday evening. It was purely a “ cat’s party ” (ladies only), the solo males admitted being the waiters. There was, you remember, a dinner of this description lust year, rt which poor Amy Levy (even then meditating suicide) made a most striking speech. Betwixt you and Imy dear Daisy, Friday’s function was not. impressive. The literary ladies proved to be mostly persons one had never heard of before. Mrs L. T, Meade, the editress: of ‘ Atalanta,’ occupied the chair, and next to her Miss Mabel Collins (a striking look ing young woman in blue velvet and lace) seemed to be the best-known authoress present. Mrs Graham Thomson, a tall, dark brunette, with what men call “ soulful ” eyes, and a yellow velvet frock, proposed “Poetry” in a short speech, very tremulously read. Mabel Collins had the notes of her oration pinned into her fan, a tip which I should advise feminine orators generally to adopt. She responded, of course, for “Fiction.” The beauty of the party was Miss Mabel Smythe, described as “ a rising young artist.” I cannot honestly say i admired the divided skirts of two masculine dames with short hair, parted nt one side, and heavy gold eyeglasses. Do you recall a terribly sad story by Miss Mabel Robinson we read some years back. It was called ‘ Disenchantment,’ and describes how a robust handsome girt, uV.cr marrying a man whom she passionately lover,, ia gradually disillusioned. The fault docs not really lie with the husband. Sickness and money troubles arc the disenchanters. Overwork and the discovery that ho is suffering from a slow but certainly fatal brain disease tempts the husband to ease his tortures with i randy. His wire finds him drunk, and disgust overmasters every other feeling. Even when the miserable man’s terrible secret is wrung from him, his wife, horrified at her inhumanity, realises that her loathing is really stronger than her love. She tries to hide it, hut the unhappy wretch (who adores his wife, ns he has always done) secs through hcreveiy little artifice. ‘ Disenchantment ’ was an awful story. Miss Robinson has now written a longer and even more pretentious work. It is called ‘A Woman of the Woild,’ and claims to be an everyday story. Really it is the history of a simple, pious, noble, and selfdenying life. Will Harrington throughout “ gives up ’’ to everyone, dying at last, in misery, abroad to oblige his mother. The most painful portion of this f.tory is indeed the latter half of the third volume. This shows how selfish oven n selfless pa-sion like a mother’s overmastering love for her i on may become under certsiu circumstances. Will Harrington is dying of consumption, and being a doctor himself, known nothing can save him. Ho longs to die quietly at home, with his old father’s hand in his and the faces he loves around him ; but his mother fancies ho can be saved by a trip to Mentone, and to Mentone, therefore, ho must go. The necessary money has to bo begged in a humiliating manner that drives the sick man inwardly frantic ; but for bis mother’s sake, after many distressing scenes, he gives way. Of course the disease, arrested for a week or two by the change, soon continues to run its course, and the poor mother, growing desperate, grasps at straws, and insists on Will trying every quack remedy suggested by casual hotel acquaintances. He accepts most of them without demur, but his mother’s continuous tears, prayers, and fidgets drive him well nigh crazy with irritation. Every day he hopes she will consent to take him homo to die, but ’tis not till too late the poor woman’s eyes arc really opened. Wednesday was the wettest day wo’vc had since our arrival, and the spectacle afforded by the soaked ami bedraggled holi-day-makers returning from Epsom races in the evening proved melancholy in the extreme. Tom went down by train to see the Derby, and came back very cross, having backed the Australian horse Kirkham to be in the first three. Instead n{ that the poor thing was last. • And now, good-bye. Always your siuccio, Duma.