MISS COLONIA IN LONDON.

Evening Star, Issue 8364, 15 November 1890, Page 4 (Supplement)

MISS COLONIA IN LONDON.

[Specially Written fob this Journal.]

London, October 3,

Dearest Cousin, —We have been travelling about ever since the end of the season—first of all abroad, then In Scotland, and finally in Ireland. It is of our Irish experiences I wish to tell you first. Father, of course, is an ardent Home Ruler and a firm believer Messrs Parnell, Dillon, Davitt, and Co. We were at Killarney when Mr O’Brien’s arrest took place, and had intended to stay a week longer at Glengariff, but father wanted particularly to be present at the Irish member’s trial ; so we moved back to Tipperary, and had the privilege of witnessing what the • Daily Nows ’ calls “ the batoning of the people by the police ” last Thursday, I should like to draw a thrilling picture of the scone for your benefit, but alas ! I cannot — voraciously—for really it was not much of a row. Myself and a number of other ladies were (so to speak) in the midst of it throughout and scarcely hustled at all, so you can judge things could not have been very bad. The trouble arose through Colonel Caddell having mistakenly resolved not to admit the police into the courthouse. This was done purely in the interest of law and order, the authorities being well aware it would be almost impossible to progress with the business of the trial if the building were crowded with noisy supporters of the prisoners. The Irish menbers, on the contrary, were, of course, determined to have an audience, and into the courthouse they declined to go till the public were admitted. From the accounts in the ‘ Daily News ’ of what followed, you would imagine’the constabulary were entirely to blame. This was not so. Mr Dillon and Mr Harrington were quiet, but Mr Tim. Healey was in a most truculent mood, and Mr W. O’Brien kept up a running fire of taunts at the police which would have enraged a saint. The sad truth seems to me that, having Mr John Morley with them, the Irish members pined to decoy the police into a row. Certainly they goaded the unfortunate men insufferably. “Ah,” cried Mr O’Brien amidst the delighted jeers of the populace, “no batoning to-day. How good is it to have au ex-Cabinet Minister with us. Thank God, people, for John Morley’s presence. But for him, you would have sore heads and broken bones.” Then when Mr Morley went inside to speak to Colonel Caddeli, O’Brien continued: “ Morley’s not here. Be off to your homes, boys, or you’ll be half-murdered. You know what they (pointing to the constables) are when nobody’s looking,” and so on. I daresay you can imagine that half an imur of this sort of thing, intermingled with the grosser jibes of a mob of roughs, had not a very soothing effect, and that when the constabulary had to handle the populace they did so wrathfully. The batoning was, however (notwithstanding their irritation), limited, indeed. It seemed to us, more constables were hurt than Tipperary folk.

Do you know, my dear, I believe I have discovered, whilst travelling in Erin, the real root of Irish troubles? It* is that a large majority of the priests (who govern the country) aro themselves hopelessly ignorant, ill-educated, and uncleanly. We met a number of these reverend gentlemen at one time or another, and were amazed at their consistently low class, low aims, and low talk. The Irish priest of fiction—the kindly old father, warmly attached to his flock, and a powerful influence for good everywhere—is a myth. No doubt some of the tribe still exist, but the average reality we came across was gross and ignorant to a degree. Even the more earnest soem to have no idea of urgiog cleanliness on their parishioners. Words fail to express the hopeless filthiness of many Irish hovels. “Can nothing bo done to persuade the women to keep things a little bit cleaner ?’’ I said to a frouzy, but kindly-looking father, who sat next me at table d’ hide at Glengarilf. His reverence was greatly amused. “ It’s their having the pig and the poultry in the house that shocks you English,” said he, laughing: “and I’m afraid wo can’t interfere with that. Sure it’s a national custom.”

We met Lord Carrington's successor at Lady Ivnutsford’s last week. Lady Jersey is a charming woman, not at all pretty, but very clever, and a delightful talker. His Excellency I did not take to. He is terribly starched, and will certainly form a striking contrast to Lord Carrington. Mias Genevieve Ward’s memorable performance of the adventuress in 4 Forget-Me-Not,’ which we saw when this actress toured through the colonies some years ago, had left such a strong impression upon us all, that the family implored father to take us to see ‘ Struggle for Life,’ at the Avenue Theatre. At first he said “No, it was not a nice piece,” but subsequently hearing it had been materially modified in tone by Mr Buchanan (or Buchananiaed, us the papers say) he consented. Miss

Ward plays the part of the Duchess Padovani, the elderly wife of a worthless and swaggering young scientist, Paul Astier. The poor woman is devoutd to her husband, though she knows he only married her for the fortune he has dissipated, and shrewdly suspects he now loves someone else. Paul, ee a matter of fact, has severe) cffaires on hand, but be particularly wants to marry a certain young heiress, and soon persuades himself he will be justified in poisoning his elderly wife in order to smooth matters over. The great scene of the play is where the Duchesse discovers Astier’s amiable intentions, and, after thwarting them in a matter of fact manner, discloses her knowledge of his intended crime. It was, of course, admirably acted by Mr Alexander and Miss Ward, and the latter’s solemn, tender forgiveness of the wretched man she loves, yet despises, brought our handkerchiefs freely into play. Astier la eventually shot dead at the moment of his triumph by the sweetheart of one of his poorer victims.

Mr and Mrs Haddon Chambers have gone to New York, where that somewhat belated production ‘ The Idler ’ will be staged early this mouth. Mr Charles Cartwright has purchased the Australian rights of the piece, and means to tour with it through your part of the world.

Miss Grace Warner proposes to acquire provincial experience before making her metropolitan debut, and has joined ‘ The English Rose ’ Company, now starting on a a six months’ tour at Liverpool. Mise Warner, of course, plays the heroine. The Hallos will bo back next week, but we shall not have an opportunity of hearing them till the middle of November.

The nicest Anglo-Aastralian tala I have read for a long time is ‘ A Bride from the Bush,' now announced to be by E. M. Horning, I have been trying to recollect in what connection I have heard this name before. Evidently the writer is Australian, and I fancy this story cannot be a firsteffort.

One of the surprising discoveries I madewhilst travelling in Scotland and Ireland, was that the young girls of the lower middle classes (especially tradesmen’s children spend a large portion of their often very limited leisure in competing for the trumpery prizes offered by * Tit Bits,’ ‘ Answers,’ etc. You will scarcely credit it, but the Postmaster - Genera in his annual report, says thatG.P.O. men often deliver between 10,000 and 20,000 letters per diem at the offices of one of these ’journals—all, of course, “tries” for the current competition. On a certain occasion, says the same authority, 31,398 post cards were delivered at the office o ‘ Answers ’at a single time. Daring the same week (it must have been the historic “ pound a week for life guessing ” competition) the Post Office delivered ‘ Answers ’ no fewer than 195,250 letters and cards. Valentines, by-the-bye, have quite gone out. Seven years ago throe millions passed through the London Post Office on February 14. This anniversary there were a little over 300,000 only. Christmas cards, however, have taken their place. From last night’s papers, my dear, I judge; we are on the verge of a highly sensational fashionable scandal. Sir Thomas Freake, son of the Lady Freake whose tableauxvivanls were the talk of town some years, back, has been arrested for first forcibly handcuffing Mr Edward Cousins Gibson and then, breaking into bis desk and abstracting therefrom ft bundle of lady’s letters. Sir Thomas,. I’m told, did not get on well with his father,, and when that colossaliy wealthy person died in 1884, most of his money and estates were left to Lady Freake. And now I must say adieu.—Believe me, etc., Dbi.ia.,

If all that is claimed for him is true, the honor of taking a leading part in the advancement of the Millennium belongs to Dr Juenemann, of Vienna. He has invented & gaseous fluid which is to lake the place of gunpowder, bullets, swords, and all the other paraphernalia of war. A shell containing the fluid is discharged, and, the gae being liberated, every living being for some* distance arouad is straightway stupefied. Dr Juenemann argues that an army thus stupefied could easily he disarmed, and the war would be over without anyone being physically a penny the worse, us the gas has no after-effects. But what if both sides, were armed with the miraculous fluid ?

Consumptive Appetite.—Dr Thom son was> called in to attend a gentleman, who persuaded himself that he was, to use a popular expression, “dying by inches.” The doctor caught the invalid at dinner, and having seen him demolish some soup, a slice of salmon, two cuts of chine of mutton, and half a partridge, inquired what other symptoms of disease he felt. “ None particularly, sir,” said the invalid, 44 only everything about mo tends to convince me that 1 am consump tive.” 44 Your appetite lb, at all eveuta, sir,” said the doctor, and walked off. The Paris dinner hour is now at eight o’clock.