TOPICS OF THE DAY.

Evening Star, Issue 8364, 15 November 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

TOPICS OF THE DAY.

[From Our Special Correspondent.]

London, September 12. A wet, dreary, and depressing August Las been succeeded by a gloriously fine September, and patient persons who declined to go from home whilst the weather remained unpropitious are now off to Scotland or the seaside rejoicing. As a consequence, London remains unusually deserted for the time of year, though on big occasions, such ns the first night of the now play at Drury Lane last Saturday, a fair contingent of the usual notables and notorieties somehow turn up.

THE LATE CANON LIDDON. The death of Canon Liddon was terribly sudden, and took not merely the public, but the reverend gentleman’s, friends completely by surprise. Most people were aware that Dr Liddon had been suffering severely from neuralgia in the head, and it was assumed that this was the cause of his not being in residence during August at St. Paul’s. The painful fact that he had heart disease the great preacher seems to have kept a profound secret. We now know ho had been cardiacally affected for some years, and was well aware every time he stepped into the pulpit to deliver one of the stirring, intellectual, and emotional discourses which moved thousands, that it was quite likely the exertion would prove fatal. No doubt, too, the knowledge that he could not safely undertake much hard work was what moved him to twice of late years refuse bishoprics. The Queen’s recognition of his great worth and wondrous eloquence came too late, Canon Liddon’a residences at St. Paul’s were for two decades the great events of the Cathedral year. He chose the unfashionable month of August for one—preaching, as a rule, on Sunday afternoons, and invariably crowding the vast church to its utmost limit, whilst hundreds were shut out. Dr Liddon was probably at his ripest and best about five or six years ago ; and then, to hear him preach at St. Paul’s, or from the ’Varsity pulpit at St. Mary’s, Oxford, was a never-to-be-forgotten treat. There seemed to me to be something magnetic in his dear, resonant voice, which attracted even the most careless listener and enforced attention. At St. Paid’s he frequently discoursed for more than an hour, and during that time it is scarcely an exaggeration to say you could hear a pin drop. To those of your readers who may care to make acquaintance with Canon Liddon’s sermons, I commend the three volumes in the ‘Contemporary Pulpit’ series, published by Rodder and .Stoughton. Many are well suited for reading aloud in the family circle. THE FRACAS AT DRURY LANK.

There was a lively scene at Drury Lane Theatre on Saturday evening last when that eccentricgeniua MrJ, M'Neil Whistler undertook to personally chastise Mr Augustus Moore, the editor of the 1 Hawit,’ for certain reflections in that journal on the character of a deceased friend. The entire fracas did not take up five minutes, but it was, as soldiers say, “a sharp thing” whilst it lasted. Both parties were indulging in cigarettes in the looby of the theatre after the second act of 1 A Million of Money,’ when they caught sight of each other. Moore whispered something to a friend and then turned away with a rather supercilious shrug. This apparently roused the great James’s slumbering wrath to boiling point. Walking after the stalwart journalist, he spluttered “Mr Augustus Moore, I think,” and simultaneously commenced raining down blows with a thin malacca cane on his surprised adversary’s head, back, and face. Mr Moore, dazed by the unexpected attack, could at first only try and ward oil the blows which Mr Whistler accompanied with a war cry of “ Hawk ! Hawk ! Hawk ! ” A number of bystanders promptly intervened, and Whistler in the scuffle got bowled over, but whether Mr Moore (as lie alleges) actually knocked him down seems doubtful. When the pair were separated, Moore, with doubled fists, cried “ Put that cane down, and I’ll give you the best hiding you ever got in your life.” Mr Whistler's response was to strike at the weaponless editor again. “ Vou coward ! sTou attacked me from behind,” foamed Mr Moore. “So docs the ‘Hawk,’” readily responded James ; “ the 1 Hawk ’ nitcat/s attacks from behind.” Ho then flung a c.ud with much effect in Mr Moore’s face and retreated, accompanied by an admiring phalanx of friends. Amongst the onlookers viewing these proceedings was our old friend Mr Horace Lingard, whose wife has a part in the piece. It soon appeared kt too had grievances against the unlucky Moore, and Whistler and Co. having gone, ho loudly commenced to air them. By this time, however, Augustus’s blood was up, and he respectfully consigned Horace and wife to oven a hotter place than the lobby at Drury Lane. Then Lingard “ went for” him, and another pretty scuffle took place, the two men wrestling till they rolled on the ground, and (as a bystander observed) “ swore ’orriblc.” The police now put in a belated appearance and separated the combatants. Lingard was too dishevelled to return to his stall, but Moore, apparently unruffled, eat the piece out.

DONCASTER IJOIMJS, On a fine sunshiny afternoon, with a light south-east breeze blowing freshly across its Hit expanse, there are few more delightful racing resorts than Doncaster Town Moor. This was the class of weather we experienced on Tuesday and Wednesday last, and some hundred thousand persons, from the Prince of Wales downwards, were present to enjoy it. Tho company at Doncaster is invariably of the smartest, and tho sport second only to that witnessed at Ascot and Epsom. Just eight years ago, in the Champagne Stakes at Doncaster, 1 remember seeing M. Lefevro’a Hauteur overturn two supposed certainties in Macheath and Chiselhurst. Tho memory flashed across me in the paddock on Tuesday, as J was looking over Haute-Saone, a very handsome daughter of Tristan and the said mare Hauteur, about to run like her mamma in the Champagne Stakes. On the present occasion, as in 1882, there was a certainty in Mr Houldsworth’s Orvieto (the only other runner bar an unnamed colt of Mr Hamar Bass’s), and the betting was 2 to 1 on the good thing. I resolved to back the outsider, and had presently tho felicity to see Hauteur’s daughter follow in her mother’s footsteps. The pair scarcely more than cantered to the distance, when Haute-Saone headed Orvieto and, always having the best of a good race, won by quite a length.

ROYAL COLORS TO THE LORE. Mr John Hammond (who is not exactly beloved on the turf) planned a nice coup with Crimea for the Great Yorkshire Handicap on Tuesday ; but, unfortunately, though everyone backed the St. Gatien colors, the “good thing’' didn’t come off. This is a way Mr H.’s good things have when the public are well on, and they don’t like it. Mr John Charlton, who won the Ebor Handicap only a fortnight ago with Silver Spur, was again to the fore in the Great Yorkshire, ns the daughter of Chippendale and Silver Heel, carrying Bst 51b, proved easily equal to defeating Lord Hnrtington’s Curfew (3 yrs, 7st 101b) and eight others. The winner started at 7to 1. In the Clumber Plate, on Tuesday, the Prince of Wales’s unlucky colors wore for once seen to theforo, H.R.H.’s two-year-old filly Piernett (by Mask—Poetry) beating Yorkshireman, Ranter, and four others in gallant style. The victory aroused a storm of delighted cheering, which would not have disgraced a Leger success, and the Prince was all smiles, saying a few words to his jockey Blake which made that fortunate youth blush and grin and grin again with gratification. Even that solemn functionary John Porter seemed grimly pleased.

MEMOIR’S ST. LEGER. Memoir won the Leger in a canter, and it is obvious that the accident which all but led to her scratching a fortnight ago must have been far leas serious than her lucky owner and trainer imagined. In the paddock, however, the filly was not liked, and from 5 to 1 taken in the morning the daughter of St, Simon and Quiver drifted back to tens and twelves. The public fancies were Heautne and Sainfoin, the former more especially finishing up a hot favorite at 5 to 2. Sainfoin started at 4 to 1, and Yorkshire money brought Queen’s Birthday—a much over-rated animal—to sevens. Then came Snrefoot (whose party again professed themselves confident) at 8 to 1, and Memoir and Bine Green each at 10’s, Rightaway found a few friends

at 25 to 1, but none of the other eight were seriously backed, the extreme outsider of the party being Gonsalvo at 200 to 1 to win, and 20 to 1 for a place. The story of the race is soon told. Oddfellow made the running till rounding the final bend for home, when all the favorites seemed to be in it, bar Surefoot. Heaume {who, we had been assured, would stay for ever) shortly afterwards compounded, and then Memoir, taking a commanding lead, drew away, pursued by Blue Green and followed at a respectful distance by Sanfroin and Gonsalvo. From this point the race was over, bar accidents, for though Blue Green ran on with great gameneas, the colt could not catch the Oaks victress, which won easily by two lengths, Gonsalvo being beaten by a length for second place. Then came Sainfoin forth, and Martagon fifth.

Rights way (fallen lame) finished last. Surefoot was struck into rounding the final bend by St. Serf, and the pair nearly knocked over Alloway, but it is not probable this accident materially interfered with the result. Porter started five horses, three of which ran second, third, and fourth. This was indeed rough luck, as was the outsider Gonsalvo barring Sainfoin out of the place for which the Derby winner had been backed so heavily. Watts has this season won the One Thousand, Oaks, Derby, and St. Leger—a rare record, when one remembers these victories were not secured on the same horse, but on three different ones—Semolina, Sainfoin, and Memoir. The time, 3min 13sec, was fairly good, but not phenomenal.

Gonsalvo’s display resulted in the son of Fernandez and Chorie (a Cosarewitch heroine) being promoted to the position of first favorite for the first of the great autumn handicaps.

THEATRICAL NOTES, The new play at the Lyceum has been christened ‘ Rav-enswood,’ and will bo produced on the 20tli inst. The cast is generally admitted to have been admirably selected, barring the fact that neither Irving nor Miss Terry can possibly make up as juvenile as were Scott’s unlucky pair of lovers. Terries will, of course, be an ideal Bucklaw, and Mr Mackintosh is certain to make a big hit as Caleb Balderstone. Miss Terry’s sou will on this occasion become her brother Henry Ashton, Mr Alfred Bishop taking the part of Sir William Ashton, and Mias Lc Thierc that of Lady Ashton, Music hall “ stars” are even better paid than theatrical in America nowadays. Miss Jennie Hill, who calls herself the “Vital Spark,” and whose imitations of ’Arry and ’Arriet havo rejoiced a generation of patrons of the“l’av” and the “Oxford," is going out to the States on a salary of Ll5O a week and all expenses paid for self and another. Miss Hill originally made a hit about twelve years ago with a song called ‘ Harry ’ or ‘ Erry,’ which may be still heard occasionally on the organs. Since then she has steadily progressed in her profession, playing “burlesque boy” in pantomimes at Christmas, and getting a better and better salary every year.

‘ Judah ’ has not lasted out Mr Willard’s season at the Shaftesbury, so ‘ The Middleman ’ is being revived for a few farewell performances.

TItU PKUUY LANJi PLAY. The Drury Lane melodrama is a venerable story skilfully rehearsed by experienced manipulators, and superbly mounted with really remarkable realistic effects. On this point the critics seem agreed. The piece itself would probably have failed without the scenic adjuncts, but as things stand, all London will go to witness the racing tableau on Epsom Downs, and the departure of Guards, and Wellington Barracks. Tho plot can be described in half a dozen lines, which all experienced play-goers will easily fill in. Harry Dunstable, a young Guardsman, married to a little woman he really loves, suddenly comes into a million of money. What will he do with it ? This question is decided by his enemy and evil genius, Major Belgravo, who plots with the adventuress Stella St. Clair to ruin Dunstable in body, roul, and pocket. From one scene of dissipation we are hurried to another—Epsom, a South Kensington fete, a gaming house. Then comes the crisis. Dunstable is ruined, Belgrave is proclaimed in his true colors by a broken-down sport, and Stella St. Clair fails to tempt the errant husband finally from his wife. The Guards are ordered elf abroad, and Dunstable must go with them. Naturally, his ship gets wrecked, and we presently discover poor Harry dying of thirst on a tropic reef. Need I mention that a sail crops up just in time to save him, or tell you that Dunstable’s money was sunk in a supposed rotten gold mine, which, to the dismay of the wicked Belgrave, turns out trumps. Virtue is rewarded, vice discredited, and down comes the curtain. The great scene on Epsom Downs is the best of the many attempts at reproducing racing sensation which Druriolanus has made at our National Theatre. Charles Warner describes the contest (of which the finish alone is visible) from the box scat of his drag, and his horse (the favorite) having won, amidst frantic cheers he drives off the course as the curtain comes down. Hansoms have frequently been manipulated on the stage both at Drury Lane and the Adclphi, but this is the first time a fourhorse coach has been absolutely driven (not merely started) on tho boards. Naturally Mr Warner was a little nervous on Saturday. Perhaps that was why he bawled so. The horses, fortunately, were perfectly tame, and the incident passed off without a hitch. Miss Millward, as tho injured wife, had little to do, and did that little indifferently. Her personality was, indeed, completely eclipsed by the superb presence of Miss Lingard, who looked sufficiently fascinating in a series of Worth costumes to excuse a much stronger man than Dunstable going mad about her. Herbert Standing has few living rivals in such parts as the swell scoundrel Belgrave, wicked as Satan and cool ns a cucumber. Fanny Brough, Harry Nicholls, and some score other expert actors and actresses were thrown away in parts which provincial nobodies could equally as well have filled. But then, of course, their names draw.

LITERARY NOTES, ‘ Told After Supper ’ is the title of Jerome K. Jerome’s new book to be published next week by Field and Tucr. Let us hope it will bo a more entertaining production than tho * Diary of a Pilgrimage to Oberammergau,’ at present running through the ‘Daily Graphic.’ In this Mr Jerome’s humor is of the thinnest possible character, and when he becomes serious—as in a florid description of the ‘ Passion Play ’ —he is oven more trying. Most of our leading journalists and litterateurs have now written descriptions of tho function at Oberammergau, but none of their efforts approach that of the much-abused W. T. Stead. The success of the ‘ Review of Reviews ’ has tempted several rivals into the field, but none of them are, up to the present, worth mentioning, ‘ Pearson’s Weekly ’ seems to have hit the mark, if the guaranteed returns of its circulation can be relied on. Mr Pearson boasts that he sells 60,000 regularly. The great manufacturing towns of the north are tho principal sale grounds of tho “ snippet ” weeklies. Every mill-hand buys two or three, and the prizes, etc., offered arc eagerly competed for. ‘ Pearson’s ’ has invented a really novel prize in the shape of a LlO honorarium, which is awarded weekly to the happy man whose enterprising wife presents him with twins or triplets soonest after the publication of the paper. One week there wore no fewer than fourteen applicants for this prize, which fell (upon examination of the respective claims) to a brawny Scotchman.

Let aspiring Antipodean authors (especially wouid-be novelists) fight shy of delusive publications such as ‘ The Author’s Manual,’ issued last week by the firm of Digby and Long. These kindly philanthropists undertake the printing, etc., of “promising” works on the “ most reasonable terms,” and it is, I know, quite surprising how lenient are their judgments and how sanguine are their hopes with regard to any MSS. sent them. Nevertheless, do not listen to their charming. To have the imprint of a third-rate publisher on yonr title-page will ruin your book, no matter how intrinsically good it may bo, Mudie’s and the booksellers are guided in their purchases of works by new authors entirely by the publishers’ names. They know that firms such as Bentley, Blackwood, and Macmillan will not publish a book unless it reaches a certain standard ot excellency. Works of ‘The

Author’s Manual ’ sort do a lot of mischief in leading vain men and women into spending money over printers’ ink without the remotest possibility of any return. I cannot recall a single instance of a book which was really good and ultimately scored a success being brought out by an unknown or unpopular publisher. On the other hand, one can remember a score of Instances where a moderately good novel, which would have paid well in the right hands, has failed through being entrusted to a publisher with a reputation for habitually producing what Stevenson forcibly calls “ tripe.” Tillotsons, of Bolton, have concluded an arrangement with Carmen Sylva, the Queen of Roumania, for a three-volume novel in English, The Queen is now at Llandudno writing it, Mr Clement Scott's ‘ Poppy Land ’ has proved singularly successful for a volume of random essays. The publishers announce that three editions of 1,000 each have been disposed of. Why this should be I cannot say, as the work is quite ordinary “ journalese,” and in no sense “ leeterature.” Mr Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wilde is still engaged in newspaper warfare on the stale subject of the transcendent merits of his singularly nasty “ shilling shocker.” Shut up by the * St. James’s ’ and the ‘ Soots Observer,’ Oscar betook himself to the provinces, and now bewails the “ literary cliqueism of the metropolis ” in a small northern weekly. The September number of the ‘ Review of Reviews ’ contains an admirable character sketch, in Stead’s best style, of Lord Wolaeley, as well as all the usual feature*, and a number of portraits. A special American edition of 30,000 was published simultaneously with tho English issue. The Duke of Connaught is busy with a diary of his Indian sojourn, which will be published shortly. The Duchess is contributing tho illustrations, taken from sketches of her own on the spot.