Things from the EMPIRE CITY

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XII, Issue VII, 17 February 1894, Page 152

Things from the EMPIRE CITY

BY TBG RUTOGRRTIG IDEGR.

Suicide.

Almost every second day, for days past, some corpse has been fished out of the harbour, or

found suspended from a beam, or stretched peacefully in bed in an eternal sleep—the inevitable and wished for result of eating two boxes of lucifer matches. Sometimes a man, or maybe a woman, does his or her best to make an en lof trouble : but the gash is not quite deep enough, or the aim sure enough, or the poison not potent enough,—and the tired and utterly weary human being, in that case, a| - pears before a magistrate to answer for a crime. Had the would be-suicide succeeded, the offence could not be punished; so that it may be very fairly contended that the breach of the law lies in the failure to get rid of existence in a thorough and workmanlike manner. It does seem to be a most illogical proceeding to punish an individual for attempting to take his own life. First of all, for the reason that the life in question is now almost invariably worth nothing, either to the creature whose life it is, or to anybody else. Nor does the punishment for failing in the attempt deter anybody from making another. He simply says he will proceed in a manner more likely to lead to success. Thirdly, the crime—if crime it beis one of those of the nature, circumstances, and criminality of which one judge alone is capable of judging. It is a matter between man and his Maker.

It ‘ Muggy ’ Weather the Cause?

Various reasons have been given for this recent outbreak of a longing for eternal rest, e —or, as the newspapers call it, this suicidal mania. The weather of late has been

* muggy,’ and there are some who think the depression on the barometer has something to do with that terrible depression of spirit which compels a man to seek an eternal repose. It used to be said that the November fogs of London were the cause of numerous suicides. Statistics in such questions are merely accidental, and there is really no significance in them ; but, as a matter of fact, there are more suicides in London during the leafy month of June than at any other period of the twelve months. We lose sight of the circumstance that as civilisation advances, as population increases, as the struggle for existence becomes keener and crueller, and as the turmoil and trouble of life grows—to the poor and the troubled -more unendurable and unending, the number of persons broading over self-destruc-tion is continually growing more numerous. A mania for suicide is distinctly a product of civilisation. We seldom hear of such a thing in very ancient times, or amongst savage races, and the recorded instances of self-destruction are nearly all traceable to causes which civilisation intensifies.

Places Selected.

1 read, somewhere, a few days since, that, up to this time thirty perrons had already sought and met death from the higher

regions of the Eiffel Tower. It is said that a man named Govett, in the early days of New South Wales, walked to the Blue Mountains in order to precipitate him--8 jiff into that stupendous chasm, four thousand feet deep, to this day known as Govett’s leap. A more weird, si lemn, silent, and all - entrancing spot than this to end one’s days in, could hardly be found in this world. But the Dunedin gentleman, who shot himself in a church, thinking that he might go to Heaven by dying there, although as treasurer of the church funds be hadn’t been altogether straight; wasn’t so poetical as Govett, albeit more practical. In another thirty or fifty years the Bridge of Sighs and London B-idge will fade into insignificance bef >ra Prince's Bridge, Melbourne. Even the Adriatic and the Thames must give way to the Yarra Yarra in the ghastly histoiies murmured by the turbid, slimy, slowII >wing waters of that fearful river—already listening to the sighs of thousands of orphans, and salted with the tears of c runtless women 1

Self-destruc-tion not Cowardly.

It is very commonly remarked that the most ~ , . , , . cowardly thing a human being can do is to tjjje bis or her life. And so, doubtless it is —j n go j ar as Ujj a world is concerned. Other-

wise, and putting this world out of the question, it is an awfully brave act —too defiantly brave an act for any truly reasonable and reasoning man even to think of. It is admitted that no perfectly and absolutely sane being ever commits self-destruction. Something is nnhinged in the working mechanism of the brain ; something is warped or strained. Nevertheless, there are cases in which apparently altogether sane persons have proceeded with methodical deliberation to end their own career. A calm and determined case of this sort is instanced by Da Q lincey, who commenced to write a paper on suicide, but rambled on to talk of the degradation of corporal punishment instead. The case quoted by him is as follows :—* A young man of studious turn, who is said to have resided near Penrith, was anxious to qualify himself for entering the church, or for any other mode of life which might secure to him a reasonable portion of literary leisure. His family, however, thought that under the circumstances of his situation he would have a better chance for success in life as a tradesman ; and they took the necessary steps for placing him as an apprentice at some shopkeeper’s in Penrith- This he looked upon as ap indignity, to which he was determined in-no case to submit. And accordingly, when he had ascertained that all opposition to the choice of his friends was useless, he walked over to the mountainous district of Keswick (about sixteen miles distant)—looked about him in order to select his ground—coolly walked up Lattrig (a dependency of Skiddaw) —made a pillow of sods—laid himself down with his face looking up to the sky—and in that posture was found dead, with the appearance of having died tranquilly.’

a Curious instance.

Quite as curious an instance was that of a medical gentleman known to the present writer. He was a young man, who at the

time of his death was medical superintendent of an immense hospital for the Insane in one of the inland towns of Victoria. Of remarkable ability, he had risen to one of the most important offices in the Government service while still scarcely thirty years of age. Not being married, he bad no family cares ; he had a large salary ; money in the bank; splendidly furnished quarters to reside in. In the year 18 — he came down the country to see the Melbourne Cup ran. He attended the races in the best of spirits ; was not seen to bet, and did not drink: he was perfectly himself, and apparently perfectly happy. On his arrival in Melbourne from the racecourse he called into a chemist’s shop and purchased a bottle of some particular preparation of chloroform (which he asked especially for), and some lint. He proceeded from thence, on foot, to the bank of the Yarra directly opposite the Yarra Bend Asylum—of which institution he had previously been medical officer—and there he was found dead. He had drenched the lint with chloroform, pnt it on the grass, and applied his face to it. In his pocket was an affectionate letter to the Inspector of Asylums requesting him to break the matter gently to bis mother in Scotland. No earthly cause or reason for this strange suicide was ever ascertained ; but it was remarked that suicide was one of the doctor’s subjects of conversation, and that he always spoke of it as both cowardly and detestable.

Niobe

In any asBen,b ’y of sa y two thousand average people, at least one thousand of them will

know nothing at all of Niobe, and a large proportion of the remainder will have derived the little knowledge they have of that ancient Rachel from an acquaintance with Shakespeare. In * Troilus and Gressida ’ Troilus says : — • There is a word will Priam turn to stone, Make wells and Niobes ot the maids and wives, And statues of the youth ' * Troilus and Gressida ’ is not, however, very much read in these days, and is not acted now. But * Hamlet ’is ; and everyone remembers the Prince of Denmark’s bitter reflection on his mother :—

• A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears —'

An iit is these latter lines that have familiarised the people with the association between ‘Niobe’ and ‘tears.’ The general idea is that Niobe was turned into stone for weeping over the loss of her children. As a matter of mythological fact, she tnrned herself into stone. She was the mother of a very numerous and promising family, and she scoffed at Leto because she was the mother of only two children. 1 his sort of feminine spurning is not altogether Grecian. Instances of it repeat themselves very constantly even in our day by British matrons, and 1 have heard a New Zealand child say, ‘ We’ve got two dolls ; you’ve only got one doll 1’ However, these two children of Leto’s were not going to tolerate Niobe’s insults. They were equal to the oc. casion, Apollo, one of them, slaying nearly all Niobe’s children with bis arrows, and Artemis, the other hopeful, finishing off the rest. Niobe, like a true mother, made a valiant attempt to defend her offspring, but being unable to do so, wept over them until she became a rock which—we aie told—still weeps incessantly. Where that rock is. I’m snre 1 don’t know ; but if Niobe was a stately woman, a magnificent woman ; tall, graceful, dignified—*in form and action like an angel ;in apprehension like a goddess’—l can find her in twenty minutes I

Mrs Brough.

The idea of mingling ancient Athens and modern London together would baldly, I ttj e j, resistible success that it i->,

without Mrs Brougb. I may say at once that anything more indescribably humorous has never been seen on any stage ; but throughout all the scenes, and from beginning to end, Mrs Brough, as Niobe, was not humorous—she was simply magnificent; and such incomparable acting was worth going twenty miles to see. It was curious to find an audience absolutely convulsed with laughter, and at the same time glowing with admiration at one of the most artistic and finished peiformances ever seen anywhere.

At the Theatre.

Perhaps it may be as well to give in a nutshell the plot of this mythological comedy (which was written, as I need scarcely remind you, by the Messrs Paulton). The

whole of the three acts are in the drawing room of Peter Amos Dunn (Niobe thinks he is Pitramos), the agent of an Insurance Company. An art enthusiast becomes possessed of a classic statue of Niobe and insures it in Dunn’s Company for £IO,OOO — but Dunn, during its owner’s absence from town, removes it to his own drawing-room for safety. This statue becomes a living being in an accidental way — a workman, in fact, being the cause of it by attaching electric wires to the pedestal while introducing the electiic light into Dunn’s house. Then we have, of course, a living Niobe, who knows nothing at all about modern London and everything about ancient Athens; and the family and relations of Dunn and various other persons who know modern London quite well, but who know nothing of Ancient Greece—and you can imagine the intensely indicrous complications that ensue. There are also other plots within this larger one—but these you must shortly see for yourselves. The attitudes, motions, bearing, of Niobe are all refined and majestic ; nothing seems to puzzle her more than the walk of the young lady of this period. She speaks, I may remark, most excellent English—how she acquired the know ledge is not explained : anyhow, it would not do for her to speak Gieek in this play. This was the first occasion of the representation of the comedy in Wellington ; and however it came about I can’t say, but everybody appeared to be on the tiptoe of expectation, and the opera house was packed. On the second night there was a regular scramble for seats, and crowds had to be sent away. Nevertheless the play was only performed on the two occasions ; but I understand that, so great has been the success of the Brough and Boucicault season, the theatre has been taken for an extended term, so that the many persons disappointed in not seeing the most humorous production of this decade, may after all have another chance of doing so. Mr Titberadge does not take a part in Niobe. Mr Brough enacts Peter Amos Dunn; Mr Boucicault that of Jefferson Tomkins (the art enthusiast), Miss Romer, Miss Temple, Miss Noble, Miss Major, and Miss Gibson, all being cast and filling their several parts with uncommon ability. Although I know nothing about such things, allow me to whisper that I hear everybody admiring the robes and general rig-out of Mrs Brough, and I am told that her dresses are surprisingly magnificent. The lady looks superb anyway :as for her acting I shall always think of her when I meet the word 'Niobe ’in any book, or print, whatever.

• Sophia.’

Fielding’s Tom Jones (which Thackeray conconsidered the best novel ever penned up to

his time) cut up into three acts and toned down to suit our more refined and cultured tastes, was Brough and Boucicault's next treat. I only mention it to say that Mr Ward as Tom Jones and Miss Gibson as Molly Seagrim distinguished themselves so well and so much in these parts—the latter a difficult and unpleasant one—that I think they deserve special mention in the Graphic. Mr Titheradge as Partridge was simply immense ; and Miss Noble as Sophia could hardly be improved upon. The scenery of this famous play is beautiful, and reflects the greatest credit on Mr Spong.