THINGS from the EMPIRE CITY

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIV, Issue IX, 2 March 1895, Page 197

THINGS from the EMPIRE CITY

BY

THE AUTOGRATIC IDLER.

‘ Ma Mie Rosette * and •Paul Jones.’

The Williamson and Masgrove Opera Company have been here a week now, producing in that time the two comic operas, * Ma Mie Rosette ’ and ‘ Paul Jones.’ Almost everyone appears to like the former opera best; nevertheless the rush to hear, or—to speak more by the card—to see, * Paul Jones,’ has been unexampled before in this city. I myself like * Ma Mie Rosette ’ better than any comic opera I have yet seen. The music is delightful; the situations are romantic, and the story is a very fascinating dream, which one is sorry to see dispelled by the fall of the curtain in the last act. Seldom does it occur in this world that one grows young or younger. Miss Nellie Stewart, however, appeared quite a girl in her teens as R >selle ; and positively looked younger than she did when I saw her in Sydney (in ‘Paul Jones’) in 1890 Miss Stewart is so universally known that it is quite superfluous to say a word about her extraordinary gifts of vocalization, or her capacity for captivating the multitude by the archness and vivacity of her acting. Miss Marietta Nash (who made her first appearance in Wellington in this opera as Corisanare) is also extremely clever, and almost at once won the admiration of the 2.000 persons present at the first performance of * Ma Mie Rosette.’ Her inimitable dancing, excellent voice, and unceasing vivacity have made her a popular favourite. The very best thing in this opera is the duet ‘ For Instance,’ sung by Miss Nash and Mr George Lauri. No one who has a chance of hearing this little bit of comicality should miss it. ‘ Paul Jones' is a magnificent spectacle, superbly staged ; the characters being many, the costumes costly ; the scenery varied and beautiful, representing the harbour of St. Malo, Government House in the Isle of Estrella (Caribbean Sea), the cheateau of Kerignac, etc. Each act (of which there are three) has its change of costumes — some of them strikingly novel. Miss Nellie Stewart as Yvonne, and Mr Wallace Brownlow as Paul Jones excelled themselves—if that were possible. As the Opera House was crammed on each occasion, I daresay the performers were at their best all through—a crowded house is a tonic, invigorating the people behind, as well as in front of the footlights. Mr Tapley, Mr Lissant, Mr Howard Vernon, Mr Lauri (of course), and Miss Nash (also of course) were inimitable in their several parts in * Paul Jones.’ As for Miss Nellie Stewart, everyone for miles around Wellington has gon? to see and hear her, and this not once only, but repeatedly. And as she has the charm of genius, she will leave many and deep regrets at her departure, when she leaves us. Whole families have had, almost every night, to be turned away from the Opera House, for want even of standing room. This doesn’t look like bad times, does it 1 And yet it does—if what George Coppin used to say be true. He repeatedly contended that the Melbourne theatres were better patronized in dull times than they were in prosperous days. People (he said) thought then —‘ 'Well, I’ve only £1 left, or poor prospect of making money, or of employment, or no chance at all of recovering myself, so I may as well go and hear George Coppin sing * From Constantinople the Countess Came !’

A Sunday Evening Burlesque.

A rather comic and not altogether edifying bit of burlesque was presented at the House on Sunday evening, when a Mr Crabb, from New South Wales, gave an address in connection with the Prohibition movement. Every part of the building was densely packed. The Mayor of Wellington presided, and had the City Missionary (I really forget the reverend gentleman’s name) on his left. The latter—after some hymns had been sung—offered up a somewhat long prayer for delivery from strong drink ; and then there was, of course, the inevitable collection (why do they say that the discovery of perpetual motion is impossible ’ Isn’t the collection plateeternally goinground’) However Mr Crabb's address seemed worth the money, to a good many people. He out-

taimaged Talmage in coarse jokes, and his logic was about equal to that of the Brooklyn pastor. Thus, when someone interjected that he didn't believe in a personal devil, Mr Crabb assured that infidel individual that he could bnv a

looking-glass for a penny, and so see the devil without further doubt. This is, certainly, the sort of thing that amuses the multitude, and produces thunders of applause, and it might be allowed to pass, were there nothing more serious to object to. But doesn’t it seem rather out of place ior the Mayor of the City to sit silently in the chair at an enormous gathering of citizens and hear discreditable and even damaging personal attacks made on our stipendiary magistrates; and this, too, at a * religious ’ service on a Sunday evening ? Wellington, Mr Crabb said, was a drunken city—a teetotal Mayor, elected by the ratepayers, being his own Chairman and he—Mr Crabb—being himself but a day or two in the town. The Governor of the colonies and the clergy in general were also ridiculed —Mr Crabb fairly convulsing his immense congregation by his references to Cariington collars, Carrington cuffs, Jersey cows and Duff drapery. Mr Luke, the Mayor, had too much patience altogether. He might very fairly and reasonably have defended, by a well-timed interruption, the character of the city and our magistracy. A good many, even of those who laughed loudest at Mr Crabb, would have been glad bad he done so.

A West Coast Poet.

The poetic mind is * dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love.’ A true poet—whether he or she writes his or her poems or not—abhors deceit, selfishness ; what we call money grubbing : and cant and cad-ism of all descriptions. His or her tendency always is to take the side of the poor and the weak, and the oppressed. Hence one can see a great deal of poetry in that wonderful book of Olive Schreiner’s—the ‘Story of an African Farm.’ And from another part of the world altogether some one has sent me a little volume of poems, dealing a good deal with wild goldfield life (of which 1 know so much), printed very neatly and creditably at Grey mouth, and written by a young West Coast man, Mr C. J. O’Regan—a brother, I think, of Mr O’Regan, M.H.R., and quite a young man. Very appropriately the book opens with some account of dreamland : the land we all have so great a longing to live eternally in ! • For,’ the writer says : — I'm weary grown of this world of ours. With its discord, and hate, and wrong ; My ears are dull’d with the moans of the w-eak 'Neath the feet of the pitiless strong. And I hate the hands that stab unseen, The friendly smiles that lie. The faces stamped with villain schemes. In the throng that hurries by. And, sick to the heart, I turn away From a world which woes infest, And I speed to the blessed Land of Dreams, Where the world-worn soul has rest. But there are many touches of a more delicate fancy in some of the poems and a good deal of refined humour in others. Nothing nicer than this has been written in New Zealand for some time back : — O Chloe, Chloe, darling thief ! Thou’st stolen away this heart of mine. I trust that I am thiet enough To pay thee back, by stealing thine. And since all thieves are sent to gaol. Heart-thieves should thus be punished too, So let your arms be gaol for me. And mine shall be a gaol for you. When Mr O’Regan grows older he will find that Chloe isn’t at all so pliably good as he now thinks she is. He will probably discover that she isn’t to be always trusted or depended on, even when one has his arms around her. The really trustful admirable Chloe is to be found only in dreamland—at least I am afraid so. And yet Mr O'Regan seems, in other parts of the little book, to have an idea that this is the case. In lines addressed to Celia he says When in a joyous, mirthful mood You sent those loving lines to me. With merry laugh, you thought how good And jolly too, the joke would be. But come, fair Celia, tell me true. How could you such big stories tell t How strange that one so fair as you Should practise Love's deceit so well I In many of the poems there is that touch of poetic sadness

which we find in Keats and Shelley—in a leaser degree, too* in Longfellow. Your true poet can’t be very merry when he looks around the earth and sees the suffering and strange world that it is. ‘ Voices of Wave and Tree ’is the title of the volume. And talking about poems, I found the followA Wellington ing one in the Pust of this evening. It is signed ‘ Jonathan,'but I happen to know it is written by a very young Wellington lady. There is, I think, a true poetic ring in the lines :— A wild gale over a garden strayed. And the mists grew deep as the pine trees swayed. Hut all was calm when the winds had played. When the morn came, smiling. Then why. alas, should the flowers weep Over one frail lily, that lies asleep ? One pale, sweet lily, forever asleep. With its petals crushed and broken. The waves ran high o'er the frightened land. And buried the shivering, clammy sand : But no wreckage lay on the resting strand. When the dawn came, smiling. Then why, alas, should a mother weep For her child whom the waves have hushed to sleep. Her fair-faced darling, forever asleep. And whose heart a man had broken ? A number of energetic citizens have taken in A Wellington , band a project for bolding an industrial exExhibition, j n this city during next summer. I am afraid people are getting tired of exhibitions of this kind. The last Dunedin one wasn’t a success ; nor is the present one at Hobart: as for the monster Chicago Exhibition, it was a catastrophe. I think the second great exhibition ever held in this world was organised in Dublin by a self-made man and wealthy contractor named William Dargan. That was an enormous failure—and Dargan lost a good deal of his capital in the venture. But that, of course, was in Ireland —there is no such thing as success in that unfortunate land —and very little of industry in it, anyhow ! It is somewhat different here. There is industry in this city, and there are many industries in and around it: also a good deal of that sort of success which Dublin has known little or nothing of, for 300 years. Nevertheless people are so wearied of exhibitions that it is very doubtful if one would pay in anytown in the world for some time to come One great exhibition, also, very much resembles another, and the whole of them are generally monster emporiums or shops which one soon wearies of and which are disappointing. The only two departments of recent Industrial Exhibitions which have pleased and satisfied the public have been the machinery department (which is essentially industrial) and the picture gallery (which isn’t industrial at all). One never wearies of the marvels of modern machinery in motion—one never grows tired of looking at paintings by good artists. But photos, lollies, pickles, jams, beers, furniture, drapery, crockery—these things have no fascination for us in exhibitions. We can see all of them, and plenty of them, in shops, and have them, too, if we have money enough to buy them. However, if the project be resolved on, the only way to make it a success is to determine at the outset that it shall be a success.

Eternal Farewells.

One sees eternal farewells taken, and one takes eternal farewells, when grim cold death isn’t anywhere near at hand. In the Brisbane River, and along the coast thence to Sydney, and from Sydney to Melbourne, and out the Wellington Heads, or the Lyttelton Harbour the big boats such as the Gothic or lonic, or the smaller ones taking passengers to these vessels Homeward, carry people, often, who sigh eternal farewells on the decks of these steamers. Almost invariably the lone traveller is a venerable lady. This present writer has met her often in Oceana. A few days since he met her again. She was going to England after laying the bones of all those she loved in New Zealand - going to England —never to return hence. When the last whistle blew in the twilight, when the flags were hauled in or hauled down, and when the green and red harbour lights began to recede—there sat the lady by the bulwarks, thinking — God only knows of how many years gone by, of joys and griefs 1 Never again in this world will she see Wellington wharves or Wellington Heads again ! Let her be don't try to comfort or to console, or to cheer her : these things can’t be done just now. She is quite calm and silent amid all the bustle of the departure ; and she knows quite well that the countless handkerchiefs waved as the ship departs are farewells which, for her, are eternal. Eternal farewells were the most awful of all De Quincy’s opium dreams !