OUR LONDON LETTER.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 957, 19 July 1877, Page 2

OUR LONDON LETTER.

[Specially Written for the Globe.] London, May 31.

This is an off day, when London is suffering from reaction. Yesterday was the great carnival of Londoners —the Derby Day—and to-morrow the excitement of yesterday will be renewed in a milder form over the Oaks. The Dei by was favored with everything that one could wish for, except that the company on the course was scarcely so large as usual, so that even the Turf seems to be affected by the general dulness of tilings in England. The weather, which has been winterly throughout the month, suddenly turned to a proper English spring. The betting people, and they are legion now-a,-days, were thrown into the wildest excitement on Monday by the vaguest reports that the great French favorite, Chamant, had somehow “ gone wrong,” and had fallen from the top of the list —a place which, in spite of his public appearance at Epsom, he never quite regained, and rightly, for in the race itself the horse which liad hitherto beaten everything was literally “ knocked into a cocked hat ” by a lot of very second-rate animals.

For want of something else to talk about, “society ” has invented .a great scandal about the Prince of Wales, and one of the weekly newspapers—a paper that is not too nice—lias boldly stated that the Princess, who is on her way home fo England after an absence of several weeks, only intends to remain here a day or two before finally returning to her father’s Court at Copenhagen. Indeed, the subject has taken such a hold of the public mind that go where you will you find it being apoken about, and as a topic of coaver*

sation it has eclipsed the bogus “-victories” of the Russians or the Turks. There may be a grain of truth underlying all the wild talk, but the Court is in Scotland, being serenaded by bagpipers, so that nothing definite can be learned. The Prince, however, deports himself as usual, and is evidently supremely regardless of all that is being said of him. Of course he is immensely popular ; he has taken a charming house for himself and the Princess to occupy during the Ascot race week, and says he is going in state with her to the Handel festival at the Crystal Palace. The utter apathy of trade in England, and the still gloomier prospect that seems to be in view, is leading some of those who have money to invest to look to our southern colonies as a field for remunerative speculation. Since last I wrote the shareholders of the Trust and Agency Company of Australia have held their annual meeting in London, and a very favorable report was presented of their business, which Mr Kinnaird, M.P., the chairman, remarked had been unaffected by European politics. He particularly mentioned the prosperity of New Zealand and Aew South Wales —the two colonies in which the bulk of the company’s investments are situated. The total ‘dividend for last year was 20 per cent., a return which must make many less lucky shareholders sigh. Tempted, probably, by this success, another body of speculators have started the “ National Mortgage and Agency Company of New Zealand,” to transact similar business. It will have a nominal capital of one million sterling, but it is proposed to call up only one-fifth of that amount. This capital will be divided into 50,000 shares, of which it is stated 15,000 will be reserved for New Zealand. Mr C. Magniac is the chairman, and the directorate appeal’s to be an influential one.

I have proved to be correct in my expectation as to the fate of the young man William Henry Wood, who was arrested on his arrival in New Zealand on a charge of stealing a large sum of money from the Colney Hatch Gas Company, to which he was assistant secretary. When lie was brought up at the Middlesex sessions for trial, he pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to penal servitude for live years.

Another item of local news which has come to light in our law courts I may mention here. This was an action brought, by Captain Webster, who was offered the command of the ship Waipa by the New Zealand Shipping Company, and afterwards summarily dismissed, because the company heard something about plaintiff, which turned out after all to be unfounded. He thereupon brought an action to recover damages for slander, as well as for wrongful dismissal. The Judge, however, before whom the case came for trial, held that there was no ground for the action for slander. As regards the dismissal, the company paid £75 into court, and after a long contention between counsel for the parties as to whether that was sufficient compensation, the jury gave the plaintiff a verdict for £SO above that amount.

Visitors to London now have plenty to see, for in spite of many drawbacks I scarcely remember a season when the metropolis offered so many attractions, especially in the way of art. To begin with, in mentioning a few, there is the Eoyal Academy, with its annual show of pictures —a few good, a large number very indifferent, and some positively bud. The increase in the number of artists of late years has been something enormous, and no wonder. The proportion of people who could afford to keep a grown up son in next door to idleness, became very great during the time that fortunes were made by Stock Exchange speculations, and every young gentleman who learned to draw at school, despised trade or a profession when lie grew up, bought a velvet coat, a stock of joil colors, and took to painting “pictures.” I have seen some terrible rubbish produced by artists of this school. Of course nearly all the pictures that are painted in the country during the winter are sent to the hanging committee of the Academy in the following spring, and this year it is said the rejected ones alone numbered three thousand! Of course amongst the rejected are some of the best pictures of the year, because the Academicians themselves have a right to exhibit all their own works, and the increasing discontent amongst the outsiders has led Sir Coutts Lindsay to build the Grosvcnor gallery in Bond street, a suite of the handsomest rooms ever constructed in London for such a purpose, and wherein are now hung some lovely gems. Then we have two of the greatest masters of music—one an enormous success, the other as great a failure. Rubinstein, the famous Russian pianist, and to my mind the greatest master of tire piano since Weber, has paid us another visit, and is “drawing” immensely. Only this week, at his morning recital on Monday, for two hours before the performance began there was collected a crowd more than enough to fill the large hall in which he plays. Herr Richard Wagner, the writer of the “ Music of the future,” is also here. He began with a series of high-priced concerts, which resulted in a loss of £SOOO. He is now going on with a smaller series at a lower rate, but the loss will only be the greater. People who flock to the Opera-houses to hear the works of great German composers, arc very shy of the modern man whose scores arc all bang and clash, who despises Mozart, and fancies himself immensely above Meyerbeer. Another curiosity that has proved an immense attraction for the last week is the collection which the late John Forster bequeathed to the nation, including nearly all the original manuscripts of Charles Dickon’s works, some of which are “as plain as print,” but others undecipherable by eyes not used to “ copy.” At the very time while the public were engrossed with one of the most important debates in our Parliamentary annals, their attention was arrested by a shocking murder being committed in Highbury New Park, one of the most fashionable localities in the north of London, a deed which was followed by the suicide of the assassin. Both the parties were young men, well to do, had known each other for years, and were apparently on the most amicable terms. Meeting in the street about nine o’clock in the evening, they stood talking for some time, until suddenly the people near heard two reports, and hastening to the spot, found the two young men lying on the ground. Both were dead,) so sure had been the aim ; and the pistol with which (he deed was committed was lying by the side of one of them. Curiously enough in the excitement of the moment the bodies were removed in different directions, so that two coroners had to inquire info the circumstances, which were simple enough. The murderer was clearly shown to have been affected in his mind, partly by a love affair, and the juries publicly expressed their sympathy with the relations of both the deceased young men.

Our subm’bs continue to offer plenty of scandals and horrors. We have not yet forgotten the unexplained mystery as to the poisoning of that odd little follow, Mr Bravo, the barrister, when another dreadful revelation was made in the very same room as that in which a coroner’s jury sat for many days in the vain attempt to elucidate what the reporters called “the Balham mystery.” It seems that a young man of very good position in life, but too much given to drink, voluntarily placed himself in a house at Balham under the care of a medical man, in order that, being put under some kind of restraint, lie might be cured of his mania for spirits. The doctor, to alter his patient’s condition, lias resourse to one of the most powerful of those narcotic poisons which have become so fatally fashionable during the last year or two. The patient, craving for some artificial stimulus, was allowed surreptiously to have some alcohol, after which a nurse gave him such a dose of chloral as would nearly kill an elephant. It was his last draught ! Of course everybody was astonished at such an “unexpected” result, considering what strong doses the poor man had been accustomed to. By the way, I ought not to omit to mention that the death of Mrs Bravo was announced in a special edition of one of our evening papers a few days ago. Of course it was not true, but then it has not been contradicted by the party most concerned : however often the hoax may be repeated, it never will be. Of course the lady, who has had two husbands, “not mentioning other company in youth,” like the famous “Wife of Bath” in Chaucer, would stand a poor chance of matrimony again while the name of Bravo lives in public recollection. She must at some time make, like other actresses, “positively her last appearance in that character,” and then, if she is careful, or lucky enough not to create any new scandal, the quondam widow of Balham may hope to succeed better in some new performance. A parallel, however, to the Balham mystery is to be found in a horrible story, which has just come to light at Pcnge, and in respect to which four persons—two men and two women —are in custody in the county gaol at Maidstone, and are to-day being examined before the magistrates. Within two years a woman was married, became a mother, lost her infant, and then died herself, as the doctors clearly prove, from absolute starvation. For months before her death this poor woman, Mrs Staunton, had not been seen by her mother, nor indeed by any of her own relatives, and she appears to have been kept a close prisoner by her husband and his friends. She was so entirely secluded that a detective, who was employed by her mother to watch the husband’s house for two months, never caught a glimpse of her, though he frequently saw another woman, who had assumed her name and station. Then, on the night before her death, she was removed, some considerable distance, to lodgings, which had been previously taken for her, and there she expired, without any attention being paid to her. So secret was the affair kept that the other persons in the house only learned of her decease when an undertaker came to measure the corpse for the coffin. She appears to have brought her husband a considerable sum of money, and the whole circumstances are so atrocious that the Government have taken up the prosecution of the husband and his accomplices.