TOPICS OF THE DAY.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 442, 1 February 1890, Page 3

TOPICS OF THE DAY.

(from our special correspondent. ) London, December 6. PREVALENCE OF BRONCHITIS. A spell of hard frosb, accompanied by an icy north east wind, has laid up hundreds of Londoners with bronchitis, and wellnigh emptied the theatres.' Two famous men who attended the premiere of “La Tosca ” caught bad colds and are now in their coffins, and how many more that awful night invalided it is, of course, impossible to say. The aged Martin Farquhar Tupper has succumbed to the weather, and Sir James Hannen is very ill. THE HOME OF THE PLUM PUDDING. The home of the Plum Pudding is at the leviathan confectionery stores of VV. and G. Buszard, in Oxford street. This vast emporium of good things, with its mountains of cakes (in fifty varieties, from the Royal Wedding—made only for princes’ nuptials —to the modest “ Baby Sponge ”), its silver brays of cream walnuts, chocolates, nougats, fondants, and toffies, and its many-coloured boxes of all sorts of dried, preserved, and crystallised fruits, presents a busy scene evpn ao ordinary times. Bub from early in November till after Christmas, Buszard's is a veritable hurly-burly. Then the number of assistants is doubled, the long bars of sweetmeats become thrice their usual size, and here, theie, and e erywhere arise huge pyramids of basins of plum pun dings and mountains qfjars of mincemeat The puddings are all of the same quality. There is no difference, save in the matter <>f size, between the six Royal puddings which Mr Buzzard annually despatches to Windsor and Osborne, and the small 7s 6d worth of indigestion which you yourself can buy from him. Buzzard’s plum puddings cost from 5s to £5, the leviathan being made chiefly for clubs and regimental messes in all parts of the world. They are thoroughly mixed and half-boiled, the balance of boi ing (about six hours for a medium-sized basin) being left to be done by the purchaser’s cook. In the cellars below the shops lies the export and packing department, Here, as November comes round, the clerks giow busier and busier. Tin-lined cases—some half, some wholly packed—are scattered about, and two boys are hard at work painting address s on the box lids. These same addresses give onv some idea of the extent of the plum pudding business. The excited Britisher, it seems, must enjoy this indigestible edible at Christmas time ; nine times out of ten he appears to send to Oxfordstreet for it. A huge case alongside us is addressed to the “ Byculla Club, Calcutta and another almost as large to '-‘the Adjutant of the Regiment, Delhi." The club at the nu<hroom city of Johannes burg has learnt to appreciate Buszard’s handiwork, and H. M. ships in all parts of the world are his regular customers. Australians, I regret to state, *eem as yet for the most part philistine and benighted in the matters of mincemeat and puddings. Mr Bu-zard (a smdeless man conscious of inflicting much digestive misery on his fellow creatures) tells me that though he sends numerous Xmas boxes to individu ds at the antipodes, he has never been invited tosupply an Australian club or corpo ration. “Of course,” he said, “theycan(if they happen to have a good receipt and are careful in the matters of mixing and boiling) make as good a plum pudding in Australia as in England. Only then, of course, it is not a British plum pudding All we really claim for our puddings is that they are cheaper and better mixed than the average householder's. What, of course, really moves our foreign and colonial customers is sentiment. They like to have a bit of English plum pudding and an English mince pie at Christinas. Even on the torrid plains of North Queensland or snowed-up in Canada it is a practical reminder of Home.” “And will your puddings keep, Mr Buszard ?” I asked. “For ever, once they are securely soldered up in an air tight tin case.” replied the monarch of mincemeat. “Ten years ago,” he coptinued meditatively, “ we despatched a two guinea Christmas pudding to a party living at Lima (Peru). The steamer was wrecked in the Straits of Magellan and all the cargo lost. Eight years later two castaway starving sailors prowling about the same spot came upon a tin case, from which the wood had partially rotted.' It contained our pudding, which was in precisely the same condition as on the day it was shipped. Both men ate ravenously, and one, I greatly regret to say, died, but then, you see, the puddinsr was only halfcooked, and the careless castawavs neglected to follow our instructions (duly attached), viz., ‘boil thoroughly for ten hours.”’ MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. The presont generation of Englishmen and Englishwomen rejoicing in their Tennyson, their Swinburne, and their countless minor poets who can at least turn out melodious verses.find the erstwhile popularity of Martin Farquhar Tupper simply inexplicable. That the late Mr Tupper teas popular and that people did once upon a time read “Proverbial Philosophy” is, however, morally certain. One publisher alone admits having made £lO 000 out of “ Proverbial Philosophy," and had the author received a royalty on the American sa'es of 3d per copy it is

alleged he would have been £IOO,OOO riche' - . I imagine the persons who gloried in Tupper likewise admired Hain Friswell and wept sentimental tears over Eliza Cook. The chief thing, of course which irritates the aver .ge reader in Tupper is his lack of harmonious expression, and cumbrous platitudinism. One may wade through pages of halting prosaic lines without finding a really happy thought. Not that the man was without them. Here are one or two— Neglect ? What libel on a world where half the world is woman. or again— Knowledge holdeth the hilt and heweth out a road to conquest. Ignorance graspeth the blade, and is wounded by its own trood sv>ord. Occasionally Mr Tupper blunders on a line of singular beauty, as, forexample—- “ A babe in a house is a wellspring of pleasure, a messenger of peace an 1 of love.” The best of the proverbial philosophy did not, however,, rise above this sort of thing Never be idle : La mur is good for a man, bracing up hi? energies to conquest. Mke a fair.will: . There is no greater evil among men than a testament framed with injustice. Live and let live: And he that hath more than enough is the thief of the rights of his brother. Of writing : , It flxe.h, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment. / These are what the Tupperian would call gems ot the first water. .The venerable poet (if poet he. can be called) died on • Friday last, aged 82. He went to school at the Charterhouse with Thackeray, and was from boyhood a great

friend of Gladstone, with whom, however, he differed in politics. Several good stories are told of Tupper. On one occasion, having lost his portmanteau on a journey, the poet relieved his mind by swearing. A bystander rebuked him. “Confound it, sir; wouldn’t you swear under similar circumstances ?" asked Tupper. “/ should, Mr Tupper,” replied the other, “ but lam only an ordinary mortal, whereas your philosophy is proverbial .” A BRILLIANT IMPOSTOR. Endless stories are rife concerning Ernest Norton R.olfe, the brilliant impostor, whom Mr Justice Charles sentenced to a long term of penal servitude at Manchester last week. He was known to a large number of prominent persons in London, whom he bad taken-in in one character or another, and they all agree that he proved socially delightful. Such shrewd judges as Henry Irving, William Black, Thomas Cook, and Austen Chamberlain succumbed bo the charm of his manner and were drawn for substantial sums. A lady who met the man when he was masquerading out at lunch in the character of “ Captain Carnesrie,” a nephew of the famous Pittsburg. millionaire, described him as an enterprising companion, and remarked that his victims at least got some recompense for the guineas he borrowed. It was, she said, impossiole to recall Rolfe’s gentle sarcasms on “Uncle Carnegie’s” democratic opinions without laughing. He talked brightly, and well, was an adroit flatterer, and soon plumbed the weak points of his victim for the time being. At dinner, on one occasion, Rolte assured a well-known novelist (whose appetite for outrageous compliments he quickly gauged) that when that gentleman was travelling in America he (Rolfe) had driven the locomotive across the prairies in order bo ensure a safe journey co his literary hero. The man was undoubtedly well read, and never at a loss for an anecdote when a notable name was mentioned. He dressed well, bub not too smartly, and his manner had thatye ne sais quoi which (as his victims inv riably said) made it “so easy bo tell when a man has moved in good society.” A POWERFUL PLAY.

Mrs Bernard Beere hasachieved.aseveryone expected she would, a grand triumph in “La Tosca,” which is in some' respects the most tremendous play that I’ve seen for years. True, one sups lull of horrors, but they are sufficiently artistically presented nob to revolt. .. The adapters have wisely left Sardou’s plot unaltered, simply converting “La Tosca” (as. the beautiful actress Floria is nicknamed) from Mario Cavaradossi’s mistress into his wife. The third act contains a wonderful scene. “I cannot," says Carados, “forbear describing it, the climax is so revolting, yet so dramatic.” In the dead of night the demoniacal Scarpia and his myrmidons come to search the Villa Cavaradossi, where Mario has hidden his friend, the proscribed Angelotti. It is Floria’s causeless jealousy which has given Scarpia the clue, and she is now in an agony of repentance. They search the house without result. Mario is then “ interrogated ”in an adjoining room. He is supposed bo be bound hand and foot, and a “ circlet of iron ” being “placed around his brow,” it is screwed up tighter and tighter, until either the skull is crushed or the necessary information is obtained. Several turns of the screw are given. Mario faints twice, but remains firm. Fiona is meanwhile questioned by Scarpia. Every time she refuses to answer, an additional screw is pub upon poor Mario. The agony of thescene is piled up in minute detail. Floria pleads to Scarpia in vain. At length, unable any longer to endure her lover’s sufferings, she confesses that Angelotti is hidden in the well. But it is only his dead body that they captme. He poisoned himself when he heard them coming. Mario,though crushed by the torture, is still able in a terrible voice to curse Floria for having sacrificed his honour. Scarpia, pointing to the corpse of Angelotti, says, “ Take away that carrion 1 Take the living dog to the Castle of St. Angelo—to the gallows ! The woman also !” “To the gal'ows also, Excellency?” replies his familiar, Schiarnme. “ That depends ! ’ says Scarpia. • This was the curtain of the third act. A dissentient minority hissed, but were speedily silenced by a torrent of applause. The next act takes place in Scarpia’s private room in the castle. Mario is to be shot at sunri-e. Scarpia intimates to Floria that if she will comply with his wishes her husband’s life shall be spared. In an agony of shame she at length consents. Orders are given—in her hearing—that the firing party shall, load with blank cartridge only. Mario is bo be instructed to fall and feign death. Floria is to have a safe-conduct, and take him away with her. “The execution will be conducted on precisely the same principle as that of the Cavaliere So-and-so," adds Scarpia. “ You understand The officer nods assent. “ Leave us, and remember, we are not to be disturbed /” Then ensues another terrible scene. When Scarpia has signed the safe-conduct and approaches Floria, presumably to claim fulfilme.it of bis nargain, she seizes a knife from the supper table, and exclaiming, “Die! die ! unpitied of men unpardoned of heaven !”—plunges it in his heart. Scarpia having at length fallen dead on the floor, Floria bakes two big lighted candles from an al ove, places one at either side of his head and a big black cross on his breast, and then silently departs. The end come 9 on the ramparts of the castle. The firing party at rive with their prisoner. Floria tells Mario of the plan for ins escape—and its price. The condemned takes up position. The soldiers fire. He falls dea-t. Of course, you have guessed that it was all a trick of the villain Scarpia to gain his end-bub he got it in an unexpected way. Some short, sharp agony now' for Floria—and then, as the soldiers approach to seize her, she jumps over the ramparts, and is supposed to be drowned in the river below.

Mrs Bernard Beere’s Floria was in many respects a fine performance. It would have been finer but for its lack of contrast—and quietness. Her test moments were in the third act, when Scarpia wrung from her unwilling lips the secret of Angelotti’s hiding-place. Most of her business was imitated from her g>eat original, but many fine touches were distinctly her own. In the murder-scene—so far as the murder itself went—Mrs Beere was not to be compared with Sarah Bernhardt. But I happened to seeSaraha^hervery best. For a run of level excellence 1 would be inclined to back Mrs Beere. Forbes RobertsonV Scarpia was in acting and elocution all that could be desired, but his facial make-up was simply dreadful. Personally I thought Forbes Robertson’s “Scarpia” appalling. The indescribable loathsomeness of the man when in the fourth act he closes the door, and creeping towards La Tosca utters the one word “ Now,” sent a shudder through one ; nor are sensitive people likely ever to forget the shriek of passion with which Mrs Bernard Bsere stabs him. JOHN L.’s ULTIMATUM.

That John L. Sullivan, when fit and well, was a brilliant and capable exponent of the “noble.art ” and a realchampion, no one will deny ; but people of pugilistic and

sporting proclivities generally rightly take exception to the blatant braggadocio which pervades all the “ slugger’s ” .challenges, etc. The California Athletic Club have, for some time past, offered to pub up a purse of 10,000 dollars in order to bring Jackson, the Austral an coloured champion, and Sudivan together, but without avail. “Couldn’bt hink of such a thing,” sniffed the “ Boston Pet,” contemptuously. “ Twenty thousand is my price if I condescend to fight a coloured man.” He intimates his willingness to “wipe the floor” with Slavin, Smith, Kilrain and Company for the measly consideration of §10,000," but he explained, “ I once declined to fight a person of colour on any condition whatsoever, but as the foolish folk of Californy imagine Jackson is a “world whipper” I’m anxious to show them just where he belongs” (provided, of course, they hang up a 20,000 dollar purse). If pugilism were a commercial undertaking (it is to a degree, but nut in the sense I meat')) John L.’s bill against the California Athletic Club would be something as follows :—To pulverising Jackson, SIO,OOO ; loss of self-respect, SIO,OOO : total, $2().000. But what if the cullud pusson whipped the great John L. ? Tommy Me.dows, who came over here posing as the Australian light-weight champion, was badly beaten in a threeround compeb bion for lOst 81 b men, by a comparative novice, named Husband, on Tuesday last. The first round convinced the spectators that Meadows was indeed “small potatoes”in first-class company, as Husband, who is no great shakes, liberally walked round Master Totnmv and won anyhow.