1915-02-25, English, Article, Journal or magazine article edition: A WOMAN'S LEŢER (25 February 1915)

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A WOMAN'S LEŢER (25 February 1915)
 
Bookmark: https://trove.nla.gov.au/version/258043053
Physical Description
  • 3421 words
  • article
  • Journals
  • Magazines
Published
  • xna, John Haynes and J.F. Archibald, 1915-02-25
Language
  • English

Edition details

Title
  • A WOMAN'S LEŢER (25 February 1915)
Appears In
  • The bulletin., v.36, no.1828, 1915-02-25 (ISSN: 0007-4039)
Other Contributors
  • VANDORIAN.
Published
  • xna, John Haynes and J.F. Archibald, 1915-02-25
Physical Description
  • 3421 words
  • article
  • Journals
  • Magazines
Series
Part Of
  • The bulletin.
  • Vol. 36 No. 1828 (25 Feb 1915)
  • John Ryan Comic Collection (Specific issues).
Subjects
Summary
  • A WOMAN'S LEŢER Sydney, February 22, 1915. My Dear Arini, — “On Thursday we saw in the papers that Jean had been made Chevalier de la Legion d’ Honneur. Yesterday a telegram official brought us the dreadful news of his death. It is all over.” You couldn't' pack more tragedy into four lines. “Jean” was Jean B. Pion, very well known in Sydney, better known in New Caledonia; the letter was written by Mrs. Pion to the Francis 11. Snow metal people in Sydney, who represented sented Mr. Pion find the interests he left behind hind him. Before coming to Australia he was a lieutenant in the French navy; when the war broke out, though he had then been but three or four days in France on a holiday, he at once volunteered and was given his old rank in the marines. Letters from him to his Sydney friends, the Hambridges, bridges, showed that he had been in the dreadful butchery of Dixmude. “We have been fighting the last seven weeks without a night’s rest,” lie wrote. “Now we are back in reserve. The brigade is being reorganised. Of 80 fighting officers 78 are now out of the list. A large part dead. Our men—oh, so fine! For me till now lam quite well.” Then, having passed unscathed through Dixmude, mude, he entered some lesser inferno, just after his services had been recognised by the Republic—and “it is all over.” Australians are taking to the aviation business with outstanding success. Captaifi “Ossy” Watt, of Sydney, has been covering himself with the smoke of battle and glory in France. The mention of one of our own getting the Legion of Honor from Joffre will spur other bird-men in this continent to make similar dashes for distinction. tinction. Herbert Cooper, a son of the Chief Justice of Queensland, joined the British army just before the war burst up the Hague idea that it is beautiful to keep your guns rusty and your powder wet. Since then young Cooper has made such a success of aerial navigation that he is instructor to an aviation tion corps at Farnborougb. It looks as if the 1915 Polo Cup week will retire into moth-balls for a year at least. Some of the best polo men are shouldering arms, and there is a general feeling that this rich man’s sport ought not to be fussed about while Europe is ablaze. Besides, patriotic woman is so buckling down to stitchery that slie_ can lose the chance of wearing her best winter hat at Kensington in July and shed no tears over it. The R.C. Archbishops of Australia have secured as a residence for Papal Delegate Cerretti the house and grounds at North Sydney ney formerly occupied by the late John Hughes, M.L.C. The house, known as Rockleigh, leigh, occupies the site of the home of the late Conrad Martens, the artist, who, soon after his arrival in Sydney in 1838, selected the then lovely, if lonely, spot for his camp and studio. He lived there until his death in 1878. When his daughter some years later sold the property, Mr. Hughes became the purchaser and rebuilt, retaining only the studio of the artist, which is incorporated with the new mansion. Sydney pressmen said good-bye to genial .T. C. Watson over a glass of wine at the Australia. The victim has been so fed and farewelled that he is likely to stick to ship’s biscuit for a while —if he can escape these shores alive. And that’s not so certain, for at other ports other feasts are lurking. This time Mr. Watson goes away with his head full of Labor’s new Sydney daily-paper enterprise. Last time he took a long trip it was to South Africa, and then his head was rattling with the reports of a new goldfield to conquer. Nobody had ever really tried dredging as a means of grubbing up the root of all evil in Boerland, and Watson was to be John the Baptist to some wealthy Victorian friends who proposed to get rich that way. For three months or more the ex- Prime Minister dug holes. Then he came back brown and lean, but no richer. Everybody body hopes that his scheme will turn out better this time. Aviators Delfosse Badgery and Marduel are booked to drop non-explosive _ bombs from the sky at the forthcoming Police and Firemen’s Patriotic Carnival. Weather permitting, mitting, this exhibition ought to touch the public purse in the right place. Miss Auriol Hay, the “well-connected” young person who came out to Australia during the Denmans’ time, and stayed with them for a while, has had a big helping of Australian hospitality since she was favored with that Government House jump-off. She has seen a good deal of station life, and will be able to tell English inquirers that there is still a lot of fat beef and mutton capering over this Fortunate Isle. Miss Hay packed up her experiences for England the other day. She went off in the Ballarat, under the wing of Mrs. Mosley—the Neutral Bay lady whose mild oratory used to he uplifted in the Liberal cause. The Dickens Fellowship, which hasn't a roof to call its own, foregathers in various city halls for its monthly corroboree. Its annual meeting, with Judge Backhouse in charge, passed off, without any casualties, in the Congregational Hall last week. The Society leans back with a sense of something thing more or less practical to its credit in 11)14 ; having discovered the bones of Edward Bulwer Lytton Dickens, Charles’s baby, in the Anglican graveyard at Moree, it has put up a memorial tablet in the adjacent church. The youthful hon. secretary, Mabel Grant Cooper, finds that two-thirds of the volunteers who are prepared _ to recite to the monthly parties are restricted to three elocutionary ideas: the death of Sydney Carton, the story of Mr. Winkle’s misadventure ture in Bath, and Bob Cratchit’s Christmas dinner. It’s a queer patch of Dickens to be worn threadbare —but there it is. One of Charles Dickens’s less-known efforts was his “Children’s Bible.” It was for “Ted” —he whose bones lie at Moree — that these stories were written. Accidents happen on the best linotypes, but this Daily Telegraph clipping is up to the best traditions of the composing-room: A daughter (Polly) of the Rev. IV. G. Taylor, at a private hospital on Saturday last, by Drs. R. E. Woolnough and S. O’Reilly. A much more pleasant thing than an interview view with two doctors at a private hospital really happened to Miss Polly: she was married at Lindfield to Leslie, youngest' son of the Woodford Waterhouses —a grandson of the late Ebenezer Vickery, one of Sydney’s ney’s rich men. The Vickerys and Waterhouses houses and Taylors being pillars of the Methodist Tabernacle, the proceedings were of course surrounded by all the pomp and circumstance which the sect could produce. The widow of the late Canon Ivemmis, the picturesque Anglican shepherd who once showed the flock on Darling Point the track to a Better World, had her 77th birthday last week. The old lady is a daughter of the late Archdeacon Gunther, a worthy German who never quite conquered the English tongue. It was a tradition amongst the young and giggling members of his congregation, gregation, in the long ago, that his “Let us Bray” was a reasonable excuse for disregarding garding the sermon that followed. The large and healthy-looking Innes-Noad family are on the move to London. A generous helping of the Howard Smith wealth, which was made in Australia, carne their way a while ago. So the feminine frills will be bought for some time in the Thames Village. The Belgian appeal for bread —“lest they be shot down like ravenous dogs” in their own streets—oueht to touch some of Australia’s tralia’s wealthy men in their fat chequebooks. books. The citizen who isn’t wealthy has been shedding spare coin for months. But the few drops that have fallen into the Belgian gian bucket have scarcely done more than make a noise in the battered receptacle. Experience, however, shows that it is safer to rely on many shillings than on a few thousand-nound offerings; and if Mayor Richards would open a Shilling Bread Fund a million of the useful coins ought to roll in with a clatter. That would amount to I’ll ask the “Wild Cat” to help me work this sum. Meantime, without the arithmetic, I know that a monthly toll of this kind from the Mother State would put loaves into the yawning bread-locker of the Belgian Iloratius, tius, the Captain qf the Gate. The less said about the march of the troops who came in last week from Papua the better. Those who like to always think well of the khaki would have been far happier had the men been dismissed at the wharf. In their exuberance they might then have cakewalked without hurting the feelings of anybody. One thing has all along been obvious *to what the junior reporter describes as “the meanest intelligence” gence” —we are sending splendid raw material away to help John Bull. But the inexperience of the officers and non-coms, result —well, in what we saw in Sydney streets last week. Could Senator Pearce be persuaded to part with a few senior permanent officers to handle the next consignment signment of KaJngaroos that swarm up transport gangways ? Mrs. Flashman, wife of the well-known Sydney doctor, has' four brothers in the British navy. They are Dewars, of the big Scotch whisky firm. The Benevolent Society is celebrating ing its 102nd birthday with a party in the grounds of the Royal Hospital for Women. Governor Strickland takes the best chair at this gathering. Also, on the 23rd, before this reaches you, Sydney Hospital pital will have poured out its annual statistics, and on the same afternoon Dr. Reuter Roth will have mentioned the great advantages of splints in case of a broken leg to a meeting called by the Red Cross people in the Town Hall vestibule. Already furs fit for the Esquimau climate are on view in our best shops. But, tor tne present, perspiring woman is only just able to fan herself and sink into a seat as she gazes at these autumn models. It’s a very bad war that blows nobody any tourists. This time it is Spain’s turn. Instead of the usual batches of impecunious artists who hump their easels over Alfonso s hillsides, wealthy ’Murkans and other plump pigeons are offering themselves in droves to be plucked by Mrs. Barcelona Boarding House. The artists are mostly nearer the firing-line, but the absence of their coppers isn’t noticed in the presence of the gold coin from Washington’s land. The veteran Q. L. Deloitte is packing up for a brisk trip through Maoriland. He means to start in sulphurous Rotorua and gradually drift down to the Southern lakes. Among other things he is going to tackle the 83 miles foot track from (Hade House to Milford Sound. Like other tourists who have “done” Switzerland, the N.S.W. man isn’t going to take any chances with mountain rills. He will carry boiled water instead of medical comforts, and get a guide to hump his camera and other baggage over the track. One of the numerous Campbell clan of this State, Gordon, has done a good many odd jobs in soldiering. He went to South Africa years ago with the N.S.W. Mounted Rifles. More recently he helped to squash a nigger rising in East Africa. Now he is getting fitted for the big fur hat that lie will wear as a captain attached to the 10th Seaforth Highlanders. Harold Garnett, the Lancashire cricketer our sporting girls admired when he was here with Maclaren’s team in 1001, has been wounded at the zig-zag front. The long, lank Father Barry, who rounds up the faithful at Chatswood, and is almost as popular with opposition parsons as he is with his own flock, had a big farewell party recently given him in the village of roses and bowls. ' He goes off for a holiday to the other side. Mr. Herbert Hoover, who used to inspect Australian mines for Bewick, Moreing and Co., has been prominent in sending round the hat for Belgians. Recently he and his wife had a look at the distressful little country to find out the most practical means of employing the belated U.S. help. Mrs. Hoover, by the way, must be an impressive specimen of our sex. She collaborated with hubby, some years ago. in translating a sixteenth teenth century book on mining from the ancient Latin text. I don’t suppose the lady felt it much, for she is a graduate in metallurgy. Baronet Lucas-Tooth, who passed out the other day in London, is the ex-Sydney millionaire lionaire brewery-owner who lost two sons in the present war. His sister, formerly Miss Alice Tooth, married the late lawyer, Cecil Stephen, of this town. News that came through recently from the Tooth family in England pointed to the end as being in sight. The loss'of two sons within a few weeks was a hard blow to an old man in bad health, and he has been in the care of doctors and nurses ever since. The name Lucas was put in front of Tooth, as grace before meat, by Royal License, and it gave an extra X. so to speak, to the title, which dates back to 1906. Only one son, Archibald, bald, survives ; he, of course, will wear the handle, in lieu of eldest brother Selwyn, who was killed at Ypres. Belgian Consul Watteeuw has temporarily arily succumbed to the natural feelings of a man who was galloped from one patriotic show to another for the last six months. . A good recovery from his present indisposition will fortify the usually-brisk Consul against another season of patriotic music—good, bad and worse. For a limited number of nights Julius Knight sees the Light in “The Sign of the Cross.” Loud applause from the faithful gallery greets the final “curtain,” which leaves Julius Superbus on the threshold of the Roman amphitheatre. The lions are not visible, of course, but we know they are supposed posed to snap their jaws to welcome Julius round the corner. Lizette Parkes is a beauteous Mercia. Clad in milk-white drapery that never gets a speck of Roman dust on its limp folds, Mercia’s immaculate appearance proves that Nero kept the watercarts going. Emma Temple, so clever in soubrette parts, misses the early Roman ’bus. Swathed in striped red scarves tied round a purple bolster costume, she essays the grandeur of Empress Poppea, who is Mrs. Nero. It’s a fine character study of a respectable working housekeeper with personal references. You expect Emma Poppea to start dusting the Imperial throne, and wish she’d give Nero a hearty shaking for falling to bits like the untidy old rag-bag he is. The musical Kennedys, who were Randwick wick people before they set out on - their long pilgrimage, send a line of thanksgiving for all the good things that have come to them in the Maori Dominion. The wanderers, derers, who in 1912 won the Oswald Stoll Musical-Act Competition at the Middlesex Theatre in London, came back this way last year. In Maoriland they propose to clean up any cash they may have missed by a second tour through the North and South Islands. This done, they meditate a campaign paign in the United States. Gladys Hay, the dark-eyed girl with the large soprano, who used to sing at the Wentworth Hotel winter garden, is waiting ing in the Armidale district for the war clouds to lift. At < a recent Girls’ Realm Patriotic fete she delighted the hayseeds with a sheaf of popular ballads. The Artists’ War Fund promises to develop into a fine fat cheque. All the leading men and women are sending along samples of their best work, so the ugly walls of the Royal Art Society will be well covered. Norman Lindsay has given the fund about £5O worth of black-and-white work, and brother Lionel has parted with many of his best etchings. J. C. Wright, the clever voting Scottish sculptor who clings to a Byronic tie, forwards specimens valued at £35 Julian Ashton, who gives some of Ins own handiwork, has also pounced on ±o2 worth of canvas painted by Blamire Young. The Aesthetic Young is sure to say “yes by return mail from England, as. he has been doing well for some time. Griiner in a big landscape, “The Jamieson Valley,” which was exhibited at the last Society of Artists show; Mrs. Phillips Fox in a Salon picture ; Ethel Stephens in a virile bit of flowerpainting, painting, “Asters” ; Florence Rod way at her best; and others who make a list as long as from here to Circular Quay, are represented. sented. The Art Union, in which there will be no blanks, occurs shortly. The Blue Cross fund has apparently stirred more local interest in every brand of Horse, including the long-suffering cab hack. Letters ters “to the Editor” teem with suggestions that travelling stock should get something to wet their lips on long train journeys. Some kind of shade for the dejected beasts that stand on cab ranks by the hour, under a blazing ing sun, has been urged by Mr. Lindsay Thompson. Sunbonnets it is suggested, would be a good deal better than nothing. Made of rush, like the cheap garden hats, they could easily be taken off by cabby when a fare came along. This is the era ot leagues, and all kinds of associations spring up like mushrooms in a day. A society for the prevention of sunstroke to cab-horses is one of the few that are not passing resolutions tions behind a table and a water-bottle jnst now. F. C. Covers, of the N.S.W. Tourist office, went to ’Frisco in the Makura .in . response to an urgent cable from ex-politician Nielsen. sen. The departed Covers is to act .as representative of the Water Conservation and Irrigation Commission. Deakin, Nielsen, Quinn, Niesigli, and now Covers—it looks as though Australia had an idea of taking Uncle Sam by force of . arms. Thank heavens Percy Hunter is still with us. The officious women who dash at total strangers in the streets, and drive or goad them to the nearest recruiting tents, get some nasty rebuffs now and then. One English busybody is reported to have been given a lot of rope by a captive she led in triumph to the Horse Guards’ Parade. ‘ What name?” asked the recruiting officer. “Captain tain Such and Such.” “Captain of what?” “The Fusiliers.” “Wlitere are you from?” “Just back from Ypres!” Tableau. Souter’s war cartoons will cover the walls of the Society of Artists’ room in Queen Victoria Markets till February 27. The decorative artist, who details the main features of the uproar in Europe in 30 or so black-and-whites, .serves up Wilhelm s moustache with all kinds of sauce. Captain Everard Digby, who abides here in days of peace, is gazetted Major in the 7th Battalion of the Bedfordsliires.. A few weeks ago they were in hard training at Aldershot. ' , The concert season is taking its annual holiday. The shoals of small musical efforts that usually haunt this city in the wet-night months may have to yield before the rush for war funds. But the long-haired tribe, which is only beginning to struggle back to heated studios, is going to put up a good fight for a bit of jam on its crust when the latter days of March come this way. Yours affectionately, VANDORIAN. From “The Oldest Inhabitant”: — It is suggested that as a centenary memorial to Henry Parkes the junction of the streets about the S. M. Herald office be christened Parkes's Corner. Why, the suggestors don’t, and cannot, say. Parkes certainly had his toy shop in Hunter-street, in the early ’so’s, before the Herald office was built. Otherwise there is nothing to connect him with the junction of that thoroughfare with Pitt-street. The Fairfaxes, who made the corner, might establish a better claim if the place needed a name. But there are two other historic personages to be considered. The first parson, Richard Johnson, had his house and orchard on the S.W. corner of Hunter and Pitt street, now the site of the Empire pub.; and Captain tain Richard Brooks, a marine trader of a century ago, owned the corner on which the Union Bank stands.
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