1918-08-01, English, Article, Journal or magazine article edition: A WOMAN’S LETTER (1 August 1918)

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A WOMAN’S LETTER (1 August 1918)
 
Bookmark: https://trove.nla.gov.au/version/258055652
Physical Description
  • 2700 words
  • article
  • photo
  • Journals
  • Magazines
Published
  • xna, John Haynes and J.F. Archibald, 1918-08-01
Language
  • English

Edition details

Title
  • A WOMAN’S LETTER (1 August 1918)
Appears In
  • The bulletin., v.39, no.2007, 1918-08-01 (ISSN: 0007-4039)
Other Contributors
  • VANDOBIAN.
Published
  • xna, John Haynes and J.F. Archibald, 1918-08-01
Physical Description
  • 2700 words
  • article
  • photo
  • Journals
  • Magazines
Series
Part Of
  • The bulletin.
  • Vol. 39 No. 2007 (1 Aug 1918)
  • John Ryan Comic Collection (Specific issues).
Subjects
Summary
  • A WOMAN’S LETTER Sydney, July 29, 1918. My Dear Arini, — Tempestuous weather cleared slightly when the first instalment of an eager crowd stamped over the water-logged track across Cockatoo Dock to witness the christening of the Adelaide, and her launching on the waters. The newly-built Australian is as handsome and taut as our own shipbuilders could make her. Overseeing the work, apparently done all shipshape and Bristol fashion, were naval experts such as J. W. Clark, assistant manager; J. Payne, electrical trical engineer; and other departmental heads. General-manager King Salter had, by “absence of industrial trouble,” less worry over the building of the Adelaide than on any previous experiment with war craft on local slips. Twelve thousand pairs of wet boots having ing clambered into such sky-line platforms as their striped or plain tickets intimated, the choir came with shining countenances, ambled over a little bridgeway, led by the naval chaplain, Allan Pain, and disappeared into some secret deep. It was a very young choir, in white surplices and navy-blue cassocks, socks, but its sweet treble pipe, faint and far-off: like the exultant cry of bush birds, led the congregation in the hymn beloved of sailor men, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save!” The State platform bristled with Excellencies. cies. Lady Helen Ferguson’s high-pitched voice pierced the misty air: “I name this ship the Adelaide. May she be victorious, and may the blessing of God rest on those who sail in her!” The band played “Three Cheers for the Red, 'White and Blue,” a bottle of Australian wine smashed on the ship’s sharp bow, reared high in mid-air, keen as the blade of a sword, and drenched the bouquet (always featured by the navy in the historic red, white and blue) of exquisite quisite blooms. The G.-G.’s grey hair, the medal-hung uniforms of Allied officers, Governor Stanley and his lady from Melbourne. bourne. Governor Davidson's top-hat, the dark eyes of Lady Davidson, a swarm of aides in divers “frocking” from khaki to the morning garb of Piccadilly* Archbishop Wright (his was the prayer), Acting- Minister Poyntou (for the Navy)—-all were prominent in the official group. The rope was smartly cut by Lady Helen. The great grey hull hesitated. Then the dockyard mechanism gave the necessary tap, and the Adelaide took the water like the immortal duck. May she be victorious ! Married the other day to the girl of his heart, Lieut. W. R. Yates, M.G., to a lass named M. Patterson, of West Melbourne. Yates enlisted in August, 1914, at the age of 17, fought on Gallipoli, and for his skill as a draftsman was temporarily passed into the Intelligence Branch. Next he was promoted moted lieutenant and handed the M.C. for his services in France. The youthful Australian tralian was so badly wounded in the head at Bullecourt that certain death would have been his lot but for the wizards of the modern operation-table. His case was one of the surgical wonders of an English military tary hospital. He looks hale and fit, but the Medical Board blocks his desire to get back to the racket, for he had the final repairs to his head completed at Randwick only a few months ago. Mrs. Brittain, president of the American- Australian League of Help, was hostess at a tea-party in The Australia the other afternoon, noon, when Mrs. Guy Bates Post was congratulated. gratulated. The U.S. visitor raised over £6OO on July 4 by her smart auctibning of a Star Spangled banner and an eagle. A cheque for £lOOO from the American League’s Cafe Chantant - and from Mrs. Post’s auction “stunt,” as her compatriots would say, was handed to J. .T. Cohen for the Red Cross Prisoners of War Fund. A damp audience drifted into Her Majesty’s 'on the tide of a southerly gale, the occasion being the gift matinee to help the Returned Soldiers’ Day on August 2. The most interesting item in the programme was “The Hour Glass,” Yeats’s play, set “a long time ago in Ireland.” Margaret Wyelierly was the Fool who, when it came to discussing ing heavenly topics, knew more than the Wise Man. Maclaren was the very marrow of the play by his powerful representation of the Wise Man who scoffed at angels until one strayed into his mediaeval class-room with sombre warning of his approaching death. The angel (Miss Morrison) was impressive till she turned the hollow back of her halo to the house. It looked like a rakish sailor-hat without a crown. She chanted her part in the deep tones of a precentor leading the choir-boys’ responses; very solemnly, like the falling of the sands in the hour-glass of Destiny. After this came a hearty snack of “Blood and Iron,” compressed melodrama in which the Kaiser came to his death (in inky darkness) at the hands of “241,” a German man super-soldier who suddenly ceased to be a machine, found his soiil and a suitable weapon, and slew Wilhelm on behalf of the People. Maud Fane, assisted by beautiful young men like William Greene, took charge of the last half of the programme. They appeared in “A Soldier’s Dream.” Amongst the passengers on the recentlydeparted departed Dutch boat was Herbert Welham, editor of the Straits’ Echo, an eveningpaper paper which appears with the planters’ lateafternoon afternoon tea. Welham is now a comparative tive fixture in Penang. He hasn't seen Sydney since 1904, but he has had holiday trips to India and England. Welham met the “copy-boy” first in Fleet-street (London) don) and was afterwards on the Daily Mail’s Paris staff. With him was "Norman Angell” (Ralph Norman Angell Lane), the man whose war theories weren’t all they were cracked up to be. The Australian Prisoners’ of War Comforts forts Fund gets a lift: from the recent Town Hall concert. Mrs. George Sargent organised the show, and Louis Grist looked after the* details. Vern Barnett was organist and pianist alternately at the concert. Lilian Gibson sent her contralto tones across the big hall; George Whitehead and Elsie Peerless less were heard in song ; Lawrence Campbell recited, and Mowat Carter with his fiddle and Winifred Carter with her harp helped through a long programme. Youthful ful Ursula Mason, in Arditi’s L’Estasi, showed a promising temperament. The girl’s voice, if not marred by the forcing-house of premature public appearance, is likely lo soar. Governor Davidson and his lady, with Aide Stanham, who took the corner of the carpet when “God Save” poured from the organ, faced the audience instead of giving it their backs. Attorney-General Hall and his missus (swathed in a snowdrift of ermine of the rare tailless species) were in the party. Sister Mary Aloysiiis Ryan, one of the Ryans of Ryanvillc, near Goulburn, celebrated ebrated her golden jubilee at the Convent of Mercy, Goulburn, recently. She was the first Sister of Mercy professed in N. S. Wales, and is the only surviving member of the community as it was when she entered it in 1865. War nurses have at last earned the right to go on furlough. To private generosity the Nightingales who come ashore in Sydney owe one of the most delightful retreats treats they’ll meet with in a long year’s wanderings. When Mr. and Mrs. W. E. Shaw gave their gabled, vine-clad home at Summer Hill in perpetuity to Bi 11 j i m’s best friends, they dedicated cated it as a memorial rial to the martyred Englishwoman wdiose name is a deathless witness to German “kultur.” The Edith Cavell House is the ideal Rest Home that every grey-clad- Aus- tralian nurse will weave into her dreams of Sydney. When Sister’s transport takes another dive into a deep, green sea, or as she hurriedly helps to remove the wounded after the lurking submarine marine has torpedoed a hospital boat, however ever heroic she be, she feels a tired woman after all. And it is to the woman in her that the Edith Cavell House appeals. Set in a spacious garden, full of rooms that open like luxurious nests on to an unexpected balcony or thickly carpeted hall, furnished with cosy easy-chairs and such beds as the nurse on active, service can only think about, if, is the Place of Peace. Sweetly in tune with the surroundings is the gentle Matron Willow (a trainee of Prince Alfred Hospital), tal), whose dainty lace cap and soft eyes are featured in this photo by May Moore. The upkeep of the home-—and Miss Willow’s housekeeping is a prodigy of patient ent wrestling with soaring prices—depends largely on private subscriptions, with the Bed Cross as a sympathetic friend. No doubt it only has to be mentioned to some of our wealthy citizens whose sons are nursed back to health by the devoted Australian tralian Nightingales, that they might add their names to the list of cash helpers to the Edith . Cavell House. Signaller To m Skeyhill, blinded in the early days of Gallipoli, sent this photo from New York by the last mail. Instead of the dark glasses that he wore to shade his once-siglitless orbs, you see the Australian’s lian’s large brown eyes looking halfamazed amazed at the world again. In Sydney Skeyhill is still remembered membered as one of the most eloquent of war - lecturers. A dramatic intuition of the right words to describe tense moments in the Dardanelles tragedy and a marked gift for telling every detail of that epic story,' made this young soldier in his blindness a very warm favorite with Australian audiences. lie raised thousands of pounds for patriotic funds, notably for the Red Cross. Going to U.S.A. his lectures made up, added to the money gleaned in his native land, the surprising prising total of £so,ooo. Then the miracle befell. In Washington Dr. Moore performed an operation which completely restored Skeyhill’s sight. Now he wants to return to the Front. Two years of blindness and an astonishing record as patriotic lecturer haven't cured him of a desire for the tiringline. line. R. 11. Modlin, who holds the world’s highest est diploma as an accountant (he’s a Fellow of the English and Welsh Chartered Accountants’ ants’ Association), has enlisted in the A.I.F. Modlin is an Englishman by birth, hailing from the North, where Wordsworth twittered gentle pastorals, but an Australian by adoption. He kisses bis wife and youngsters sters good-bye, to hoard an outgoing troopship, ship, very shortly. The brilliant Archibald Strong, M.A., lecturer in English at Melbourne University, is in Sydney on a brief visit. In an endless chain of mental activity lie finds time to compose verse. Under the modest title, “Poems,” a volume is fresh from the printers. “Australia and the War” comes from the same capable hand. Helen Cecilia Bridge was quietly married to Thomas Adrian Ruys, of Batavia, at St. Patrick’s the other day. The bride is a daughter of the Clarence Bridge household, of Ivirribilli. The newly-married pair left by the Dutch boat for their tropic home. You can have a game of euchre or a dance in the Oxford Halt on Friday evening, August ust 9. The takings go to that deserving Hospital for Women, St. Margaret’s, Bourkestreet. street. Justice Harvey raises a pen to defend Governor Davidson from the apparent negligence of reaching the opening prayers at Cranbrook School nearly an hour late. His Ex., says liis Honor, was asked about three months ago to attend and make the usual declaration at 4 o’clock. The Council cil afterwards changed the time to 3 o’clock, but by some oversight Government House was not notified. Elis Ex., with a luncheon party on his hands and 4 p.m. dotted down in his diary, was taking things easily, when an anguished message on the ’phone gave him the shock of his life. With an aide in tow he fled to the Hose Bay tryst, and didn't order the summary execution of the Council nor the burning by the public hangman man of the newspapers who scolded him. Lieut. F. Blair Tainton, A.1.F., tucked the hand of Mary Gwendoline Tait under his arm and led her down the aisle of St. Stephen’s kirk, after big John Ferguson had tied the knot. Mary is the grand-daughter of “Honest John Tait,” whose horses were famous winners of bygone races, and carried off amongst them four Melbourne Cups. The soklier-’groom was in the Landing, and has remained on active service until a few months ago. He was badly gassed in France, but lie has recovered, and his short furlough is nearly over. He reports for duty again in a few weeks. But we’ve got to keep patching them up and sending them back to till the gaps in Australia’s hard-beset ranks that so many eligibles turn their backs on. Blair is a son of Major Tainton, of Herefordshire (Eng.). The financial result of the Graytli wade fete in the R.S.Y. Squadron’s grounds on Saturday afternoon was almost incredible in the circumstances. Over £lOOO was netted. A heavy southerly swept the water-la.ppe<l slope where heroic women, in showers of torrential rain, sold candy or cakes. As the afternoon wore on, getting more storm-beaten, the mushroom growth of umbrellas increased to a heavy crop. The fete was towards a fully-equipped ward for permanently-disabled soldiers in the Red Cross haven. Graythwaite, North Sydney, and all the winds that blow couldn't keep the real Australian away from helping such a cause as that. Governor Davidson addressed compliments to the crowd after Dugald Thomson had unloaded the committee’s welcome to him. Governor- General Ferguson looked in later, and got his vice-regal boots very damp. Though few yachting men crept out of ambush to brave the storm, one of them, E. Gard Trouton, made up for less hardy seamen. He took charge of the Harbor trips from a soppingstand stand on the Club's private wharf and collected lected the coin from over .'><)(> passengers — mostly women—-who made the voyage to Port Denison. He appeared to be the wettest test man on earth. Hon. treas. Russell Sinclair clair and Chas. Bartholomew worked like navvies for success against the elements. The lion. see. and one of the organisers was Mrs. Cecil Hordern. The death of Rivers Allpress, Sydney’s wonderfully gifted fiddler and conductor of years ago, recalls the shadowy figure and huge' bumpy forehead of this once-familiar vision in local music haunts. Allpress wore his hair combed severely hack off his mountainous tainous brow—long, in a drake-like tail that fell over liis collar. It was a musical cult of the time, and possibly an innocent form of advt. Sydney has never seen a male coiffure. fure. quite like that of G. Rivers Allpress, nor has it produced any finer all-round musician. The delicate violinist died in Johannesburg in April. An attractive programme lured a big audience to the King’s Hall during the week in spite of the rain-storm. Airs. G. L. Goodman man was organiser of the entertainment, and daughter Ella, with a very sweet young voice,- warbled frequently. Despite the pain of tonsilitis. the girl met the right notes very happily. Ellis Price helped with recitations, and Harold Price, in khaki, sang popular ballads. Violinist Cyril Monk played his best —-to insistent applause. Dorothea Flower and Philip Wilson also buttressed the programme. Proceeds go to the Army Service Corps Christmas,Comforts Fund. From a grateful Billjim in France:— Just a special word of appreciation for the clothes, handkerchiefs, etc,, that we hade received at perhaps the most suitable moment. Wc have just corhe back to a “position” after a very uncomfortable 10 days—difty With a month’s dirt. We have managed aged to get a hot bath and clothes from the War Chest—the latter easily being the greater boon. All this while still under shell-five. There is no adequate way of expressing the general feeling of appreciation of the troops, and it brings to one and all of us a feeling that we are not forgotten. 1 am writing this letter of thanks, to The Buoletix, and not to the War Chest itself, so that wide publicity may be given to our feelings. A now- French -Consul-General is on the sea hither bound. Ills name is Campana. Meanwhile M. Paul Marcus is acting in the Consulate. Yours affectionately. VANDOBIAN.
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  • AP7 (LC)

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