Of the many other singers who left Australia's shores the most have been engulfed in the city of the Thames. Some bob up now and again, when their voices are to be heard at pops. But most of them would like to raise a return fare, and that is probably their last illusion.
And then, of course, the stage attracts the C.Y.A. Anything that looks easy and is likely to bring adulation always does. But I have made exhaustive inquiry and failed to discover one actor or actress who learnt the business in Australia that has turned out anything worth mentioning. I have traced several to London and there given them up—the men in pity and the women in disgust.
The founder of the drama in Australia was Barrington, a convict-actor. Some idea of his ability as an actor may be formed from the fact that he was ever convicted.
In the drama Oscar Asche is the only man I can find doing fairly well, but he did not learn his business in Australia. Indeed, it is part of Australia's ignominy to see English and American artists being imported to play any parts requiring the exercise of intelligence. Managers, when interviewed as to why they don't employ Australians have given it as a reason that the Australians cannot pronounce English properly, and that they have a distorted idea of love-making. The fact is that by the time the Australian gets a part he is so furtive with dodging creditors that he cannot get apprehension out of his face when any other character makes an entrance.
The artistic Australian also gets to London. Mortimer Menpes was a C.Y.A. He went from Adelaide—a town which also produced the late Mr. Guy Boothby, C.Y.A. Menpes, in writing his biography for "Who's Who," stated that he was "inartistically born in Australia." What does he mean? He was before the time of incubators.
Then Boothby—late Guy Boothby! I don't know how he could ever have looked a bookstall in the face after what he wrote—or his fellow Australians. Nat Gould or Fergus Hume either, for that matter. Between them these Australians used to average four books a month, fifteen short stories and two puff interviews by Mr. Boothby with himself, written up for the magazines. Mr. Boothby found plenty of good material in himself for interviews. Haddon Chambers, C.Y.A., also gives the magazine readers glimpses of himself, but of late years he seems to spend all his time in protesting that he did write the "Tyranny of Tears."
Then in the realm of high art is Longstaff, C.Y.A., painter, Mackennal, C.Y.A., sculptor. The first is head and shoulders above the other Australian daubers, but he'd have to get on stilts and wear the highest stove pipe to be classed eminent in London; the second gets odd jobs which the cableman chronicles betimes.
Probably if you asked any Australian the best Australian book he would say "For the Term of His Natural Life," by Marcus Clark. Well, I just recently read in Duffy's "Life of Two Hemispheres," that Charles Gavan Duffy wrote it. He particularly says so.
Rolfe Boldrewood, C.Y.A., is also classed a literary man in Australia. He wrote numerous tales of colonial improbabilities.
There is a paper in London called the "British Australasian," and it follows the doings of the C.Y.A.'s in London as far as it can with self-respect. But when frequent changes of address make it too plain that the C.Y.A. is bilking his landlady, and the change of locality is from humble to worse—well, it discreetly draws the curtain. The "British Australasian" is a most genteel publication. It was one of the first to drop De Rougemont, C.Y.A.