“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3117, 10 December 1913, Page 67

“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

AUTUMN IN October 24. London, in' the autumn of to-day, is quit© a different place from the London ot 15 or even 10 years ago, when, except by the professional classes, it -was practi- . cally deserted in the West End. The growing tide of the world's visitors to the capital of England has of late years, during the "season," had the effect of obliterating many of its old-time English j characteristics; it is a cosmorama, a picturesque exhibition of the world, a cosmosphere showing the relative positions of the earth, and from May till July the cosmopolitan, the citizen of the world, is more than usually numerous among its citizens. In the autumn the visitors for the "season" have departed, and the great metropolis assumes its normal life —and its autumn life with every year appears to grow more attractive, for certain it is that English society seems to enjoy it more. Indeed, as the London season has taken on more and more the character of a world-party, many of the more exclusive —or possibly not too rich—of the old brigade of fashion have drawn apart. It was particularly noticeable last season that a number of the London houses were not open. In these davs a great name has not the attraction of a great fortune, and those who can lavish wealth without counting any price costly if notoriety will repay take a place in this democratic social age that would make the Sir Leicester Deblocks of the Victorian era "turn in tkeir graves" could their venerated bones feel the thrill of the new times. Whatever the reason may be —whether the brilliant social competition of the season makes it impossible to the only moderately rich, its democracy unpalatable to j the socially exclusive, or its Tush and whirl unattractive to those .who have always London within their reach, or whether London in the autumn is indeed more attractive, —the London autumn season is becoming an established fact. It a visitor really wants to see and feel England's great city in its normal life, my advice would be, come in September and stay till after Christmas. In the autumn "The Lights o' London,'' which on the stage and off it hold their spell,- from early afternoon till early morning illumine and illusion the cities within cities known as the metropolis, glittering festoons along glittering miles; miles from the east, miles from the north and south; crossed, recrossed, intersected ; over the south side of the river running for miles on the highways and byways, and glimmering in the "Tom-all-alone" alleys, shining in the church windows, flaring over the gin palaces, steadily burning in the great hospitals; and, as all roads lead to London, so all the lights lead to that London known of all the world—the West End. The hotel palaces on the Embankment have not shut off their lights, for the informal London season has brought many back to town to enjoy informal hospitality, and the new plays. The days of the ofd family hotels, where members of the same family were received year after year, are past. They exist snugly, or die forlorn on past reputations or present adaptability to the catering of sub-society, which does not demand that Aladdin's Lamp, otherwise the electric button or telephone, shall switch on the instant demand. Motor cars or taxi-cabs flash through the streets where the family coach or the "growler" rumbled along from the old hotels to the old theatres, many of which have been pulled down and rebuilt on a larger and better scale, and retain nothing of the past but the name made worldfamous by the old geniuses that have also passed, although plays have multiplied and audiences have multiplied, and the music halls no longer cater for the few. These spacious modern palaces present attractions to ever-increasing numbers. The new London may have less romance and Teal sociability than the old, but it has more light, more space, more social movement than the old. The eating-houses of an earlier day, famous as the resorts of famous men, have evolved into great restaurants, which cater to all the world; and one reason that the owners of London houses and English societv come to town outside the official season more frequently than in the past is that it is not necessary to open the town residences, which means transferring the whole establishment from the country houses foT the few days or weeks of "passing through," as the hotels meet every need, even that of seclusive- : ness and privacy of entertainment, and the restaurants cater for all tastes, from the Englishman's steak and grilled chop or roast sirloin to Chinese specialties ■ so to the out-of-season season in its informa- | lity is to many the most enjoyable. London is at its best and most vigorous in I an autumn such as this, with its golden days and morning and evening haze toning and shrouding everything. It is at its intellectual best also. The new books and new plays pouring their new thought upon the world first filter through London; the new music is heard here first, the new dancers and actors that by the summer , will have become world-known or have j passed from memory with the craze of the j hour are here seen. Another reason foT the growing autumn season is that during recent years the autumn session of Parliament brings a large section of distinguished men and j their families back to town; people meeteach other at- the functions which have not been arranged months ahead and owe their chief distinction to the size of the crush. Where thousands gather in the season proper there are tens in the off J season. Hosts and guests are known to each other, the dinners and teas and ( dances, the concerts and operas and plays j partake more of the character of family j

(Specially Written for the Ladies’ Rage.)

LONDON. . and social gatherings than do the enormous assemblies of summer. The Londoner is at home, on his own ground, in his own atmosphere, in his own world, in his own set; he is his own man again, and not, ' with the Britisher's insular prejudices, like a fish out of water in a cosmopolitan crowd, bored by the stampede and Breath- : less rush that in the official season is inevitable. During the past weeks half London has • been to see the "Ideal Home" Exhibition at the Olympia. There is an attraction about the title of the Exhibition, apart from its character, calculated to draw all classes and nationalities of home-seekers and home-lovers, and here every class ot home is seen in its perfection, as far as ingenuity, art, or wealth can make home, from the ideal workman's cottage, which does not cost more than £2OO to build, to ideal music rooms, drawing, dining, and bedrooms and nursery in a mansion. The workman's cottage is a charming little abode, with roof covered with Dutch pantiles, and contains a large living room with picturesque and cosy inglenook, and a parlour, a larder, a scullery, and covered bath, and accommodation for coals, and also plenty of roomy cupboards on the ground floor, and bedrooms above. The cottage has been coveted not only by every -workman's wife who has seen it, but by a great many people of the classes for whom it was not designed—poor gentlefolk who find it difficult to find a suitable habitation combined with a moderate j rent, and "week-enders," whose back-to- : the-land enthusiasm has been considerably damped by leaking cottage roofs and i smoking chimneys and the difficulties of standing upright without a bruised head. Queen Alexandra is taking an interest in a series of rooms organised for the benefit of the Middlesex Hospital, and the day and night nurseries were designed by her personally, and are "ideal" for the habitation of children. The neutral-tinted walls are ornamented by a pictorial frieze placed at a convenient distance from the floor so that children can examine the pictures, and the chimney-piece is pictorial Dutch tiled. Nurses understand the value of this ever-present story-book, also of the window seat running round the bay window, which is utilised as a box to hold toys. The furniture is of sycamore, waxpolished, and* the arrangements of the rooms and bathroom attached are hygienically perfect, the angles of the walls, floor, and ceiling being slightly curved so that ,no dust may lodge in the corners. The furniture is cushioned with green or blue on one side and gold or orange on the other, an ingenious arrangement to correct the effect of the weather. On a day of glcom and fog the gold and orange produce an illusion of sunshine ; on rainy days the nursery can have a day of blue and green. - And we all know the effect of colour. The night nursery is supposed to.be among the clouds, and the wall paper carries out this idea; the light is supplied by a crescent mcon, and the night-light shines from a fairy mushroom ; the cot is designed as half a blackbird's egg. The carpet in each nursery is made of sailcloth that can be scrubbed. The Beethoven room is designed to province the effect of moonlight on water, and has been inspired by the "Moonlight Sonata." Apart from the artistic beauties ! of the "stately homes" displayed, the wonders of ingenuity devised for'the use of the ideal home are countless, from kitchens and stoves and the latest cooking utensils and the fitting of a panel in the oven door with a pane of thick glass so that the cook can watch the progress ot the joint and fixed thermometers that show the temperature, to the thick linos to cover the floor so beautifully patterned and coloured and flower-bordered that it is difficult to distinguish them from carpet. But with all the labour-saving and dirt-saving contrivances of later years to lessen the drudgery of housekeeping, woman in her wildest dreams did not calculate to perform her monotonous household tasks by touching an electric button : yet the electric house is an accomplished fact, and solves the servant problem ; for, instead of giving instructions to an unwilling "help,'' you press a button and your wishes are performed. You waken in the electric house to the ecstatic consciousness that there are no grates to clean nor fires to light. You press a button and your morning tea conveys itself to yon; the baby wakes and a* pressed button rocks the 'cradle ; other buttons and the house ' work accomplishes itself—the kitchen and scullery are "cleaned, the dinner is coo&ed . and se'rved, the various courses travelling ; round the table to you by electricity. Ideal indeed! and calculated when in general I use to considerably lower the marriage | rate, and in some instances prove less ex- ' pensive than a wife or staff of servants. Also, there is no doubt whatever that the electric house will be very generally adopted should the suggestion which has been lately made that men share the housework' be carried into effect. The owner of an electric house, be he otherI wise ever so undesirable, will not go a-beg-i ging for a wife. i Great interest has been taken in the i Russian village, which occupies two acres i of spa-ce in the gigantic hall. The houses ! and shops of the village are typically Russian, built mostly of Tough-hewn logs with j carved gables and mud huts cleanly whitewashed for the humbler folk. The church stands in the middle of the village, and there is an inn, a waterwheel, and a windmill, characteristic features of the Russian countryside. The realism is added to by the picturesque costumes of the Russian { peasants, who ply their arts and crafts j The reversible carpets and lace work made by the Russian peasants during the long j winters have been largely purchased, and i also the scarlet lacquered furniture. The

vast solitudes and forests are suggested in the quaintly-carved work of woods, although in themselves familiar; but the tents are unfamiliar—some of silver grey, others of elaborate mosaics. The introduction of the Russian woodstaining to the notice of England will doubtless influence some in their furnishing. How suitably picturesque, for instance, is the red wood for the furnishing of a winter dining room, which during the long sunless months is often dreary of aspect in sombre oak or mahogany.

From the garden to the garret the Exhibition gives new ideas for the ideal home —the home of utility, comfort, and beauty combined with sanitation. There are a hundred suggestions for artistic furnishings, decoration, and arrangement, at no more cost than the old-fashioned parlour with the round table in the middle, with wax flowers under glass, and suite of horsehair. It only takes a man with a saw and a hammer and nails and the knowledge how to use them and packing cases or rough timber, and a woman of taste who can use her needle and a roll of artistic chintz to fashion a charming home in the backwoods.- One of the cosiest armchaix-s I ever sat in was made out of a barrel cut in half (the other half w’as a cradle). The soft, fat cushions of the chair were stuffed with flax pollen and covered with “turlcey red.” The cradle was a nest that chickens had feathered. Tire cottage w r as in the back country of Otago, which I chanced upon in a 10-mile ramble. (Oh! that it were to-day !) I can see the little mistress now in her pink print frock, and her spotless “dimity” bedroom, and the screen made from the Otago Witness, one side of the Ladies’ Page and the other of Dot’s column. And as I was both “Alice” and “Dot” in those times I felt that I had reached the heart of one lonely woman. For the cradle was waiting, and there was no other house near with women and children. I can taste that tea and the scones yet. They were thin currant scones, for there was no butter. It was a delicious tea, and I was hungry with the appetite of youth and exercise. She said, I remember, that she hoped the occupant of the cradle would be a girl—“ For a man is a son till he gets him a wife, but a daughter is a daughter all the days of her life.” I hope she got her girl. She would make her a housewoman. Such women as these have no use for the electric house—their genius of home-mak-ing would have no outlet. Can you conceive any torture for the house-woman greater than taking from her hands their natural function of “getting the dinner” or making gruel? To perfect the electric house we must have mechanical, unemotional occupants. A man lies sick a-bed ; he touches a button and his broth comes in. There is no woman behind the broth. What consolation is there in abusing the button that produces the broth. He won’t take it. He hates broth ; he never has been, and he never will be, degraded to broth. The broth is there. It stays there. It makes no gentle suggestions of “Come, dear, drink it up; it will do you good.” Or, for & change, it is gruel; and is there a Briton with soul so dead who never to himself has said words, about gruel that the editor of this or any Ladies’ Page would publish? Ask the wives and

mothers of sons. Alas! for the electric button, poor thing! It has got to accommodate itself to the vituperation which has fallen upon women for ! the defalcation of the honu. The scientifically-relieved women of an age to -come would be interesting to meet. At present they traaail in a long labour of subjection, the subjection of their sex,. , In the valley of death, the little colliery town lying in the green valley of Aber, the mourning has been bitter this week, and the heroism has been splendid. From Senghenydd come splendid reports not ot the miners risking their lives for the hope of saving the comrades alive but tor A“ 6 hope of rescuing their dead bodies- the rescue parties, knowing the horrors of t o burning pit awaiting them, calmly an quietly made their wilk before descending, committing their wives and children to other charge. They have been heroes, these men oi the Welsh pit disaster, not only in the sudden disaster that took them unawares, but more so in the deliberate going down to possible —even expected—death, on the off-chance of finding a comrade alive, or more probably his body. Those who decry the lost heroism of men from their easy chairs should have been among those brave men. who deliberately, not in a moment of enthusiasm, but with all the desolate, drear consequence of death about them, quietlv made their wills and wrote letters of farewell to their wives before descending to the fierv furnace, from which they bad no expectation of coming up alive.