“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3148, 15 July 1914, Page 67

“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

' ' DERBY * May 29. London once more! Ido not like it—not to-day, with the scent and sight ot the sea still in ihy senses. ThS air hangs heavy, despite the unseasonable cold, and. np imagination will convert the distant war of traffic to the lullaby o the waves beating and breaking upon tne shore. The rattle of the train as I sped Londonwards. got into verse about sea—

.... To-think you gentlefolk _ " Should ask what style be! Look you; I cant What B style bo called in your -fine dictionNor God Aimighty calls them by When their food’s ready and He sends them But om U folk call them style, and nought but And when ’they’re grown, why call them herring; . I tell you, sir, the water is as tun. f Of them as blades be of grass; . . . Ay, indeed, we shou.d be badly j on I reckon, and so would God Almighty s_i gulls And all His Tother birds, if He should

«I drive My style into the south.” . V . And down we ran and lay upon the . le “Tlie full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam ! Betweem” And on the’ “polished sea” God Almighty’s gulls with white pinions tracked the mackrel. That catch I referred’to in my last; letter was but the prelude to the morning catch w'hich in one net yxelde 6400 fish. “ Impossible,” it was said at breakfast—at which was mackerel caught that morning. “No net could hold it. .But' it was possible, and the net had broken with the weight, and all that day the fishermen had sat on the beach mending it, except the time when they hawked their’ fish. I saw that catch which an old fisherman affirmed was the biggest within .his memory. . . . I had posted my letter to yon the evening before, telling of a previous mackerel' catch, and was awakened in the warm down by the voices of fishermen, greatly excited, upon the shore. Before 5 o clock I was down upon the beach. To ngn and left was spread a wide sweep of sea, in the early morning light dimming towards the ‘opposite Goodwins; nearer waters became heliotrope, gold,_ green, purple, and white as the climbing sun touched them, and upon the brown shore men, up to their knees in water, wading out to meet the boats which had cast the nets, and which all hands pulled to the shore, amid exultant shouts, as the fish was revealed —a gleaming, glittering, panting silver mass, which busy men scooped up and carried in wooden buckets and counted on the high and dry " shore. “ Six thousand four ’undred, lady! Never see’d the like in my time. And soon the little town resounded to cries .of “ Mack’rel! Two a penny. Fine fresh mac’krel!” The proper way to cook them is to boil them in their own water from the sea or grill them before they’rh dry. 1 To see the shoal swimming towards the shore, flashing and gleaming in the water, a solid silver wave above which “ God Almighty’s gulls” hover in a white cloud, is an unforgettable sight. But this is London, and the New Zealand mail is v awaiting me. I open the little brown parcel that is among the letters. A hook! And on the flv leaf is written “ do dear ‘Alien,” 5 with a message from the authoress, Jessie Mackay. It is a copy of “ The Land of the Morning,” and my wish is gratified to read “ Dunedin in the Gloaming ”: Like a black enamoured’ king whispered low the thunder = To the lights of Roslyn, terraced far asunder; Hovered low the sister cloud in wild warm wonder. O my love Dunedin Town, the only, the abiding, Who can look undazzled up where the morn is riding, . .. ~ . Watch the sword of Destiny from the scabbard gliding. Dark and rich and ringing tAie, word and look for ever, Taking to her woman heart all forlorn endeavour; Heaven’s sea about her feet, not the bounden river! Then a silver pioneer, netted in the drift. Leaning over Maori Hill, dreaming in the lift, Dropped her starry memories through the passioned drift. Sleep you well, Dunedin Town, though loud the lulling lyre is, Lady of the Maori pines, the turrets, and the eyries. I turn the leaves and read the beautiful thought on “ Growing and Grief ; All the world is growing, and there are two growings most grievous: Yea, when the courses of summer of bud and of blossom bereave us; Yea, when the searing of summer tells what the song of the brave meant — One is the root of the tree that cleaveth the flag of the pavement, Cracking its earthly environ that so it may live ami not smother; And growing bevond a loved one —ay, that is the saddest and other. Jessie Mackay is right. There is no growth without suffering, and that . “cracking its earthly environ ” by the live root to get out into space and air from the pavement of rule and custom and invention means often the added pain of “ growing beyond a loved one.” We take too much for granted of the growth of the world and of individuals, scarcely realising the pain in the strength that cracks up the pavement, letting in new light, new vitality to thought and action. Those who benefit the world and their neighbour by larger conception and bigger growth than the smoothly paved paths of life will admit cannot escape misunderstanding. The _ growing beyond a , toved one is “ the saddest and other "

(Specially Written for the Ladies’ Page.)

WEEK. pain of growth. Another New Zealand poet, Ada Cross,, asks in “ Unspoken Thoughts 5 ’ : Is it worth while to suffer, when we might, Like happier men, he blest With that dull blindn.ess that desires no light. That peaceful soul that feels no need to fight, , , Yor thirsts for liberty and truth and right, But lives its life at rest? Another New Zealand poet, David Will M. Burn, in a gift book of Browning, marked (years ago), among other passages, that answer to life’s deep questions: Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed .his grasp, ’ f Or what’s a heaven for? And we can be known better perhaps by whatf has exceded our grasp than by what we have attained. I know both what I want and what I might ■ gain,’’ Browning adds; and what we want is ourselves, whether for soul or flesh, mind or body. Brave hearts are,, often “baffled, yet up and begin again. No sooner the old hope goes to ground than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark,” though to miss again be the portion. Why we weep is worth inquiry. It was Tennyson who said; Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depths of some divine despair may be wept as a child crying in the night, helpless and alone, crying for the light. These are not enervating tears; before they are dry you will be up again to • breast the blows of circumstance, and grapple with your evil star. A Witness correspondent writes: “It is strange how much we suffer through Love, ..the greatest of virtues ..when of the .right kind. How often *it is true that persons would not have been brokenhearted but for love. It sometimes seems a mistake to let our affections cling to a few only, and rely too much upon their help and companionship. I do not like to think how the survivor can bear np when one is taken and the other leit. Persons can be too much to each other and too little to the community in general.” Do you think so? Too little to the community in general perhaps; but can human beings be too 'much to each other ? For happiness, in the accepted term, j'es. But it is only through individual experience that we reach the universal. Olive Schreiner says in “ The Story of an African Farm” (that wonderful novel that seems to gain in value with the years); “*A great soul draws, and is drawn, with a more fierce intensity than any-small one. By every inch we grow in intellectual height our love strikes down its roots, deeper and spreads out its arms wider.” All love is of ’’ the right kind ” ; it is a lesser passion that is not. And love was ever crowned with thorns. Love spends and gives itself of necessity, although the giving and speeding leaves the individual poor; “ Talk not of wasted affection,” says Longfelow. “Affection never was wasted,” For if it enrich not the heart of another, Its waters, returning back to the fount whence they sprang, Shall fill it full of refreshment. / Happy love and companionship is the gift of few, .and for such the thought of the one taken and the other left means an abyss; but I do not agree with Tennyson that “A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, another poet said; 'and what mother, grieving by a new-made grave, would choose rather than lose, never to have felt the mingled pain and joy of motherhood? What soulbereaved widow would have foregone her bridal day? Birth, Love, and Death are the three great realities, the great adventures of the soul, and all three teach pain. “They say,” says Olive Schreiner, “that in the' world f to come time is not measured out by months and years. Neither is it here. ’ The soul’s life has seasons of its own—periods hot found in any calendar, times that years and months will not scan, but which are as deftly and sharply cut off from one another as the smooth lyarranged years.” And the chisels that have done the cutting are chiefly love and suffering that shape and fit us for use. We have no sympathy and little understanding till we have known both. It is often the life that has been “ left ” that is of most use to the strength and comfort of others, for the compensation of love is that its waters of pain and labour, its ambitions and endeavours and self-giving, although they “ enrich not the heart of another,” return back to their soul-source and fill it full of refreshment. And the heart’s bread cast upon waters that bear it from sight do sometimes return after many days. A son, writing to his mother, said of her bereavement: “I do hot know how you -will bear it. But you will bear it. You have always had courage, and your courage will carry you' through. . . . Thank God, we have our mother’s courage to fight.” The mother forgot some of her " grief in the pleasure of her son’s thankfulness that something of her had helped him in his man’s work. It was bread returned upon the waters. Derby Week has filled London to overflowing. Everybody is in town—it would seem not only from every part of Britain, but from every other country, France, America, and the dominions being very much included. The great day of the historic race was fine and sunny, though cold for the time of year; but there was no fear of a. thunderstorm like that which has so disastrously finished more than one Derby Day ot recent years, and furs or. wraps on the homeward journey were the worst demanded by the weather. Every descriptive writer of note has exhausted his pen in trying to describe the greatest day of the English racing year; but ’*■

is indescribable. It was ever so much bigger than usual, a vast picnic of all nations and all classes. Only a Futurist writer could console himself with the idea that he had described the scene. - Sunshine, streams of people, people, more people, hills and fields of people, motor cars, great red aggressive motor omnibuses, top hats, donkey carts, feathers, cocoanuts, beggars, placards, Tom, Dick, Bill, Harry, reliable, safe, sure, the old firm, stands, kites, sky signs, more sunshine, more people . . . these are a few things that would have struck the Futurist eye. And also, just occasionally, horses. But not very many of these. The King and Queen and other Royalties completed the great picture, and, as they came down the course, were greeted with an outburst of cheers that must have stirred the most apathetic. As soon as the gorgeous outriders of the King’s carriage came in sight a crowd of gipsies ran to meet At,, among whom his Majesty scattered handfuls of silver, in return for 'which the gipsies wished him luck. But King George had no luck so far as racing was concerned, his horse coming in sixth, much to the disappointment of those who loyally backed it.’ Although the winner of the great race, Durbar 11, upset the popular belief in the unlucky number, for it was entered 13, the people were not pleased, for it was an outsider, owned by an American gentleman, Mr H. B. Duryes, son of a millionaire; and few made money on the race save the bookmakers, and instead of the great cheer that usually greets the winner he was received in silence. The dresses were very handsome, and, as usual, the Queen was beautifully garbed, wearing a long coat of ermine over a' black and white dress, with a black hat trimmed with ermine. The Court mourning, of course, regulated the colour •of the gowns of those connected with the Court—black, white, mauve, and grey being conspicuous. Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein wore grey charmeuse; Princess Alexander of Teck, dark mauve with white fox furs; the Duchess of Teck* black. On the balcony, the Duchess of Newcastle wore petunia ■ colour, and the Duchess of Marlborough was in black-and-white striped taffetas and a toque with upstanding osprey. Among the new striped dresses now so fashionable. Mrs Percy Williams’s dress was much admired. Ladv Londonderry and Lady Castlereagh were both in black, as were many others. The whole scene was subdued, both on the lawns and on_ the course, for the chill wind made too flimsy dresses out of place. Mr Marriott Watson, in a recent article on the bad taste of to-day, refers to women’s dress as follows: —“In his heart of hearts every man knows how ugly is the ‘ mode ’ of to-day;

and I believe most women knew it also. Every' artistic rule is contravened by the abominable confections that glare at one crudely from the windows of fashionable emporiums. Style, shape, decency, all are meaningless words in application to these dresses. Clothes, so far as woman is concerned, are calculated to constrict her limbs, impede her motion, conceal the beauties of her body, emphasise its defects, and violate every right canon of decoration and proportion. They cut her figure at the wrong places, stuff her out where she has least need of bulging, skimp her where she is scantiest, and generally make a satanic endeavour to turn her into an expensive scarecrow. The fashion plates of to-day! Faugh! They kindle shame in any honest man. And yet women go on smiling. I see there is rebellion in Paris on the part of some great ladies, and it may be that this movement will suffice to destroy the ugly monster of fashion that reigns to-day, and has reigned for the last few years. Who invented the horror? M. Worth declares

that he did not. Was it, then, some obscure Parisian singer dancing in a cafe chantant?” But, however the women may dress or not dress, they have advanced physically and mentally since the days’ of the crinoline, and intend to 50 on smiling. At any large gathering of men and women, as at the Derby, the most casual glance reveals the fact that physically the women in the mass excell the men. There are,'of course, exceptions on both sides. And the women’s clothes express' more individuality than the man’s. Also, she looks well tubbed and exercised; and since she has emancipated her limbs and learned through sport the joys of freedom, she is far more likely in the future to adopt trousers than ever again to weight herself with cumbrous skirts and make breathing and digestion difficult in tight stays? Besides, ask any man the period when woman looked the most enchanting, and he will name that of his

youth. There was no suffragist sensation on the Downs this year, to the disappointment of many who .like sensation, even if it is provided by the loss of another’s life. The most, exciting event of the day was the thrashing of a “ welsher ’’ off the course; for men demand fair play where their own interests are concerned. The

most rigorous precautions were taken to protect their Majesties from the dreaded demand of “ Votes for Women ” and the other sacred personages who uphold the exclusive rights of man —of whom a racecourse furnishes a fair sample, from saints and gentlemen to riff-raff and rascality. Detectives disguised as dukes and other distinguished personages left nothing to chance in the enclosures and on the lawns,

and King George, looking bronzed and interested, smoked his cigarette and watched his own colt beaten, in security, and Cabinet Ministers reached home in safety. The King’s banquet, given to the Jockey Club at Buckingham Palace at night, was a very brilliant affair. So also was the dinner and ball given by the Duchess of Devonshire at Devonshire House. Her Majesty was present at the dinner, but owing "to Court mourning was unable to stay for the ball, as she had intended. The Queen’s favourite malmaisons, arranged in deep bowls of silver, decorated <*■ the table, with white lilies, and in the hall and at the foot of the staircase were large groups of white ■ lilies, hydrangeas, Canterbury bells, and pink spiraea sent np from Chatsworth. The whole house was beautifully decorated. The Duchess received her ball guests at the top of the staircase, and wore a dress of black broche trimmed with jet and diamond em broideries with diamond and pearl ornaments, Her daughter. Lady Maud Cavendish, wore white with a blue sash and pink rose—the perfection of girlish simplicity. - There were several hundreds of guests, and the dresses were the most-, beautiful that have yet been worn at any function this season. Several of the Princes and Princesses were present, and also-the Ambassadors and members of the Diplomatic Corps, and all the best- . known people in society. A Servants’ Club. Mrs Arnold Bennett describes in the “Woman at Home’ 5 a scheme which she suggests may help to solve the servant question—in the country, at any rate. Servants who have lived in towns, she Says, find permanent residence in the country disagreeable—country is disagreeable to them. They find there only trees and fields and sky, which they know too well already—or not well enough. Something else is needed for their evenings off. A long road through tiny villages without shop windows, without theatre, without music-hall, without even a kinema, has no attraction for them. Home they have not, or it is too far away; meetingplace they have not, because nobody has ever dreamt of providing them with one Where can they go, our country servants, to amuse themselves and meet their friends ?

That question I have asked myself ten times over. It has led me to institute in our village “The Recreation Club. ’ Before actually starting the club, I tried it for two weeks as an experiment. 1 counted on a dozen candidates: I found 70. That decided me to establish the club, which is open every Wednesday and Thursday from 6 to 9.30 p.m. One shilling is the annual subscription. The club is open to servants of both sexes, and also to any working people who care to join. Everything possible is done to make members comfortable and happy, and it is sincerely hoped that they will enjoy themselves. In return, members are requested not to discuss amongst themselves anything connected with the families with whom they are living. This is insisted upon,"'and members are requested to do everything they can to enforce this rule. A great deal of harm might be done if it < were not kept.