“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3636, 20 November 1923, Page 60

“ALIEN’S” LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

(Specivlly Written for the Ladies’ Pnge.) FROM THE FIRESIDE. September 25. For the first time this autumn the mufi'n-bells tinkle along the rain-swept streets in the late afternoon, and smoke curls from the chimneys.” The holiday folk have gone home, and the children back to school, and the normal worlc-a-day world is sharpening its pencils .and other tools, filling its inkpots, grinding its axes, and otherwise bracing up for the three months’ work before Christmas. But those who have not been away from the trivial round and common task, that does not (with apologies to Dr Watts) furnish all that we ought to ask, although there is ample room for self-denial, are not feeling so “bucked up” as those who “went away” and made a break in the monotony of every-day duties. A medical man once said to me, “Make a change, even for something worse.” That we are more “fearfully and wonderfully made” than we have yet wholly discovered medical science reveals at intervals. The very latest of these discoveries is, says a “Harley* Street Doctor,” that some people have a physical sixth sense which is called Allergen, and which means any subject to which any person is particularly sensitive. Those who possess this sense, says the doctor, are, generally speaking, of a highly-strung temperament, and many doctors now begin the study of certain illnesses by trying to find out ff their patient is sensitive to any article of food or to any animal. He gives a number of cases which were tested

and proved to be true. One of a girl who was “allergen ’ to silk, which 'I she wore in any iorm or came into contact with, brought on an attack ot ‘ nettle rash. lhe girl was siik sensitive, ’ but what caused the condition is not known. Another case Which came under a Uar.ey Street Doctor's” notice was of a young woman who had suffered with asthma lrorn a child. The attacks almost always caane on at night, and were very frequent. But she never had an attack while she was staying with a certain aunt in the country, and it was, of course, thought that the air of that particular place agreed with her, and the girl s parents made arrangements for ner permanent stay there. But one .lay, when she had taken the first lesson m riding a violent attack of asthma came on, and a London specialist who was studying nervous diseases in connection with their “allergen suspected that this patient’s sensitiveness was in connection with the horse, and, following the clue, found that the beds she had slept on in her parents homo all the yours of tier suffering were stuffed with horsehair, and her aunt's with feathers, and that whenever she came into contact with horsehair, and only then, an attack of asthma occurred. There are hundreds of ‘horse asthmatics” in every country, says Jms authority, who, so long as tr.ey have ut> contact with horses or horsehair are perfectly well. I suspect that a farmer 1 knew of who suffered tortures with asthma for years, until he became so ill that he sold his farm and went to live in town, where he got well, was a case in point. It makes one wonder if certain colours are ‘’allergen” to certain people also. 1 recall a friend of mine telling me her experience of asthma, at Which she said people laughed. “But, believe me, 1 didn't, tor it cost me one of the prettiest dinner frocks I ever had.” It was of poppy red silk, and the first time she wore it she was attacked (for the first time) so violently with asthma that she had to leave the party. The next time she wore the frock the same thing occurred, and the next. “Then,” she concluded, “I never wore it again.” “Nerves,” her doctor assured her. ‘The second time you wore the dress you thought of the first attack, and that brought on another, and so on. Hay fever, or hay asthma, is a sensitiveness to grass. And some sufferers tell you they always get an attack of asthma in certain rooms. There is something there evidently to which they are unconsciously sensitive. And there are, it is stated, “cat asthmatics” as well as horse asthmetics. ” Others cannot sleep in a room where there is a cat and waken, should one noiselessly enter, while they are asleep. There are insects also to which some people are sensitive, even to horror, and surely some people must be “allergens” to us, for they affect us to illness physically—depression and exhaus-tion-—body and mind ! “The question which is now being asked is this,” writes “A Harley Street Doctor” : “Is there any connection between this bodily sixth sense and the sixth sense of the mind or spirit which enables its possessor to penetrate beyond the darkness surrounding ordinary men ! . . • Science has not yet answered these questions. But neither does it any longer deny that they can be answered in the affirmative. Step bv step we move nearer the spiritual and further away from the material view of our human existence.' 1

One of the latest of the many stories from life that go '‘‘to prove that some people possess the six sense is told by Miss Jessie Millward, the famous actress, in her book of memories, “Myself and Others,” one of the most entertaining of the early autumn publications, and a delightful fireside companion. She tells of three separate dreams of the murder, in 1897, of William Yerriss, the popular actor, with whom in her early days she plaved leading lady. “One night, ’ she relates, “three months before my companion’s death, I woke in a panic calling for mv maid. My dream had been a horrible one. I had heard a cry “Sis! Sis!” in a well-known voice, and bursting open a door I rushed into a room with bare boards in time to catch the falling form of Mr Terriss.” What actually happened three months after the dream was very similar, when Terriss was fatally stabbed by a super he had discharged named Prince. Miss Millward rushing down from her dressing room found Terriss leaning against the wall near the stage door. “Sis,” he said faintly, “Sis, I am stabbed.” I put my arms round him to support him, when we both fell to the ground on the bare boards at the foot of the staircase leading to our dressing rooms.” There are stories of Tree, of Henry Irving, of Gladstone, Arthur Bourchier, and many others that have never been told before, and one amusing storv of Sarah Bernhardt relates her an o'er at a New York critic’s suggestion that her frizzv hair was false and her teeth too good to be her own. Calling upon him she let down her hair. “Pull eet!” she exclaimed. “Is eet real or not?” And then taking his finger she bit it, “Are zay false?" she demanded.” The autumn books are appearing by dozens, and judging by the numbers of novels both writers and readers must be finding themselves again. Now that the dancing madness seems to have practicallv jazzed "its craze away, middle-aged people at any" rate are turning to reading again for recreation, and judging by the lists of the leading publishers a plentiful supply of excellent reading matter is forthcoming. the bulk of which is in the form of the’ human storv, either in the form of biographv or fiction. “P. T. Barnum,” by = Mr M. R. Werner, is the life of Barnum, the showman, that typical yet unique American who called himself the “Prince of Humbugs.” The book is rich with stories of interesting people, besides his own absorbing history. He first appeared in this country in 1844 with the dwarf Tom Thumb, whom he exhibited at the Egyptian Hall with immense success. A visit to Buckingham Palace is described, where Tom Thumb caused

great amusement by his singing and dancing, and Queen Victoria led Sim by the hand through the picture gallery, asking him many questions. The tour of the Siamese Twins in Great Britain was another of Barnum’s enterprises. One of the stories as told:—“Barnum once asked the young Prince George, now King George V., whether he was going to stop till the end of the Barnnm performance. The Prince looked round cautiously, paused, for a moment, and, leaning towards Barnum, said: ‘Mr Barnum, I shall remain ’ here until they sing God Save Grandmother.’ ” When at last Barnum, having decided to return to New York, said good-byes to royalty, nobility, and clergy, the Bishop of London, bidding •him farewell, said: “Well, good-bye, Mr Barnum, I hope I shall see you in heaven. 1 ’ “You will ff you' are there,” said Barnum to the Bishop.” - - No great novel has yet appeared, but it is too early in the season to say howmany “Best Sellers” will appear. I cull the following notice of a New Zealand .novel from the Daily Mail:—“lt is refreshing to find New Zealand as the scene of a novel, for it is the Dominion most neglected by our story tellers. In “April Sowing,” by Rosemary Rees (Herbert Jenkins, 7s 6d), Mary Brandon, a widow with a mysterious past, chooses to flee thither from England to start afresh. She discovers Jim the Englishman, a remittance man, who also has a mysterious past and a very drunken present, and the story centres -in their relationship. At the. first meeting there is violence, hut it is mild compared with the developments, which include a knife attack by a wife on her husband who was obliging enough to have died from heart trouble at the same moment.”

B. L. Farjeon’s thrilling and romantic story “Miriam Rozella” has reappeared as a serial, and the film rights have been secured for immediate productions by the Astra-National Productions. Elealinc Terrace is to appear as Mrs Rozella, mother of Miriam, and Miriam will be played by Moyna M'Gill.

The opening of the autumn theatrical season has been a success with three or four new plays, of which “Hassan,” a splendid dramatic romance of the late James Elroy Flecker, takes the lead. The critics are agreed that London has never seen anything of the sort more hand-

some, which is saying a good deal. It is an Arabian Night. Scene after scene unrolls the pageantry of the gorgeous gast. “But that, after all, is no new ing at His Majesty’s. But ‘Hassan’ at heart is something different and new. What shone in this play brighter than all the brilliant devices of decorations and ballet masters was the living poetry of the thought.” It is a tale of Bagdad, of the Caliph Haroun al-Rasehid, and the opening scenes are all wonder and delight, but the grim truths of lust and cruelty change the atmosphere to tragedy. Hassan is a confectioner and sometimes a poet, and in his adventures he rescues the Caliph, an eccentric tyrant, .from a conspiracy to which he almost fell a victim in his • midnight wanderings. The “Master of the World” bids him to Court, but in the estimation of the humble poet he is a monster. He desires the lady love of a noble, and when the lovers have nden trapped to Court he gives them an agonising choice—separation and the woman to become the . Caliph’s, or 24 hours of love together—then death at the torturer’s hands. They chose one another and death. They perish hideously. The scenes of love triumphant, even oyer the torturer’s pangs are fine. The gentle Hassan, sickened* that the finest in the soul should be at the caprice of tyranny, makes his escape from the barbaric gorgeousness and pomp of life oh a mystical “golden journey.” The caravan fe starting to a land of dreams.

The author has woven a beautiful ideal of love stronger than evil. And what adds to the poignancy of the play is that the author’s own caravan was starting into the unknown when his fine work was finished. Mrs Flecker tells the story of how the play was written. Originally her late husband began it ar a faice. They were at Corfu at the time, and he was in good health when he conceived the idea of an uproarious farce concerning the adventures of a Jew and his journey to Bagdad with philtres; but the idea grew when they journeyed to Syria, and the Jew became a secondary character, as the author bec«m« impressed with the vicissitudes of the poor in the East. So the play passed from farce into comedy. Then the author’s health began to fail, and he grew more to appreciate

the sufferings of the poor and under-dogs, and his play took another change to drama. Mr Flecker grew worse and they left the East for Switzerland, and with death close at hand the drama deepened to tragedy, Mrs Flecker taking the last of it down from the author’s dictation. “The one tremendous regret I have,” .says the widow of the playwright, “is that my husband did not witness the success of his play.” Perhaps he did. Perhaps the caravan lias not as yet borne him too far on the golden journey. “Hassan” is in prose, but throughout there are some beautiful lyrics.- One is the famous love song “Jasmin,” which begins; —“How Splendid ip the morning glows the lily ; with what grace he throws his supplication to fhe rose; do roses nod the head, Jasmin?” The author was the son of a Gloucestershire clergyman, and spent part of his short, life in Syria. He was stricken with consumption, and died at the early age of 30. In. one of his lyrics he foreshadows an early death : I who am dead a thousand years, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers The way I shall not pass along. . . O friends unseen, unborn, unknown, Students of our sweet English tongue, Read out my words at night, alone, I was a poet, I was young. “Hassan” not only gives _ scope for wonderful, spectacular scenes, but the music is beautiful also. Its composer, Mr Delius, is a Bradford man by birth, and composer of the opera “The Village Romeo and Juliet,” which Thomas Beecliam produced at Govent Garden. There is little deliberately Eastern colour in the music, of “Hassan,” but it is always harmoniously descriptive, as the chorus and dance of the conspiring beggars in Raji’s cave and in the sombre march. “The procession of Protracted Death” played as the two lovers are led to the torture chamber. Miss Laura Cowie and Mr Basil Gill are the two noble lovers, and Mr Henry Ainley plays Hassan.