Dry Rot.

(To the wrong book unfortunately).

While the ability to produce a fluorescent substance on paper appears to be peculiar to the genius Lolium, a direct fluorescence is exhibited by other plants. Under screened ultra-violet light the roots of oats (avena satira L.) show an intense violet blue, as do to a much lesser degree the rootlets of Danthonia spp. Bromus hordeaceus L., and Bromus unioliodes H.B.K. A faint blue fluorescence has been observed in the rootlets of newly germinated seedlings of all forms of Lolium, but this disappears in a few days. Mature plants of Italian and false perennial, if allowed to root on to filter-paper, show the fluorescent character in the same manner as the seedlings. In strongly fluorescent plants the fluid contents of the roots, and some cases of leaves, when forced out on to filter-paper immediately shows faintly the characteristic blue under the quartz lamp. (Tut! tut! Mr. Printer. Where were you last night?)

"Souled."

"By the pricking of my thumbs, Something evil this way comes." —Macbeth.

In the degenerate age in which we live, an immoral play (such as "Souled") runs a grave danger of not being regarded as immoral. It is the function of a Preface to avert this danger. The beauty of a Preface is that no one need read it—the mere fact of its having been written is a sufficient indication of immorality. For the morbidly curious let it be explained that the questions hereinafter dealt with may, by a suitable stretch of the imagination, be regarded as arising out of "Souled."

Are Professors People? A professor will tell you that it is wicked to poke fun at professors, who are the mildest men imaginable. But a student must do it in his own interests. It is essential to a student to ascertain at the earliest possible moment whether or not a professor can stand a joke. If he can, then the student may be confident that professors are people with whom he may properly associate. If he cannot— well, professors are a bad lot, anyway.

page 17

Why Professors are Damned. This is not the first Capping play in which a professor has been consigned to Hell. Usually, however, it is a particular professor. In this case, the professor is not at all particular, or he wouldn't have found himself in Hell. Students love to conceive of a professor in Hell for various reasons. A poor over-worked student finds refreshment in the thought of a professor perspiring on his own account. There is considerable diversion to be obtained from speculating upon the reactions of a professor who discovers himself in a place which he doesn't believe in and cannot quite approve of. But, more than anything else, the introduction of Hell into a University has a pleasantly disturbing effect upon the highly conventionalised thought-patterns of University people.

Has a Professor a Soul? The play assumes that he has, even though it be only for sale. The professor's own opinion is no guide, for a professor would be the first to admit that, while he knows a lot about something, he doesn't know all there is to be known about everything.

Has a Politician a Soul? By incidentally conceding a soul to the politician, however, the play outrages all probability, for no one who is so mistaken as to be alive in these times can doubt that the politician is soulless. A professor who believed himself to possess a soul would never dream of selling it. A politician would sell his own and the souls of everybody else as well, and for no better reason than that he had the power to do so.

Why is the Private Secretary in Hell? The only possible answer to this is that somebody must do the dirty work.

Coax and Hoax.

(An Enlightened Sermon on the Future of the Theatre Movement in New Zealand.)

It is only possible to discuss the Theatre Movement in New Zealand prophetically. However, should any student of the Drama be so bold as to discuss such a movement in retrospect, I, for one, should not deter him. We have room for a National Theatre in New Zealand. While not disregarding the work of Mr. Wilkie, I think that with "Coax and Hoax," my first-born, I have struck the first blow—(Herculean babe!), and to my distinguished contemporary, Mr. Harold G. Hobday, I turn for the furtherance of page 18 the cause. At the time of writing, I learn that he is in the course of producing for the N.Z. Stage Society (Inc.) that masterpiece of somnambulism, "He Walked in Her Sleep."

But, meanwhile, there is my own work to be discussed. To a possibly perplexed audience confronted with it for the first time, perhaps a word of explanation is due. To be quite honest, this is not the premiere of the play. The piece was completed early in August and performed for the first time on Guy Fawke's Day, before a large and appreciative audience in the Bethel Temple.

The following extract from that distinguished journal, "The Evening Boast," is significant:—"Despite its Communistic bias, 'Coax and Hoax' is a great play. Impregnated with the breath of genius, this play develops with a movement of classic simplicity and grandeur. At the last curtain we were left breathless."

And the "Minion":—"Crook plays will come and go, and a succession of fashions after them, but Ragg and his immortal dramas will go marching on, and echoing truth and beauty, sweep down the Hall of all time."

I was rather bucked about this, so resolved that the public should see my work. As the play had only been performed at a private Sunday Theatre, it became necessary to delete certain passages calculated to give offence to a large section of the audience. The original took four hours to produce. Emma, in the original, was a creature without a soul, and simply impelled by desire (for better or worse). It was decided that she would have to be overhauled or scrapped. So I gave her a soul, not much of a soul, but as good as souls go these days. Several scenes from Shakespeare had been woven into my original, but a discriminating sub-committee, not recognizing their origin, subsequently seized on them, and ruthlessly excised them as drivelling obscenities.

The central figure, de Bathe-Waters, has aroused much speculation, and been identified with such celebrities as Trotsky, Monsieur Beaucaire, Oswald Alving, Dr. Crippen and Clyde Carr. Absurd suppositions! Ferdinand is none other than myself.

Should other of the characters in this play be identified with any living persons, I should not turn a hair.

It is possible that some persons will enjoy this operette; many will be bored, and others revolted, while quite a number will leave the theatre before its conclusion. To those dozen souls who will accept this piece in the spirit in which it has been written, this play is dedicated.

The Author.