OPIUM.

Taihape Daily Times, 30 July 1918, Page 6

OPIUM.

A EEAL PERSONAL EXPERIENCE. All my life I have heard of the ecstatic dreams that come to opiumtakers, writes "Twells Brex" in the Daily Mail. Opium is reputed to open the gates of a pagan paradise. The opium-tak-er lolls in shining palaces; he feeds on finer viands than ever City companies provided at their pre-war banquets he is lulled by divine music; he is solaced by bevies of lovely creatures. And now my doctor has shattered the opium fable by giving me that drug for the pain paroxysms of an illness that is laying me low. For many days I stood out aainst the anodyne. And, then, one night, when the world, life, the bedroom, the bed, the invalid, seemed one incarnate Pain, I took the opium. Since then I have taken the opium three or j four times. The delights here recount- , ed are the hallucinations of paradise that this opium-taker got from his opium. Dream I—An air raid. Thousands of bombs' falling, some of them bounce. The garden is full of them. We are so interested that wo forget to take cov- , er. They are big, fat bombs, six feet in diameter. "What a mercy that Ave have sold the greenhouse," says my wfe. ("We never a greenhouse, but what does that matter to opium?) All the bombs burst gently and respectably, like seed pods. Out of every bomb steps a Hun with a bayonet. Then an outsize bomb falls, covered with silver gilt (the natural touch in the whole ridiculous incident) and the Kaiser steps out (decorated like a City man at the end of a severe flag-day). "The game's up," he suggests. I concur faintly. "Surrender—in the name of England." he demads, "I surrender in the name of England." "A good thing for you," he ' says, urbanely. He turns to a sort of butler-steward-f ield-marshal. ' 'Give this man a meal," he orders The but-ler-iStetwaTd-field-marshal unpacks a picnic-baskets on my lawn, hands me a plate—and I wake up with a headache. I did not get a meal. So much for divine opium. Dream 2 —l am in the "wiggle-, woggle" at the White City with my Aunt M . (My Aunt M has been dead 30 years, but what's that to opium?) The White City is just as it was in 1914 (the one decent thing that opium achieved). My Aunt M and I arc enjoying ourselves hugely. "I could stay in it for ever," says my aunt; "I am not a scrap seasick." ; (The wiggle-woggle is wiggling in rough water., but wdiat's that of opium. ?) JSuddenly a man, dressvd, lil\ a harbour-master, hails us from the end of the pier. "For heaven's sake put ashore," he yells; "there's war with Germany and the U-boats are out." I stare wildly round the wiggle-woggle. No mast, sail, oar, funnel, or rudder, "It's just like your carelessness," cries my aunt. "'Look!" I shout. My aunt screams. To say that the water is alive | with U-boats is a mere euphemism. Like salmon in British Columbia, they push each other out of the water. On

the deck of each of them appears a

brutal Hun holdng a torpedo. They point the torpedoes at us. They unloose the torpedoes. The torpedoes whistle through the air (what's that to opium?) There is an awful explosion. I wake up in my bed. So much for divine opium.

This afternoon I struggled out of the sick-room for an airing on Hampstead Heath I flopped down on a seat beside a wounded soldier. Wo fraternised in the way of invalids.

"Yes- I still have pains," said the soldier. "Particularly of nights. They're giving me opium." I was pricked into interest. "How does it affect you?" I asked, "Does it give you gorgeous dreams—palaces —fountains—millions of money—banquets —houris —? "Haven't met s'em yet," said the soldier gloomily. "Dream I've had most often is I'm back in the battalion again. I'm the only private. All the others are sergeant-majors." So much for divine opium."