ENGLISH SUMMER.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 78, 2 April 1932, Page 4 (Supplement)

ENGLISH SUMMER.

OLD CUSTOMS PREVAIL. IN THE WINTER OF OUR WOES. (By NELLE M. SCANLAN.) Weather is far too ephemeral a subject to discuss by long-distance mail; it changes too rapidly. But when a penitent summer hangs about for long, long months after its demise is due, one may be pardoned for such reference.

It would seem as though, for once, a kindly fate were joining hands with our patriotic efforts. The Buy British campaign included a vigorous stay-in Britain-for-winter idea as well. Far, far too much British money was spent on the Continent in winter, mostly at Mediterranean resorts of luxury. Economy and patriotism inspired this plea for people to stay at home; to winter in the sunnier spots along England's south coast. And they have done so.

The reward has been theirs. While the South of France is wind-swept, under snow, and in the grip of frost, in London even we can sit fireless, and even have open windows, though we are passing through the shortest days. An occasional fog, yet; a storm or two, certainly. But no cold. Days, weeks, months of it we have had. Now we go about meekly, hand to head, touching wood, for fear of what may be in store for us. But, having weathered the worst of winter, we have no complaint. The main point is that for once virtue has truly been rewarded; the world is warmer at home. Old Customs Prevail. Weather notwithstanding, the old customs prevail. On the Monday after New Year, I was surprised, when passing through a little village, to meet several men with a team of horses, the men singing, the horses decorated, the villagers applauding. It was Plough Monday, one time a great feast in the countryside. It marked the renewal of ploughing after the Christmas festivities. And: in the city that night, the Lord Mayor of London gave his Plough Monday dinner. He has done so for hundreds of years, and will no doubt continue to do so, even when England is one vast factory, and ploughs are to be found only in museums.

And older still is the custom of kings to present gold, frankincense and myrrh on the Feast of the Epiphany. A troop of Beefeaters, the Yeomen of the Guard from the Tower of London, in their picturesque uniforms, came up to the church at St. James', to escort the King's deputies as they carried to the altar, on gold salvers, King George's gift of gold, frankincense and myrrh in this year of 1032.

Governments may rise and fall; international crisis may tread on the heels of national crisis, diplomats may confer, the Press may scream, statesmen wring their hands and produce their empty coffers. At the moment there are too many Pharisees at the altar proclaiming their virtues, and too few at the back, beating their breasts, are crying, "Mea culpa."

Debutantes are planning their comingout gowns; society hostesses are organising the season's dances. Everything goes on just the same. We will have the Derby and the boat race and Ascot and cricket at Lord's. Panic has seized many Americans, but we seem to go on here much the same, pausing to make two impressive gestures by the way, the astounding faith in the National Government, and the prompt paying up of income tax. Having done that, England returns to its ordinary way of life. It is that quality which wakes the wrath and admiration of our neighbours.