LONDON EXULTANT

Dominion, Volume 23, Issue 75, 21 December 1929, Page 10

LONDON EXULTANT

LORD MAYOR’S SHOW

AND THE TWELVE SCOTTISH FISH-WIVES

Dominion Special Service. (By Nellie M. Scanlan.)

London, November 13.

Never before have I realised how broad were policemen’s shoulders; how solid were their chests. I seem to have spent hours bouncing on and off them, pushed hither and thither by the millions who came out. in the gorgeous winter sunshine to see the Lord Mayor s Show. The. whole world was there, one would imagine, for this time it was Saturday, and a fine Saturday at that. I have looked down on it from balconies; I have peered at it through windows. This time I decided to be in it. I was Right at the Guildhall Gate. It was chance, and the wrong bus that landed me here. I had an excellent close-up view. A ferret-faced little woman with a suitcase, cut a swathe through the crowd, by battering their shins with her iron-clad luggage. Cockney sarcasm fell heedlessly about her. Triumphantly she planted the suitcase, and smiled up at a handsome, brown-eyed policeman.

“Brought your luggage, have you? Going to stay long,” he asked. She stayed. Oozing through the crowd, creeping between its knees, came myriads of youngsters, until' they beaded the kerb for miles. “Any more little ’uns there? Come along, I’ll look after you.” And the policemen, once a symbol of punishment, became a Guardian Angel. Out they poured, little boys and girls —four, five, seven, ten years old. They were passed over head, or crept under foot, or wriggled miraculously and with sure instinct always towards the nearest policeman. Here reckless ones were restrained, timid ones soothed, the frightened ones comforted. Wonderful Pageant. On the tick of the clock, the xirocession started, and it took three-quarters of an hour to pass. There were bands and bands and bands. Highlanders with their pipes and swinging kilts. Artillery with their fine horses, lancers with fluttering pennants, the guards mounted on their lovely chargers, their coats almost solid with gold. A great cheer burst for Seagrave’s “Miss England” as the world’s fastest motor-boat came by on a lorry, and Malcolm Campbell’s “Blue Bird,” a blue cylinder on wheels, behind. A pageant of printing from the days of the Scribes, with Caxton and his early Press, up to the linotypes of today. The machinery purred and clanged, and the papers, printed as they went, came pouring from the press. The League of Nations, which is celebrating its tenth birthday, had a huge birthday cake, with ten candles, and accompanying it were figures representing every nation belonging to the League. Australia "was the usual characters suggestive of riding in wide-open spaces. But who inspired New Zealand, an incongruous figure in yellow Grecian draperies with a wreath of poppies in her hair? King Edward’s old motor-car chugged merrily along, leading up to the latest luxury automobile, and a pert little machine of the “baby” type. The old “Shilibeer” omnibus, drawn by its three horses, had a complement of passengers dressed in frills and feathers of the period. “Here they come? Here they come?” Twelve Scottish Fishwives, in their red and white striped petticoats, their tuck-ed-up skirts, their shawls, their cheerful brown faces conscious of their im-, portance, and each with a creel swinging lightly from her shoulders. The new Lady Mayoress, Lady Waterlow, is Scottish, and these fishwives from her native town were her special guests.

A Moving Scene. There is something marvellously moving about these pageants of London —the good-tempered crowds, the patient waiting, the glitter and glamour of ancient costumes; of the Tudor hats of Worshipful Masters of the Guild of Horners, of the Guild of Paviours, and all the other crafts and trades. The little Henry VIII hats, the fur tippets, the gay trappings and powdered wigs: cocked hats and tossing feathers, armies marching in the sunshine; bands playing, crowds cheering, or the ripple of Cockney humour. Then there is the tramp of horses, the trumpeters, the crashing march of bands, the wail of the pipes. ■ The little figure of iDck Whittington and his cat. sitting beside the milestone, five miles from London, was followed by the last and greatest pomp of all—the Lord Mayor himself. Sir William Waterlow. It is not so much the man as the office that counts in London. But here in this great gilded coach, drawn by isix horses, with outriders and postilions, in velvet and gold, cocked hats, and silk stockings, rides the new Lord Mayor of London. He looks out, smiling, jovial, rotund. The crowd roars and cheers; the voice of London exultant. Ob, there’s nothing in the world like the Lord Mayor’s Show.