A LETTER FROM LONDON

Northern Advocate, 19 September 1927, Page 10

A LETTER FROM LONDON

NEWS AND NOTES. (All Rights Reserved.) August 11, 1927. MR BEIDGEMAN. There are unfortunately not so many country squires in the House of Commons nowadays as formerly, but Mr Bridgeman, who has been our chief spokesman at Geneva, is one of them. He is the son of a Shropshire vicar, and grandson of an Archdeacon. He is now well in the sixties, but, like most country gentlemen, wears his years easily. From Trinity, Cambridge, he emerged into public affairs, as a member of the L.0.C., and M.P. for Oswestry, and private secretary to men like Lord Knutsford and Lord St. Aldwyn. He travelled extensively oversea, knows our big Dominions pretty well, and takes his .present big Cabinet job, as he does everything, very seriously but never the least emotionally. He is a typical John Bull, genial and cool, and, though a small man physically, gifted ■with heaps of common sense in his outlook an life. There was a time when, amid some domestic troubles in the Tory ranks, Mr Bridgeman was mentioned as a possible Premier. He would have been quite equal to the call. DISRAELI'S LAST CHIEF WHIP.

It is surprising to find that Disraeli's last Chief Whip still survives—not merely survives, but is a physical marvel. He is .Sir William Hart-Dyke, who celebrated his 90th birthday last Sunday. I met him in his park at Lillingstone Castle some time ago, and after a brief conversation, I was amazed to see him climb a fence with an agility that was positively cat-like. When King Edward (as Prince of Wales) visited Beaconfield at Hughenden in 18S0 the party invited to meet him consisted of the late Lord Salisbury, Lord Rosslyn, Bernal Osborne, and Sir William Hart-Dyke, and of these Sir William is now the sole survivor. He was a member for 41 years, having entered the House in 1865, sitting continuously unty 1906, when the late “Jimmy" Rowlands defeated him in the Hartforddivision.

ICHABOD! To pass down Piccadilly now, even apart from the staccato hammering of the electric drills and the, battalion of brawny navvies sapping into the bowels of the earth, is to feel badly “left." Everybody has so palpably flitted from the scene. The club windows at the Park end of Piccadilly reveal deserted, rooms draped with white sheets and furnished with workmen's ladders. The blinds are down, in mourning for the departed “season," in all the private houses. The hotels have a lonely aspect. Few cars or taxis hover. The greenery of the Green Park begins to tinge with Autumn. Even the people walking on the once gay pavements are obviously strangers, wearing strange clothes, and gaping at familiar things. Like Enoharbus one gets that “alone the villain of the earth"'feeling. It is time the scribes followed the Pharisees to the silver sea. Even Fleet Street must now pack its suitcase!

TREASURE-HUNTING. Every one of the 400 men engaged in tearing up Piccadilly is searching carefully for relies of mediaeval or Roman days. For centuries Kings and Princes have frequented the famous thoroughfare, amd, as the workmen are digging to a greater depth than ever before, it is anticipated that some interesting things will be found. Already some wooden water pipes, fashioned out of elm trees, have been unearthed. They were nearly 200 years old, but are in perfect condition. It is due to the keenness of workmen engaged on road repairs in London that our museums have so many Roman and Norman relics. When anything is found the local authority or the Crowh is supposed to be informed in order that they may confiscate it, but workmen smuggle it to the museums, where they receive 'a reward. During some recent reconstruction work in Carter Lane in the City, one man unearthed a tin box containing 20 ancient coins. He received £2O for them. Another man on the same site made ,£2OO out of relics he found, THE SAINT OF NATIONALISM. Mr John Dillon was once described to me by the late Mr .-T. W. Russell as i the saint of thes- Irish Nationalist Party. Though in political matters he did not always see eye to eye with the leaders of the Roman Church he was a devoted son to her. But like so many

men of high and sincere character lie had difficulty in attributing .similar good intentions to those who differed from him,. He seemed to regard them as knaves ns well as fools, particularly if they happened to be aiming at the good of the British Empire. Though an orthodox Roman Catholic he was temperamentally a nonconformist, always prone to resist the men in power and the measures they proposed. If he had not let his energies be dissipated by fussing over minute and remote incidents in which he traced the sinister influence of Imperialism he would have been a more effective champion of Ireland. He had a curious personal habit which used to amuse his friends. Standing in the lobby with his head high in the air discussing the political events of the day he kept up a perpetual! jingling of the keys and the coins he carried in his pocket.

EX-SERVICE MEN'S CHAMPION. Sir Frederick Milner, who has broken down from overwork, is an inveterate champion of the claims of the exservice men. Though he is in his 78th year he is tireless in bringing their cases, individually and collectively, to the public notice, and there can be little doubt that he owes his collapse, which is not his flrst, to his exertions. Sir Frederick, who is the head of an old Yorkshire family, sat in the House of Commons for nearly twenty years, but. his Parliamentary career ceased in 1906, (Many Imperial .and national causes have had the benefit of what would otherwise have been his leisure. His only surviving daughter is the Marchioness of Linlithgow, and he is a frequent visitor to Hopetoun House, the stately seat of the Marquis near the south end of the Forth Bridge.

AT THE CENOTAPH. Who could have foreseen, when the Cenotaph was unveiled, that even thirteen years later there would be a German wreath there? Large numbers of people., as usual, made pilgrimages to the solemn Whitehall Memorial on the eve of fateful August 4, and all were obviously startled and impressed to And, among the recent floral tributes heaped around the base, a magnificent wreath of oak leaves, with a ribbon in the German Republic's blue and yellow colours. This remarkable tribute to the deathless memory of our British war dead comes from the Cologne Aerodrome of the German Lufthansa. During the war it was the flying men who maintained the old tradition of fighting chivalry. Even when the guns were going, and hymns of hate were being chanted, brave foemen of the air dropped wreaths in memory of equally gallant enemies. So it is not altogether inappropriate that this beau geste should come from Cologne.

STONEHENGE. Mr Baldwin's Premiership will have justified itself if it does nothing more than preserve to the nation an unvandalised amd . unvulgarised Stonehenge. That memorial of mysterious antiquity, the oldest and most awe-inspiring piece of architecture in Britain, lias been offered on sale to America, wired into a, shilling peep-show, and its solemn loneliness troubled by cheapstucco neighbours. We may hope now that its ancient solitary reign wi'l be safeguarded, the raucous neighbouring abortions banished, and Salisbury Plain’s skyline left with the Stonehenge monoliths, alone amid the grave moorland, standing sentinel over the brief centuries, I once walked from London to Torbay by way of-Winches-ter, 'Salisbury, Weils, and Exeter. Great moments on that pilgrimage were when the four famous Cathedrals burst upon the view. But their beauty was tawdry to the antique majesty of Stonehenge.

SWEET LAYENDEK. With the early days of August the lavender vendors have again made their appearance in our suburban streets, and not even the most rusty voice can deprive their melody of its haunting quality. I suppose I am not singular in finding myself humming it, however unmusically, for days after I have heard it. It is, alas, the one survivor of the London street cries by which, in the old days, itinerant merchants made their presence known. The lavender is supposed to be sold by gypsies, and certainly most of the women who hawk it have a swarthiness of complexion not inconsistent with the tradition. It is supposed also to be grown at Mitcham, but although' I know that part reasonably well I have never traced the lavender to its native lair, which must bo concealed somewhere in the wilderness of small houses now springing up in that area.

CHANNEL COMEDY. The Channel-swimming season has started on a note of high comedy. A whole platoon of much-advertised aspirants is in sedulous training, being filmed and interviewed, and waiting for the right psychological moment to strike off for glory. And a young London clerk, unheralded and unknown, quietly slips across without any fuss at all. Mr Tenmie is hardly a typical Cockney . clerk. This 13 stone 6ft Sin young city giant looks like a heavensent international rugger-forward, or that British hope for the world’s heavyweight boxing championship of whom all our promoters have dreamed. His feat is a fine one, even though the Channel swim is not the thing it was. Yet only two men, Burgess and Sullivan, have ever achieved Captain Webb’s original feat. All the rest have swum the reverse way, from France to England, which is much easier. Even so, though Mr Temme’s swim is quite unimpeachable, several pther claimants are heavily suspect.