A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3803, 1 February 1927, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By Sheila Scobie Macdonald. (Specially Written for the Witness.) December 6. Early last week, on the wettest afternoon of the dullest, wettest November on record, a friend and 1 squeezed our way into that wonderful house in Arlington street, in which the Michelham treasures before being sold were shown to the public. I write “squeezed,” for no other word could describe the difficulty we had in pushing our way through the dense throng of people who packed the many rooms. Like ourselves, these people were mostly curious ignoramuses, for the collectors and possible buyers had all been at the private view some days previously. What a terrible house to live in ! Miles of corridors; miles of staircases; lofty pillars! marvellous tiled floors, and roomafter room, each more lofty, more beautiful, more utterly unpractical than the last. Truth to say I was really more interested in the mansion than in the objects d’art, which in the first place. I couldn’t see for hats and heads, and in the second couldn’t have appreciated. I heard one woman near me say :

‘‘Fancy having to. keep all these things clean,” and I felt like saying, “That’s just what I’m thinking.” There had been some talk of converting the house into flats, but in the end even this scheme was abandoned, and the house was sold for about half what Lady Michelham paid for it. There was practically no bidding for it, for who, in these servantless days, wants to be landed with an immense white elephant of a home? As all I could see of the famous "Pinkie” that day was a head and hat, I went yesterday to the Royal Academy, where' for eight days the picture is on view before being shipped to America. I thought it was delightful, being the portrait of a very slim, curly haired young girl, whose soft white frock is sashed with pink, the same colour again appearing in the ribbons on her hat. I felt I should like Pinkie for myself, and envied the man who for £77,800 had purchased her, and was quite upset on the wireless that evening to hear from the lips of no less a renowned art critic than Welenski that in his opinion not only was the picture somewhat “flashy” (his word—not mine), but was also very ordinary. “Pinkie” is to be shipped to America directly, and on the face of it it does seem rather hard that so many of our art treasures should go to the New World. The practice goes on steadily, and only the other day, when motoring in Kent, we saw two wonderful old Tudor cottages being demolished, and on stopping to admire them and mourn such vandalism, we were told that the cottages had been purchased by an American millionaire for re-erection on his estate in Florida., I suppose these things must be, but it gives one a rather nasty jar. * * *

Mr Cook, of coal strike fame, has gone to Russia, and no one was in the least sorry to bid him farewell. In fact, the only note of sorrow connected vith his departure was his announcement that he intended to return to England before Christmas. But if words fail Mr Cook, when it to describing his feelings for the T.U.C. and the strike leaders, .words also failed those to whom he

blandly announced that of the total of £1,843,000 sent to our miners, no less than £1,150,000 came from Russia. It is not possible to believe that the halfstarved, badly-paid Russian workers sent the money out of love and sympathy with their infinitely better off British comrades. They obviously sent it because they hoped to plunge this country into the same state of blood and ruin as their own, and though Mr Cook will doubtless do his best, even he will find it difficult to resign the Russians to the fact that as regards any looked-for results of their self-denial and sacrifice they might just as well have thrown their money into the sea. It is to be hoped that Mr Cook likes Moscow, its Government, and its workers so much that he will remain there for some considerable time. * * * I went up to town to do my Christmas shopping one day last week, and for the first time blessed the snugly covered-in top of one of the new omnibuses which took me from Victoria Station to Oxford street. Victoria has now a regular bus station of its own, consisting of many small raised platforms, a policeman on duty, and so many notices regarding the arrival and departure of the multitudinous buses that even a country bumpkin of the worst description can hardly go astray. Hyde Park corner is nor.’ in the grip of the gyratory system, and is nothing but a m'edley of cars, buses, and even horse traffic, all seemingly bent. on reaching the same spot in the least time possible. It is curious to note how very isolated Buckingham Palace is becoming isolated, I mean, in the sense that the great majority of the houses in. its vicinity are now either offices or business premises of some description. In Piccadilly there are very few private houses left, and as a residential area even Grosvenor place is no longer popular —in fact, clubs, hotels, and flats abound in those parts which once were the exclusive haunts of the aristocracy. - Even Park lane has been invaded, f.nd beautiful Stanhope House was recently bought by a business firm. How anyone can endure the noise of Park lane is a mystery, for until midnight up and down its length the clamour of hetivy traffic never stops, and for the remainder of the night until dawn brings a brief respite there is an unending procession of taxi cabs and motor cars.

I suppose that the servant question is as much to blame as modern traffic for the passing of so many great and historic houses, and I must admit that on looking round those vast apartments of the Dowager Lady Michelham my sympathies were all with the servants v hose melancholy duty it was to care for such a rabbit warren.

I was much interested in the passing by the House of Commons of the Roman Catholic Bill. I reajly don’t think that one person in 10,000 even knew that Roman Catholics have hitherto, in the eyes of the law, not enjoyed full religious freedom. Certainly I never did, hence my interest in the Bill. There was very little opposition in the House, a fact which speaks volumes for present day religious tolerance, several rigid Nonconformists even speaking in favour of the Bill. Some there are,"of course, who view the proceedings with alarm, principally on account of the possibility of Roman Catholic processions, in which the Host is reserved, passing through the streets. This, of course, is manifestly unfair, for, if trade unionist processions, even “Red processions,”‘are allowed, why not religious ones ? After all, there is little fear of, for instance, the processions of Italy and Normandy becoming common .in our streets, as for these to be successful the onlookers, as well as the participants, must be temperamental, and the Britisher, taken all round, is conspicuously lacking in temperament for which heaven be thanked!

When I was in town doing the aforesaid Christmas shopping the rain, came down in such torrents, and the north wind blew so keenly, that I went in search of a friend, and having found her, we went into the warm, brightly-lit, cosy New Gallery, to see that much-advertised new film, ‘The Scarlet Letter. ’ I thought it delightful, for the photography is perfect, and the story so deftly sentimental that it was quite irresistible. I came home so enthusiastic that on my way I actually went into a bookshop and bought a copy of the world-famous story. I had read it once when I a girl, but surely never with the pleasure that I now experienced, a pleasure so great, that alas! I wished I had never ceen the film. In the latter Hester somehow loses her dignity, and becomes merely a charming young woman who is no better than she'ought to be. Also her fairylike elfin child, Pearl, is not the Pearl of the picture, and I infinitely prefer the former. But, otherwise, the film is a masterpiece, and one which the whole world will undoubtedly flock to see. * * * Woman, as a sex, has come in for much criticism this week. According to the confident young- secretary of the Cambridge Debating Society, she is a person of no account, “who bangles her arm, bingles her head, and bungles her face,” and does it ‘‘because she thinks she looks divine, whereas she really looks like nothing on earth.” Rather slashing, but doubtless we shall continue as a sex, to sit up and take notice. As in all 164 future orators, agreed with their secretary, and 191 disagreed, it must be admitted that Woman at Cambridge does not enjoy an over great popularity. Then again, as the result of a recent, sensational, and very hair-raising murder

trial, when one of the women jurors collapsed in hysterics, there has been some outcry against women jurors. Most women hate and abhor sitting on a jury, but as the law now stands, it can hardly ba avoided. Some women there are who have man’s capacity for administrating a cold, exact, unemotional justice, but they are few’ and far between, and I think that the majority of both men and women are only too thankful that such should be the case.