A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3862, 20 March 1928, Page 71

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By Sheila Scobie . Macdonald.

.(Special for the Otago Witness.) _. . February 6. was getting ready to go up to town <jn Friday morning, prepared to stand two or three hours in a grey, windswept street to see that sad yet thrilling passing of Lord Haig, when the telephone bell sounded, and a friend, who four years’ war service in Egypt to her credit, told me that she had actually received two tickets that very morning for the ceremony in the Abbey, and would I like to accept one. Would I? I was so overcome that I could scarcely hang up the receiver. We met at Victoria Station, and walked along Victoria street, already thronged with a great multitude of men and women all moving in the same direction. Nearly all were soberly clad, except for the one vivid splash of scarlet poppy which the men wore in their buttonholes and the women carried in their hands. We reached the Abbey nearly two hours before the funeral procession was due to arrive, but who, even on an ordinary everyday occasion, let alone that of a nation’s homage, could sit in our national Valhalla unmoved, or find time dragging? . Apart from the stir due to the coming and going of scarlet-coated figures, of emotion, and (I may as well confess it) of curiosity, there is something about Westminster Abbey that enthralls one. It is holy ground, a place apart, the spirit home of every Britisher, be his creed or lack of creed what it may. It is so indiseverably woven in with the great traditions of our race; our rational inheritance; our temple of fame. As I sat there I thought of the words I once read—where, or who spoke them I have long since forgotten—“ The silent meeting place of the dead of eight centuries.”

. As the mourners drifted in, at first m twos and threes, then in a steadv stream, the organist began to play softly, swords clanked, the faint expectant whispering and movement grew less noticeable. A sad little company of ex-soldiers still, after nearly 10 years of peace, clad in hospital blue,’limped to specially reserved seats. Heads were tinned to look at them, and many eyes filled. Later, as the great moment drew near, a grey-blue uniformed French officer or two came in, and were shown to their seats by tall young officers vividly clad. Men of high rank, in gorgeous uniforms of scarlet and gold, lent a vivid note to what was never for a moment in any way a sombre scene. Even the women present—and there were many—displayed a scarlet poppy against the dark of their mowing garments. Turbaned Indians, swarthy, impassive; nurses, many of them wearing medals; atl Egyptian potentate, amazing in a fur coat capped by a fez—all sorts and conditions were there.

We waited, straining to hear above the soft . notes of the organ the movement outside that would tell us that the great moment had arrived. Later six deeply yellow-coloured candles set by the chancel steps were lighted, and the dramatic tension was almost too great to be borne, 'then a long line of clergy moved forward in procession to the west door, chanting without accompaniment the opening sentences of the burial service, and the body of the lately dead warrior was borne by tall guardsmen past the restpia.ee of the Unknown Warrior, and laid on the altar steps. We craned forward to see, for the names and fame of the pall-bearers were a household word to us all. Marshal Foeh, who of them all, was the one commanding the intense interest of everyone, stood all the time with his white head sunk forward on his chest as if he indeed mourned a friend inwardly as well as outwardly, and Petain, soldierly, eagle-eyed, unmistakably and intensely French, was beside him. Behind the pall bearers came the Royal Princes, and behind them Lady Haig alone, slim, dark, the austerity of her black figure relieved by the vivid scarlet of a poppy at her breast.

It was a short service, with the hymns “ Abide With Me,” and “ Onward Christian Soldiers ” sung by the whole vast congregation, but when the wail of “ The Flowers of the Forest” sounded on the bagpipes, the emotional strain was such that it was almost a relief to see the flag-draped coffin lifted and borne slowly down the aisle to be placed on the guncarriage which was to take it to Waterloo station on the last stage of the journey to Scotland for burial. As it passed, the dim light from the many stainedglass windows fell on the dead soldier’s plumed hat, the red and gold of his Field -marshal’s baton, and the two wreaths of laurel leaves and poppies which surmounted it.

It took us a long time to get out of the Abbey, for pew by pew was emptied in an orderly and methodical way, and we lesser folk were necessarily the last. When we did at last emerge, the dull morning had given place to a duller afternoon, Westminster square was almost empty of its thousands upon thousands of onlookers, and those who remained were, like ourselves, strung up and strangely silent. Big Ben boomed out indifferently. Another show was over, and the ancient grey walls held yet another memory. I had no appetite for huich. We came home.

There was a gay scene at St. George’s, Hanover square, on Thursday, when the Duchess of York’s brother married her bridesmaid and intimate friend. A

friend of mine was one of the spectators, but I am glad to say that I wasn’t there. St. George’s used to be the church for society weddings, but of late years it has given pride of place to St. Margaret’s, Westminster, -which, according to a recent Article in a society paper, is “ a more decorative setting for a bridal procession.” °

There has been quite a lot of discussion over that sentence by the way, and many clergymen have written deploring the present-day idea of making a theatrical display of what should be a solemn ceremony. Certain it is that nowadays a big wedding is such a complicated affair that it is rarely conducted without elaborate rehearsals in the church itself, and a planning and forethought, let alone expense, which is hair-raising. All this by way of, and now I will return to, the scenes at Thursday’s wedding. To begin with, it seemed as if every woman and girl in London had gathered . Hanover square. The police turned pale at the sight and sent for reinforcements, which came too late to prevent the mobbing of the Duchess of York’s car. The girls clung to it, climbed on it, blew kisses at its occupants. The Duchess smiled, but the Duke looked embarrassed, and Lord Strathmore, the bridegroom’s father, who was in the next car, said, “ God bless my soul—these young women seem very unruly.” My friend said that she had her nose actually jammed up against the window of the car, was swept there by sheer force of numbers. Then a policeman caught hold of her and told her to—

“ Keep back there—keep back,” which made her feel very bitter, as she had never for a moment wanted to get forward.

In the end more police arrived, and by linking arms and concentrated pushing they cleared a way for the Duchess, and kept it clear for the bride, who, from the point of view of the crowd, was anything but the centre of her own wedding. Yet more police had to be hurriedly rushed up to cope with a yet more determined rush after the ceremony.

It is impossible to describe the wild adulation the mob gives to the Duchess of York, an adulation which in these days of the breaking down of the barriers even of Royalty must be more than a little embarrassing at times. The Duke, for instance, was heartily and most unexpectedly* kissed by a coster woman the other day, and a positive free fight rages round this particular Royal pair whenever they are out together. Since little Princess Elizabeth has reached the mature age of “ taking notice/’ her perambulator exercise in the park has had perforce to be discontinued, for nothing short of an escort of police could make a way for her and her nurse. And the Duchess has achieved it all merely by courteously and kindly smiling when she must often have been unutterably bored. A moral for all those rocked in Royal cradles.

Anthony Asquith’s film “ Shooting Stars ” has been acclaimed as a Inure success. It is showing at the Plaza, and I am going to see it next week. I see that an American producer has pronounced the verdict “ Very good—but it wouldn’t do for us.” Anyway it’s had a wonderful reception, and has been marvellously well received. Apropos of films, Lady Elinor Smith, who edits a “ nippy ” page in the Weekly Despatch, tells the following true story of Charlie Chaplin and his last venture, “ The Circus.” In one scene he has to walk across a thin wire, and is besieged by monkeys who tear at his clothes. When the final ’* shot ” of this scene was made, Charlie insisted upon removing the net which, for safety, was spread out below* him.

But this small act of quite conscious heroism didn’t meet with approval. “ I’m sorry, Mr Chaplin,” he was told, “ but you mustn’t think only of yourself. The monkeys are very valuable.” Very dashing for the great little man.