CURRENT LONDON TOPICS

Taranaki Daily News, 4 June 1935, Page 13

CURRENT LONDON TOPICS

CITY GREETS THE KING SILVER JUBILEE SCENES. PROCESSION IN THE STREETS. (By air mail—Special Correspondent.) London, May 9. Even the English weather bestowed its gayest benison on King George’s silver jubilee. Held a prisoner all Sunday in his palace by huge crowds who hemmed him in with loyal ovation, his Majesty's royal progress to St. Paul’s On Monday was made under a cloudless blue sky and brilhant sunshine. London Was astir with the dawn. Hours before the royal cavalcade Was due, the long processional route was packed With millions of spectators. The crowds glimpsed the blue sky above through an avalanche of quivering pennants. The sunlight caught the flags, and flooded all their bravery in high relief. It was as though a brilhant storm of rainbow-hued confetti was falling through a golden haze., In all its ceremonial history never has old London worn so festive a decoration. And the grand pageant was full worthy of its thrilling Setting. People witnessed scenes which they will remember so long as they live. Even the crowds played their part in a vivid vignette of living English history.

Points in the Pageant. As seen from a Fleet Street window the pageant Was perfectly staged, and worked up to its dramatic climax like a well-otdered play. The first notable event, after the swift passing of cats in which brilliant uniforms and Costumes were glimpsed, was the slow progress of Mr. Speaker’s State coach, gleaming like did polished oak, and drawn by two magnificent horses which lost nothing by being so obviously drayhorses. There Was something mediaeval in ■' their . restive * strength, as vital as that of those Sculptured Grecian chargers of antique marble in the British Museum. Now came the politicians, the Prime Minister so camouflaged in a gold-lace Uniform With sword and feathered cocked-hat that it almost needed his horn-rims to identify him. A cheering spectacle this for old acquaintances of Ramsay Mac before his.apotheosis. Miss Ishbel, in a becoming blue costume, rode at his side. Mr. Churchill, smiling and raising, his cocked-hat to reveal a shining bald pate, got quite a good reception; But the crowd liked , best the handsome Australian Premier, whose charming smile acknowledged their ovation goodhumouredly. t

Their Day Out. First-of the royal coaches, drawn by fine roans with gay court postilions, was that with the Duke and Duchess of York and the two little Princesses. Terrific cheers greeted them, and the delightful and delighted figures of the two Princesses, attired lb pink coats, took the multitude by storm. They were plainly aquiver with excitement,; and having the day out of their young lives. The Duke, in naval uniform,, saluted, and his really charming little Duchess, in blue, held out her gloved hands to the crowds. Another crashing popular ovation signalled the Duke and Duchess of Kent, the former in naval attire, and the latter a beautiful vision in dove grey with an immense picture hat. The Duchess seemed quite excited by the wild cheers, aqd responded with quick little southern gestures. Once more the Fleet Street welkin resounded, this time for the Prince himself, looking a little tired in his Army uniform, but gravely saluting in the Guards manner. With him was Queen Majjd and the bronzed Duke Of Gloucester, who was the most impassive of all the royal figures. In the Picture.

Just before the Prince’s coach was due, with its prancing life Guard escort, the sound of ecstatic cheering mingled with Homeric laughter astonished the waiting crowd. It was the inevitable “Derby” dog, a nice rough-haired terrier, his collar gay with jubilee ribbon, who had, lost his master and his head, and was bolting in bewilderment for some quiet alley. Policemen tried to catch him, but he dodged them all, and vanished towards Ludgate Hill amidst a barrage of laughter. Now came the cavalry and Horse Artillery—Lancers, Hussars, Dragoons, and 18 pounders shimmering like silver. Then a Sovereign’s Life Guard escort, the steel baldricks of the giant centaurs catching the sunlight, their plumes challenging the pennants above their heads. One charger remains in my memory, ridden by a tall captain. That horse must have been own brother to the biblical one who pawed in the valley and said Ha Ha amongst the trumpets. Now the postilions of the King’s own coach, those stately greys, their manes braided with maroon, stepping on air, and the kingly figure who was chief actor in the day’s high pageant. -

King George and his Queen. This was the moment we were all waiting for, and a hurricane of popular ovation swept the street and thundered round the crowded roofs. The King wore Field Marshal’s uniform, with a rug of royal purple thrown over his knees. He looked well, perhaps a little flushed with excitement, and responded to his subjects’ loyal cheers with quiet dignity. Obviously he was taking .in every detail of the scene before him. Queen Mary wore a pale costume and rows of her favourite pearls. Women in the crowd exclaimed how beautiful she looked, as indeed the Queen did, a picture of mature regal dignity and feminine charm. She bowed gravely, with an occasional pleasant smile, to the acclaiming crowds, and now and then glanced towards the King as though to see how the occasion was impressing him. Amid the clatter of the Life Guards, with a stalwart R.S.M. bringing up the rear, the roya 1 coach swept on towards the towering, dome of St. Paul’s beyond the fluttering festoons and waving flags. The crowd at once broke up. The troops who lined the streets marched off. last impression was of a middle-aged workman taking his pipe from his mouth, standing stiff to attention cap in hand, to salute the colour. That ex-serviceman may stand as appropriate background to King, George’s silver jubilee. London Rugger

It was fitting that the Harlequins, who have this season established themselves as the strongest London rugger si e, should finish up by winning the sevto-a-side championship. They did this by beating London Welsh by 10-3 in th final after having to play two five-minute periods m the semi-final against Richmond. That they, were still fresh enough, after that gruelling ordeal, to win against so strong and clever-a side as the Welsh confounded the experts, who confidently predicted otherwise, and is a fine testimony to their training regime. Indeed, I think the Harlequins owe their prowess to an enthusiasm which makes the players keep fitter than most rugger amateurs are prepared to do. Regular field and gym. work is part of their routine, they have a masterful captain in Dunkley, one of the best forwards in England, and Butler, their wing three-quarter crack, has almost the speed of Gibbs plus a lot more football brains. I can

see Butler figuring regularly for England next season, if he avoids the cocktail pitfall and keeps his pace. Precocious Beauty Culture. At what precise age, if she conforms to this ritual at all, does the modern flapper start geting busy with her powder-puff and lipstick? I confess to be quite unable to answer this piquant question myself, though I suspect it must be just about the time she leaves school, and would, had she been an unbobbed Victorian maiden, have performed the now obsolete ceremony of putting up her hair. I have more exact information, however, on another equally fascinating question. /When do girls start being “permed”? I apologise for the revolting word, but in these days no one dare kick against current slang. A lady friend, who recently underwent the “perming” ordeal, beguiled the fourhour interlude in her normal life by talking to the tonsorial artist who Officiated on her locks. He told her his youngest “perm” client was seven years old, but modestly added that by no means was this a record. He knew of cases where small infants of thirteen months had been, brought for perming. Potent Potter. ■

i was in a club billiard room a few days ago, and watched a foursome at snooker pool. One of the contestants, who was no mean performer with the cue, was continually addressed by his partner as “Len.” Then I studied the young mail closer, and recognised Len Harvey, our ex-heavyweight bolting champion, whom I last saw in the ring at the White City. battling with the formidable middle-weight champion of France. Attired in neat mufti, Harvey looks about half the size he bulks when stripped for the ring. It' was not this fact, however, but a sense of humour, that made his partner threaten to “sock him one” if he missed the black. A fact about Harvey, however, that betrays his vocation is the wonderful way he moves about, even when walking round a billiard table. He must be at least 13 stone, but his step is as light as a ballet dancer’s and has the swift grace jof a panther. I have noticed the same thing in Bombardier Wells on a golfcourse. These great boxers never lose their footwork. interesting Royal Academy.

We have all heard of the actor whose Hamlet was funny without being vulgar. This year’s Royal Academy is interesting without being exciting. There is nothing to take your breath away, but fewer pictures than usual to make you yawn. Portraits are galore, and a marked proportion of women, whose looks would never have commended them to painters of Stuart beauties, emphasises the advance of the feminist era. Brock has a good likeness of the P.M., and Lavery a better one of L.G., showing something of his subject’s baffling psychology. There are several Augustus Johns, but nothing very distinctive except Lord David Cecil’s portrait. Mcßey’s study of Cunninghame Graham, looking incredibly Quixotic and ancestral, is the best of all, though Sickert’s handling of Lord Castlerosse gets all the Puckishness of his subject in a mauve suit with white waistcoat. Other notabilities in paint are Alan Aynesworth, Violet Vanbrugh, the Chines Ambassador, President Roosevelt, Somerset Maugham looking like Mussolini, and Mussolini looking like himself. Subject Pictures.

All the old practitioners are typically represented. Laura Knight turns from the circus to the stage dressing room, but has one clever portrait of a modem flapper in her clothes. Norman Wilkin-

son gives us realistic naval seascapes. Alfred Munning has a portrait of Brown Jack which is less successful than his study of his wife, his horse, ana himself. Russell Flint’s painting of a strong gipsy wench juggling with water jajs is attractive, and so is de Gleina s nude blonde Sleeping Beauty. Of the many landscapes I like Sydney Lees The Torrent” as much as anything, but there are many nice studies of fresh woods and pastures -new. “Soir Antique, ; by de Glehn, purchased by the R.A., is a delightful picture. Elwell’s study of “The Landlord," in- his bar, is clever. There are two dramatic canvasses of Waterloo Bridge in demolition. But my picture of the year is John Keating’s “Brethren,” an Irish group thrilling with drama, movement, and the tense comedy that jests with Death. A masterly piece of work this. Fortune Pigeonholed.

I wonder how many potential fortunes, in one shape or another, have been pigeonholed as. useless. A formidable and interesting list might be compiled almost from memory. The latest known example is the song, “Your Are My Heart’s Delight,” now almost too familiar the world over, with which Richard Tauber made his name first. He was a

comparatively unknown conductor before he suddenly emerged, with that haunting song, to establish himself as the highest-paid and most artistic singer of his day. It was composed by Franz Lehar, of “Merry Widow” fame, but was remorselessly cut out of its original opera setting as being toe heavy. After lying for twelve years almost forgotten in the composer’s desk, it was tried out as a concert song by Richard Tauber, ; and to its instantaneous success the vocalist owes much of the fame that brought him for his last London visi £1,200 a week.