CURRENT LONDON TOPICS

Taranaki Daily News, 4 September 1935, Page 6

CURRENT LONDON TOPICS

SINCE THE CORONATION CHANGES IN THE KING’S NAVY. REVOLUTION IN WARSHIPS. (By Air Mail—Special to News.) London, July 25. When King George was crowned twenty-five years ago he was a naval officer with thirty-three years service. Vast changes have taken place m the Royal Navy since that date. The Dreadnought, “Jacky” Fisher’s toy, was then the super battleship. She was 17,900 tons, 23,000 h.p., had a speed of 21 knots, and, with ten 12in guns, fired a broadside of 68001 b. The Nelson, to-day s super battleship, is 33,500 tons, 45 000 h.p., with a speed of 23 knots, and her nine 16in guns fire an 18,0001 b broadside. The cost of these mightly fighting sea monsters has, of course, increased more than proportionately. It is instructive to note that, to give the Nelson only two knots more speed than her prototype, her horse-power has to be more than doubled. The battle-cruiser Hood, to achieve 31 knots, requires a horsepower of 144,000. Without some revolutionary change in engine and design it seems fairly obvious we are reaching something like finality at last m speed of big naval ships. But a comparison with German “pocket” battleships might be illuminating. Lord Dalziel.

Several Press gallery men have made a career down below on the floor of the House of Commons, and some have reached the scarlet benches of the House of Lords. But in most cases they were lawyers as well as journalists. Lord Dalziel' or Kirkcaldy, who has just died, was an exception: His real flair was neither legal nor journalistic, but just commercial, though he started as a reporter, and eventually owned a Sunday paper. A big portly man, with very dark hair and moustache, he was a Portentous orator, with a marked Sco brogue. As an M.P. he put up for years at the Cecil, and was assiduous in showing wealthy Americans, who were staying at the same hotel, round the Houses of Parliament. His politics were those of Mr. Henry Labouchere without the wit. After making himself very objectionable to C.B.’s Liberal Ministry, he was knighted. The legend was, in the lobby, that old C.B. broke titf! news to him by pawkily observing: “Dont ye think, Mr. Dalziel, that ‘Sir James’ would look verra weel on top of a prospectus?” “A.E,”

Dr. G. W. Russell’s death at the age of 68 in a Bournemouth nursing home robs Ireland of a fine and outstanding personality. Poet, mystic, painter, and. philosopher, Dr. Russell resembled at first glance, with his long shaggy beard and grey-blue eyes behind spectacles, the late Mr. William O’Brien, who was a well-known figure in the days when the Irish Nationalist party sat at Westminster. But the resemblance was only transient, and Dr. Russell’s personality was totally different. He was a tolerant artist-philosopher, friendly towards all mankind, and his big enthusiasms were never mixed with venom. He published his poems and songs as “A.E.”, initials borrowed from the word “Aeon and associated with Gnostic philosophy. He dabbled in Eastern mysticism a good deal, but his Irish humour peeped through, and his wit and wisdom, as well as his great reputation, drew constant visitors to his Dublin home. Perhaps he is best described as an Irish TolstoyXwith a tinge of Brahmin in his intelectual background.

Mr. Masefield and Hollywood. We are to have a Hollywood film version of “Romeo and Juliet,” with the Canadian-born actress, Miss Norma Shearer in the title role. Who is to play Romeo is not settled. ' The interesting fact, however, is that the Hollywood people have approached our Poet Laureate to undertake the task of converting Shakespeare’s immortal love story for screen purposes, and that Mr. John Masefield has agreed to do so. From “The Barretts of Wimpole Street,” in which we last saw Miss Norma Shearer, to the balcony scene in Shakespeare s tragedy is /rather a long cry, but not further than from Mr, Masefield’s idyllic Oxford cottage to Los Angeles. Mr. Masefield is of such a shy and sensitive nature that one might have expected him to turn down this particular undertaking, though America is no new world to him. He. was there in his youthful sailor days, long before the Laureate’s butt of Malmsey ever figured even in his own imagination. His association with the Hollywood adventure should be some guarantee that it will not too harshly distort the masterpiece. Fountain Court.

During fine summer days like the present, Fountain Court becomes the chief attraction of the Temple. The water of the-fountain plays with cooling beauty in the air, goldfish swim languidly round its stone basin, and from adjacent garden seats the pilgrim, wearied with London’s hectic street traffic and the smell of petrol, can gaze across vistas of old lawns hemmed in by ancient Tudoi bricks as deep purple as vintage port wine. It was in Fountain Court that Dickens made Tom Pinch meet his little sister Ruth. The fountain leapt to greet her, and old love letters in iron boxes in nearby legal offices were stirred to a romantic rustle. For a lovers’ rendezvous, however, I fancy any modern novelist would choose Pump Court, which is far more secluded and deserted. Times have changed since Martin Chuzzlewit’s day. Thanks to cheaper travel and the Great War’s awakening, no rustic Tom Pinch to-day fears that London may wickedly murder simple country folk, and make meat pies of them. Tall Talk.

American visitors to London are always interested in our varied collection of public statues, and earnest parties of them are frequently seen craning their necks to examine inscriptions beneath the lesser-known celebrities. Londoners, whose knowledge of their own city js notoriously poor, pass the same monuments for years without troubling to note their identity. I wonder if the average London taximan could rise to the occasion as a young Irish jarvey did recently, when an inquiring New Yorker asked for information about the statue in St. Stephen’s Green r.t Dublin.. The jarvey had passed it every morning on his way to his stand without a thought of the man whose memory it perpetuates. Quick as a flash, however, he turned to the American: “Och, him? Sure, that’s Stephen Green himself, sir."