IN LONDON

Evening Post, Volume CVIII, Issue 42, 17 August 1929, Page 17

IN LONDON

CANTERBURY PILGRIM

A HOMECOMING

ELECTION RESULTS

(Specially written for "The Post"

by Ngaio Marsh.)

On a clear, summer's evening, as you come into Slough, you can look across the flat stretch of uninteresting country where all the-war-time, factories are, and rising up beyond them/like a phantom of lost romance, is Windsor Castle. From even as far away as Slough you can see the Eoyal Standard flopping heavily in the still, twilight air. That great flag is hung out to show that the Master of Windsor is at home. I saw his homecoming on as fair a spring morning as one might hope for. All the way up the narrow street to the crest of the hill the pavements were packed with people. From our balcony seat at the Castle Arms we could see them flocking into Windsor. "Buy the Prince o' Wales's colours —all genu-ine silk," yelled the hawkers. And—"Union Jacks—fippence each." Over the green mound under the Castle walls came companies of children, flags and curls waving bravely, and inside the Castle gate were two thousand Eton boys in their best silk hats.

The sentry marched regularly in and out of view, and presently the guard turned out, bright scarlet and shining in the morning. sun. A dust cart appeared at the last moment, to scatter sawdust for the Royal cars, .and the dust cart's mate—a most disreputable looking ruffian—was so leisurely in his movements that he only lumbered out of the way a few minutes before the Mayor and Corporation came grandly down the street.

Monstrous, fine, and grand were the Mayor and Corporation, all scarlet and fur, with, the mace borne before them, and a white-wigged chaplain in their train. They lined up on the platform on Windsor Hill, and soon after they had come, the air was filled with the noise of far-away cheering. Louder and louder it grew, and presently, from all the windows and house-tops came a rain of rose petals, fluttering down in the sunlight.Then suddenly thousands and thousandso f people were yelling as if their throats would burst, the guard presented arms, and the King came home to Windsor.

A BIRTHDAY PARTY.

His Royal Highness, the Duke of Connaught, is Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, so when he had his 83rd birthday not long ago, the regiment gave him a party. When Grenadiers give their Colonel; a party they do it rather well, and need the entire Horse Guards. Parade for it. All the police inmi attendance -and there were hundreds of them—were ex-Grenadiers. There was not an official of any sort, however humble, at that august assembly who had not at some time in his life called this old, gentleman his Colonel. Through the kindness of an officer, in the Reserve, I had a seat in the Household Brigade stand. . My insignificance was surrounded by old grandees in scarlet, with shaggy bearskins and rows of medals, and younger Guardsmen, with their wives and families. Far away across tho wide space of the Horse Guards Parade was their Great War Memorial, lit by as peaceful a sun as ever graced a London morning in May.

Presently the huge square began to fill with streaks, then wedges, aud then three great blocks of scarlet,and our nerves were set pulsing with the throb of drums. Count Tolstoy has called the drum the silliest toy ever followed by deluded men. Mr. Aldous Huxley has called Count Tolstoy an old Salvationist. Far be it from me to wave a banner in the lists of these exalted personages, but I venture meekly to remark that as long as I have a pulse in my body it will quicken at the tuck of drum.

Next, at the very farthest corner of the Parade appeared a little company of horsemen, and the crowds began to cheer. Isolated voices barked violently, there was a sudden flash, and two thousand, men had presented arms. The Duke is a very handsome old man. From where I sat I could not see his escort, but only his solitary figure, sitting on a quiet bay horse and taking the salute as the regiment marched past. On and on they came, forward, swinging together grandly, as they have done for hundreds of years, as they did through the reek of acrid smoke in Flanders, us they will do as long as the spirit that leaps up at their tread, is alive in English-hearts. Round they swung: "Forward by the right," all heads turned like one head, a flash of gright blade, an old hand raised slowly again and, again, and a great rumpus from the band.

'"Of all the world's brave heroes There's one that compare With a tow-row row-row-row

To the British Grenadier."

Well, I suppose it's very primitive and un-modern to be so much thrilled by two thousand men dressed up in red coats and uncomfortable hats, all stepping in time, but I defy anyone to remain phlegmatic when the entire regiment advances en bloc for twelve paces in dead silence, and then halts and gives the Royal salute, while the band, blares out in the National Anthem. Personally, I was so excited

by this time that I entirely failed to notice the young man from the Duke's personal escort, who rode quietly away after the Royal salute, and was so vigorously cheered by the crowd. It was only after the show was over that I realised this unassuming young man was the Prince of Wales.

TROOPING OF THE COLOUR

This great review which takes place every year on the King's, Birthday, followed soon after the Grenadier Guard's review for the Duke of Connaught. It was a bigger and more gorgeous, but perhaps less personal, affair than its predecessor. The King, of course, was unable to attend, but his sons were there, and a great company of gorgeously clad.foreign representatives. The entire Household Troops take part in the trooping, and the most picturesque part of it as far as colour is concerned is the band of the Horse Guards, who wear the cloth-of-gold of ancient English heraldry. In front of our stand were several rows of Japanese soldiers. Over on our left sat the Chelsea Pensioners in scarlet frockcoats, looking like Colonel Newcombe to a pensioner; and above them, leaning from a high window, was a very beautiful Indian lady, her goldembroidered veil hanging in heavy folds across the ledge. The Sultan of Zanzibar arrived close by us, stepping from his car in an astonishing blaze of jewels and exotic robes, while the immaculate English aide-de-camps stood, silk hat in hand, to usher his Midnight Extravagancy to his appointed seat. Following behind the Royal Princes were representatives of all our Dominions, Major, O.H. Mead doing this duty for New. Zealand. Very fine they all looked, riding four abreast, at the Trooping of the Colour.

Honestly, I think the feature of the pageany which filled me most with admiration and envy was the lovely walk of the four grandees—probably they are only flunkeys, but they looked like grandees—who, in cocked hats, vivid coats, and tight knee breeches, advanced magnificently before the massed bands. They pointed their long wands, swept their hands across their gorgeous chests, swung, them back, and daintily pointed them forward again, in a complete gesture that must date back to and beyond the days of the Georges. The focus point of the ceremony is of course, the colour, and it, alone in all this brilliant pageant, is stained and dimmed. Held by a young Ensign and escorted by a picked company, it makes its slow progress;. a symbol not of war, but of some dimly understood yet acutely felt standard of idealism. As it went slowly through this ancient ceremony a whole, multitude of people stood to do it reverence in what I suppose, Count Tolstoy would have called a meaningless gesture. Perhaps to clever people it may seem meaningless, but to me it was significant; rather of spiritual than, of temporal ideals and I seemed to see history and altruism there woven together dimly in one banner.

ELECTION NIGHT.

The election is over Mr Lloyd George and Mr. Ramsay MacDonald have left off blackguarding each other and Mr. Baldwin. Mr. Baldwin no longer reiterates his unpretentious proposals. I have no politics, but after hearing all of them speak, it seemed to me that Mr. Baldwin came out of the inglorious struggle with less loss of dignity than his two opponents, though they are both of them better orators than he. In his final speech he made so few appeals to mob emotionalism and refrained so completely from slinging mud that really, from the standpoint of crowd psychology, it is surprising that he gained so many votes for his party. I was in Trafalgar Square midnight while the results were coming through, amongst the biggest crowd I have ever had the opportunity of seeing. It was extraordinarily well behaved. The police, utterly inferior in numbers if it had chosento become unruly, were controlling the traffic with imperturbable good temper. I stood for some time between a group of rather shabby Conservatives and an immaculately dressed Labourite. The attention of the entire conglomerate mob was fixed on the moving electric signs that gave out the latest returns. "Well," said one of the young Conservatives,. "I'd sooner see Labour get in. than those — ——Liberals." "What the hell have they done for Ireland?" replied:" one of his friends in a confused, but .gloomy undertone. "False teeth—sixpence," remarked a street hawker, exhibiting, a tray full of pink and white celluloid horrors; "Oh, splendid—hurray!" applauded the Labourite, in an Oxford voice, as a new return was-flashed up. "That's pretty ---------- --------- awful," said the Conservative.

"What the hell have they done for Ireland?" repeated his obscure companion.

We drove through London for some time, watching the crowds and learning of one Labour victory after another. At 2 a.m. we were drinking soup, and watching further results in the Florence Restaurant, and at 2.30. as we went home, the streets were still thronged with people. And now it's all over. Mr. Ramsay Mac Donald, with tears in the voice mixed with a carefully-preserved burr, has thanked us all via wireless, Mr. Lloyd George has told us how frightened they all are of Mr. Lloyd George, and Mr. Baldwin has said-nothing whatever.

Meanwhile, the trees have all come out into full leaf, and our woods have floors of bright blue, and are too lovely to talk about. Besides bluebells in the wood there are primroses and daffy-down-dilly in the fields, and that impertinent creasure, the cuckoo, is shouting all day long.