Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1932-05-29
dissertation of the landscape, an insult
TO the memory of Shakespeare.

| LEFT Stratford- on Avon with a heavy
heart. I have borne the conversion
of Piccadilly Circus into feeble Broad
way, with its anemic electric illumina-
tons. 1 have survived the disappearance
of Park Lane, and the appearance of
Park avenue apartment houses on it.
After loud lament I have accustomed
myself to the increasing disappearance
of the London conStables and the in
creaSing appearance of automatic street
signals and Chicagoan gangsterS. have
learned to like grapefruit for breakfast,
the dish fondly put before every visiting
American in the firm belief that he
starts the day with acid on the stomach
All this has seemed to be the price OF
progress in an age that reduces man to
a taxable unit, and permits him to as
sumo the proportions of a hero only
when he is doomed by his politicians to
die for his msmanaged country.
Nevertheless, there was always the
thought of the village green with ducks
upon it, of matched cottages by the vii
lage stream, both terribly insanitary, but
lovely in their menace; of the long
bearded village fathers in smocks and
smirking village maidens in woolens.
Now all is petrol and artificial silk.
Grandfather has false teeth, and the
granddaughter false pearls and no false
modesty.
The immense figure of Queen Victoria,
frozen amid the fruits of empire, no
longer dominates the main wall of the
village cottage, a framed telegraph por-
trait presented by the local grocer to
mark the customers fidelity to the
Queen and Smiths grocery store Now
Greta Carlo takes the place of honor.
casting upon grandpapa look of infinite
if expensive seduction. For an hour, and
for only sixpence, grandpapa will enjoy
the gay life wherein every moment costs
$1,000, and every kiss is unbearably
sweet and incredibly long, he will forget
the blight on the cabbages and four
grandSons on the dole. At II O'Clock he
viii take the motor bus home, and Just
beat young William on the motor cycle.
The fireSide at the old inn knows him
no more. He no longer repeats what Mr.
Gladstone said in 1884, nor bushes his
rustic audience with tales of the days
-
wage of q shilling day. If he spends
a night at home his old wife switches ON
the radio and romps round Europe IN
search of spicy morselS. The nightingale
sings in the woods, but the photograph
screams louder in the parlor.
Young Williams life ambition is to pass
from the possession of four-cylmder
car to six, and grandpapa's is to pass
from three-valve radio to five. As
for savings in the bank and Sixpence for
the missionaries, neither banks nor mis-
siOnarieS are safe today. And why trouble
to save the souls of the Polynesians?
For sixpence at the cinema you can see
what really jolly time those Po3ynesians
have on their palm-girt islands, with
beaded girls from Hollywood and Amefi-
can "gobs' from Brooklyn. A sad world?
Not at all, declares grandpapa, wishing
he could take, like the Old Restaurants
widow, a cruise that never fails, in one
of those 5O00O-ton liners where life is
one long Stupor between one meal and
another.
Well, I have good news for the simple
of heart. I have found the village that
was. No motor bus ravageS its lanes
It has been forgotten by civilization and
SO remains civilized. It has everything
my hostess in Maryland expects the
village in England Ito have: A well,
matched roofs, an vymantled church,
a yew tree thousand years old. dis
covered this haunt of ancient peace in
curious way. I am tempted not to dis
close its name; yet that would be too
tantalizing.
COMETIME ago, while motoring in the
- country at the foot Of the ChilteTn
Hills, where the lovely Thames winds its