World Film and Television Progress (1937-1938)

c&m Extract from "<5% ^our of the ^Paris Exhibition ; or England RJLrrval'd" Published at the Sign of the bailor's Soose, iQfij. £^7"non, behind great Hitler's lofty Tomb, ^ f4 And Stalin's Hopefuls, striding to their doom ^-^ */ Over a marble precipice ; below That relic of a Nineteenth Century Show, The venerable tower of Monsieur Eiffel, There lurks an inconsiderable trifle, More like a parcel from a London Store All wrapped for Christmas, — only this is more Discreetly dight, as well befits the taste Of British enterprise when baldly faced With self-advertisement — -there lurks in fact That model of all diplomatic tact, Shrunk like a spinster from the public gaze Demure and smug — Le Pavilion Anglais ! Stranger, beware! You may expect to find (Such misconceptions crowd your foreign mind) The crowning Glory of our Iron and Steel, The farmer's Heritage, the turning Wheel That marks the Pit from which our Riches rise, The Empire's spread, achievements in the Skies, Upon the Ocean and the Earth — and more Important still than all that's gone before, Our People's Life to-day. Stranger, come in, Prepare Nirvana's final gift to win — Behold a Peeress, who, you may determine Is wax — but wears her Coronation Ermine. Look up! And there, symbolically displayed In photographic Splendour, and arrayed As well as any Britisher could wish In cap and waders, Chamberlain catching Fish. Near him, to curb such hints of politics, Admire this showcase, full of hockey sticks ; See guns and darts and archery — and all The many Games for which you use a Ball. But, lest at last this inspiration pall To Clothing turn — for are we not in Paris, That town of chic, of brogues and tweeds from Harris? Admire the garbs so grimly sewn for sport, For Hunting, Shooting, and — a happy thought — This charming Kilt, with hairy Sporran paired, Fit covering for any Sassenach Laird. Rove with your eyes, and check th' insulting wince Before cascades of Satin, Muslin, Chintz. Examine carefully — there's nothing finer Within this Hall — those serried rows of China, Nor must you miss the photographic Mural Proving that Angleterre is dumb— if rural. You ask, where are the achievements of the Nation? Surely beyond this strange conglomeration There lies a broader, more exciting Space Wherein there shines the Glory of our Race? Search diligently. On a Shelf remote You may observe the latest Flying Boat (A modelled Midget), and a small "Queen Mary" Vying for note — the glass case none too airy — With a streamlined — but not the latest type (For we prefer our Harvests over-ripe) — — A streamlined Locomotive. If you find them Do not expect to learn, say, who designed them, But read instead the magic words — so much More in our character — "Please do not touch." Regally blue, the lofty Ceiling soars And as you gaze, you may in wonder pause, For, also blue, and merging with the Plaster There hangs — well nigh invisible — a faster Flying Machine than any that can rape Records between Old England and the Cape ; As large as life, but cunningly concealed, It hangs remote and vague. For those who wield The Scythe, the Axe, and other Farming Tools The Basement calls. The Stranger's Ardour cools, For here no Tractors rear their hideous Fronts, No modern Touch the old Regime affronts — Instead — among a mass of Children's Toys — A wooden Plough — the sort no one employs, Reposes here in placid self-sufficiency A work of Art, opposing all Efficiency. . . . 'Tis over. In the sunny Park once more The Stranger strides towards another Door Unwitting. Ere a warning one can utter, he Is trapped again in the Olde Englyshe Buttery, Where all sedately he can sit and sip a Nice cup of Tea — and, sent by air, a Kipper Fragrant and tender, will at last remind him He's not left all Reality behind him. 17