HOLY FAMILY,

AFTER THE DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI IN THE DIPLOMA GALLERY,

BURLINGTON HOUSE

Another commercial sign of the times in London is the increase of newsagents (in addition to the kerb-stone salesmen), and with them the rise of the demon distributor. No recent London street type is more noticeable than be: a large-boned centaur, half-hooligan, half-bicycle, who, bent double beneath his knapsack of news, dashes on his wheel between the legs of horses, under wagons and through policemen, in the feverish enterprise of spreading the tidings of winner and starting price. But he is fast disappearing in favour of the motor-driven vehicle. Every day more motor cars are projected upon the London streets: every day blocks assume, larger dimensions and I see no chance of any improvement until roads are widened (at prohibitive cost) or viaducts such as that at Holborn over Farringdon Street come in.

And here is a London conundrum:

What is this?

It is a common object of the London streets. In fact, London would not be London without it.

It is most visible and active in August and December.

You hardly ever see it in the country.

You never see it at night.

It was once so tiny as to be helpless. It is now helpful or nothing.

Although once so tiny it would never be bigger than it is now.

It is outside size.

It would be terrible doubled.

Although never larger than a hot-water bottle it can stop a motor bus.

It ought to be whiter than snow, but as the day wears on it isn't.

It is never so white as on occasions of State such as Lord Mayor's Day, Royal weddings, Arrivals of Foreign Rulers.

Few sights are more welcome to timid persons.

None are more unwelcome to the impatient. Indeed it can reduce the impatient to frenzy.

It is at its best in the open air.

He would be both a bold and foolish man who dared to resist it.

No one shakes it till the evening.

Unlike the barometer, its rise is more irritating than its fall.

It is an impressive sight even to taxi drivers.

It causes us to lose trains and be late for meals and appointments.

THE NATIVITY,

AFTER THE PICTURE BY PIERO DELLA FRANCESCA IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

It has probably saved more lives than were lost in the War.

None the less it is the constant cause of rage and profanity.

It is, very possibly, futile in the home.

There is no appeal against it.

The Parisians could do with a few like it.

When not working it is the most ordinary affair.

It has certain superficial resemblances to yours.

The answer is the hand of a policeman on point duty.

Bond Street's past has been almost wholly buried beneath modern commerce, but it is interesting to recollect That it was at No. 41, which was then a silk-bag shop on March 18, 1768, that the creator of Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim died. It was at No. 141 New Bond Street that in 1797 Lord Nelson lay for three months after the battle of Cape St. Vincent, where his arm was shot.

From Bond Street one is quickly in Regent Street, once more among the shops and in the present day ; but Regent Street is not interesting except as part of a great but futile scheme to plan out a stately and symmetrical London in honour of an unworthy prince. Of this, Portland Place, Park Crescent and Regent's Park are the other portions. The project was noble, as the width of Portland Place testifies, but it was not in character with London, and it failed. No second attempt to provide London with a Parisian thoroughfare with anything approaching French width and luxury occurred until the Mall was taken in hand and the space in front of Buckingham Palace was made symmetrical. Every day the regularity of Regent Street, as planned by Nash, is impaired. In no London thoroughfare have the rebuilders been so lively since the War.

Regent Street in its turn leads to Oxford Street, where the great drapery shops I should say, emporiums are: paradises of mannequins and super-mannequins. More attractive to me is the little, almost Venetian, knot of flower-sellers who have made the island in Oxford Circus their own, in summer adding to its southern air by large red umbrellas. Of such women one should buy one's flowers.