A Village Elder The other night I was re-reading E.
B. White's compact and evocative 'Here Is New York.' one of the best short pieces on that miraculous city. So strong is the sense of neighbourhood there, he says, that 'many a New Yorker spends a life- time within the confines of an area smaller than a country village.' This reminded me of my days, not so long ago, just off the Marylebone High Street. Here the village atmosphere persisted longer than elsewhere in London. Sometimes in the evening I'd go into a pub that sold only beer. There were scrubbed deal tables, sawdust on the floor, and the same old worthies. One of these was a splendid figure with a rosy face and an Old Bill moustache of purest white. He was a carter and worked only in the neighbourhood, where he had been born, and only once in his long life had he been east of Piccadilly Circus.
St A RBUCK
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