Word: loudnesses
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...Manhattan last week packed into their new Tammany Hall on Union Square. For 90 minutes they milled anxiously through the reception room, the ballrooms, chewing cigars, shaking heads, muttering. Suddenly a door opened at the head of a narrow iron stairway. A man appeared and yelled out: "Curry!" Loud and long did the Tammany leaders cheer. There were free drinks that night in many a downtown speakeasy...
...enormous throne sat tiny King Vittorio Emanuele, looking even smaller than usual under a terrific damask canopy surmounted by a vast crown. When he rose to deliver the "speech from the throne"-that is to say, Mussolini's declaration of policy-the voice of His Majesty rang loud and clear. As everyone had expected, the speech urged upon the deputies as their supreme duty ratification of the enabling legislation for the treaty and concordat recognizing Pope Pius XI as a temporal sovereign (TIME, Feb. 18). Apart from that, Vittorio Emanuele touched upon only one topic of general interest, disarmament...
...Convention opened with a few well Hoover-chosen words from Washington; then came many another greeting radioed from absent speakers in distant lands, on distant seas. During the long-distance conversations there was heard the loud popping of a champagne cork. No illegal pop was popped, however, as the report proceeded from the Berlin hotel of Ernst Filsinger, head of the Export Managers' Club of New York. Exporter Filsinger told the delegates that he was very sorry not to be in Baltimore with them. Then he made his champagne cork pop, thus testifying to the miracles of modern science...
...affecting scenes of the celebration. The marshal of the day called "the class of 1759." There was no response--the only survivor, a gentleman from Maine, being incapacitated from attendance. Successive classes were summoned; there was a hush over that immense concourse that would have made a footfall seem loud. At length "the class of 1744" was called; a feeble old man stepped forth, and passed along the aisle alone. A reaction was experienced, and a burst of animated cheers followed his tottering foot-steps. It was a grand moment. I know nothing finer in the poetry of life...
Irish painting is far less famed than Irish literature. But anyone who recalls the longing of Poet William Butler Yeats for "the bee-loud glade" or the poignant desolation of Novelist George Moore's The Unfilled Field, or any of the more familiar expressions of Celtic lyricism and melancholia, will easily imagine the similar lilt and dolour of Irish painting. Thus when an exhibition of contemporary Irish art opened, last week, at the Helen Hackett Galleries in Manhattan, few were surprised at the nature of the paintings.* Irishmen like Paul Henry see landscapes of mist-laden perfection and paint...