Greeting the Fleet

The occasion was one to stir the hearts of all the Queen's loyal subjects in Bermuda, certainly the oldest and quite possibly the stuffiest colony in the whole glamorous, dwindling British Empire. A gleaming, 25-ship fleet of the British and Canadian navies lay at anchor in Hamilton Harbor, and no less a personage than the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Earl of Selkirk, flew in to observe the joint maneuvers. Next day the representatives of empire received an editorial greeting from the daily Mid-Ocean News, which publishes most official notices and bears the proud subtitle of Colonial Government Gazette. The general effect of this journalistic salute was approximately what might be achieved with a rather large stink bomb at a Government House garden party; the editorial headline read simply, LIMEY, GO HOME.

The text, though not up to that rude standard, was interesting enough--a rambling argument that the good old colonial days were over and, what is more, never were that good. Most of the original settlers, the News cheerfully observed, ''would have sold their British heritage for a bottle of rum." Now, the editorial continued, "H.M.S. Bermuda comes to wave the Union Jack at us, but even that is little more than a symbol of has-beens and a voice from the past. For good or ill, Bermuda's face is turned westward. To America she looks for protection, to her tourists for her livelihood." New British immigrants (Noel Coward, for instance) are likely to be greeted as nothing but tax dodgers. The phrase "Limey, go home" is not a slur, of course, but "the voice of destiny."

Sputtering over their gin and tonics, flushed with rage to the color of their rum Cokes, the loyal colonials directed a flood of letters and telephone calls to the News's managing director, Seward Toddings. He was invited to "come to the Queen of Bermuda and bring a piece of rope." He was advised that he should be operating a furnace in hell instead of a newspaper. The House of Assembly hastily voted its hearty displeasure, profound indignation, and poignant regret over the editorial. The News, visibly stiffening its upper lip. explained at length that no offense was intended and that the writer had merely been trying in philosophical vein to interpret the "signs of our hectic times.'' But Toddings admitted ruefully that in 40 years "I have never known a newspaper to be on a more defenseless wicket.'' He added sternly that the News editor who passed the piece had been "brought to book." The editor, a bewildered Texan named Elizabeth Pengelly, explained that she had been "disarmed" by the fact that the editorial was written by a usually reliable contributor, the Rev. Vibart Ridgeway, an Anglican priest and scion of an old and distinguished English family.

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