IN THE HEART OF A CITY

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 133, 1 March 1929, Page 14

IN THE HEART OF A CITY

FASCINATING STREETS ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE (By A.0.H.) Streets are the veins of a city through which course the thousands of folk who are a city’s life. Its people, emerging from their mysterious and inviolable homes, throw aside their privacy while they throng the common ways, and until they return are subjects for the study of mankind. Particularly in Wellington, the capital city of New Zealand, do the streets fascinate, for here is life concentrated, cosmopolitan and various. “I could watch the crowd for hours and never tire,”'is a remark commonly.heard. People, hojvever, easily become accustomed to their surroundings. Familiarity breeds indifference, and indifference numbs one’s powers of observation and annreciation. “What a wonderfully impressive harbour you have 1” exclaims a visitor from overseas. And with a dull surprise we realise that we have a wonderfully imnressive harbour. The newcomer to tire city is most prone to impressions, but they are fleeting. He finds other people regard as commonplace what he regards with interest, and he very soon feels it is incumbent upon him to align himself with the commonplace viewpoint. Soon the festooned harbour becomes to him a pond of boats ■which he is conscious of, but does not see, the sights and sounds of the city, but a meaningless medley. It is not long before he can walk through the city’s streets and observe nothing, and where the newcomer is one of the other sex, she may fall into that pernicious, habit of reading novels in tramcars, which is indeed the very end of things. Ask her what she saw on the journey to town from any of the suburbs, and she will reply, “Nothing, except that a woman in the tram was wearing a lovely frock of mauve . "eorgette.” Well, that is something, but far from it being a tribute to her powers of observation, it would be a wonder if she did not notice the frock, being a woman. The average man would notice nothing on the journey. A Battle of Giants. Figuratively, in the city streets one canno.t see the forest for the trees. There is so much to see and observe that a ride or a walk through the metropolis can be an education, an entertainment, and even an adventure. Let us throw aside our weighty cloak of indifference for a space and start out through these fascinating streets. In Lambton Quay we look up at the buildings. Why the Quay? Why not Tinakori hills, from where we can look down on the whole panorama? Because that view would be too all-embracing. The law of the optics is that the unrestricted vision reveals too much, bo we shall look along Lambton Quay at but a small section of the city. The buildings tower one Move the other, an unsoldierly mass. Would we have credited them with the passion of hate they bear for each other as they strive, grey of face, to reacn pre-emin-ence, and to lord it over the rest? A new structure shoots up suddenly from the ground. At first it is too modest to merit notice, but as it swells imporantlv it commands attention. The scatfolding rises level with it. There is a lull in the battle of the heights. What is this puny, baby thing that must support itself with sticks? How does it dare to presume to take a place amon„ the weather-beaten, hoary monarchs that surround it? Its mouth .gapes open to the skies, as if in surprise at its own ernwin** pains and its temerity. But still climbs foot by foot, in the midst of the watching .. nhove the The newcomer has climbed above tne , 1 fl,o n ants now. and is aspiring skies. Walking the Centuries. Fascinating crowds pass by forus to ■n-ntch for hours without tiling. J.lie peo *ii.«?«■‘‘“S’VX™ a thi?d as Blink the butcher, a fourth as Blank the tailor, and so on, our curiosity wou“d at once be gone. But these people of the city streets are strangers all, . their possibilities are „ Th Q( | mysterious young man — he . ? LIL » dark and handsome —-could well be foreign prince. Actually, he may be a native of Thorndon and may woro in a “apery store, but we do not know that, and our pleasure is unspoiled. There goes another man. He is tne Wandering Jew. There is a look on his face we cannot describe, and a smoulderin'’- fire in his eyes that strive to conceal the secret of his identity. But, for a moment, the veil has lifted, and, sfarßeffi we know him. He pads away softly and wearily, as if his feet are tired of walking the centuries, and round the corner he slips silently. Actually, he may be a greengrocer, but we do not know that. E Everywhere we encounter remarkable resemblances. There goes Lon Chaney, and from the opposite direction comes . Kin" Edward. Personalities of fiction, history, and life pass us by. Types “i--grating from other towns and other, lands, survivals of the Victorian era mingling with the advance guard of futurist fashion, they present endless variety. The Woman Who Waits. Countless incidents impress us. Windows alone are absorbing. Not only the ordinary windows displaying their goods, but other windows not designed to so catch the eye. There on the top floor above a shop veranda a woman is sitting at a window looking out. For some minutes we watch her. She does not move. Her chin is sunk in her hands. She seems forlorn. For whom or for what is she watching and waiting above the city s The young man a short distance along is lighter of heart. He has a bucket of water and a rag, and standing on the veranda of a shop, is trying to concentrate on cleaning the upper story windows. The task is an uninspiring one. Every few moments he breaks off to listen to the music of a dancing parlour opposite. and peering across to the windows his feet move in time with the persuasive melody. W ill the day come when he himself will give a performance on the stage, or direct his own ballet. A cat sits on a window ledge sleeping peacefully from long association with the clanging tramcars that would send a country ca£ flying over roof-tops; busy men and women hurry by; a lame man passes by with steady tapping of sticks on the pavement: professional spongers whine for a cigarette or a coin. We see it all —and much more —in a city street.