CHARM OF LONDON.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20291, 27 December 1927, Page 11

CHARM OF LONDON.

A FASCINATING CAPITAL. GENTLE AND HUMBLE. THE SQUARES AND THEIR GHOSTS. What is the charm of London? A Swede, returning to Loudon, told me of a conversation he had overheard between two Germans on the train leaving Berlin writes Negley Fasson, an American, in the London Evening Nows. "Egbertl Have you heard about Fritz? Fritz has received permission to go back to England—and ho has a position in London ! ” “London! London I Oh, Lucky Fritz!” The Swede said he felt the same way. " I came here first, you when I was only 19. I felt sick when I had to leave.” The Swede sighed. ‘‘ But now I am back.” What is the fascination of London? Probably no other city in the world ig a homo to so many different races and types of men. Foreigners seem to settle down there without feeling “ out of it ” —as if the city belonged to them, or they to the city. NEW YORK—A FRANKENSTEIN. Americans, of course, find it a little awkward at first. But that i B v because the supposition still exists that we are cousins of sorts, and, as a consequence, you expect us to do as you do and talk the same language. And you will never forgive us for doing the things which are not done. But even Americans manage to settle down in London and love it, after a time. Love it with a passion that passes al' understanding—by other Americans. London is a loveable city. It is gentle. And even the most patriotic American could not say that about New York. New York is frightening. A moderate income in New York moans actual physical agony. It means a battle mornin™ and night in tne subways or " elevated ’’ with the masses rushing to and from work. It means life in a squalid up-town apartment; it means dreary Sundays, reading the newspapers (and look how the Now York Sunday papers have fattened to moot this demand); it means lying awake on stifling summer nights, gasping for air like a trout on the grass. It paeans irritation and frustration, for which theatres, the moving pictures, and jazz are the only anaesthetics It is not the fault of New Yorkers that New York is like this. New York is a Frankenstein monster—beyond human command. Only the very rich can be- comfortable in New York—and the very rich get out of it as often as they can. London, on a downright small income, does not mean discomfort. London has a thousand lives; and. from Carlton House Terrace to Charlie Brown’s place by the West India Docks, they all seem to be good. If a man falls from one social level into another the drop should not hurt him very much. He could still make himself comfortable He could, if he behaved himself, attain a position of respect —self respect—in any life that he fell into. And it is the self-respect of these lives —especially the more humble ones —thal is so essentially the spirit of London. The proud commissionaire, the wax moustacher bus driver, the clerk (with his hobby), the arrogantly independent buck navvy—they mav be “humble, but they know naught of humility. They are not servile. There is something fine about a great city that will permit a man to be poor and still hold his head up like that. London is satisfying. It has glory and gaiety and romance. It has contentment and simplicity. I like the little squares and crescents with the gardens in front. I like Hyde Park in May. I like to walk down jermyn street after the theatres are over, or to cast oysters in the little pub in Air street. I like that boot shop in Dover street, where you have to beseech them to wait upon you. I like Pall Mall in a fog — when I am beside a. club fire and a whisky-and-soda. I like to watch the changing, of the guard when the King is at Buckingham Palace—and to know that there is still a great nation which thinks it worth while to do such fine things as that. I like the feeling that if .1 go to trial the judge will be incorruptible. I like She great squares—Cavendish, Berkeley, Belgrave, Groscenor and Portman—with their ghosts of sedan chairs and link boys. I like the little expensive shops between Bond street and Hanover Square. I like the feeling that London is a man’s town, and that hero you can buy the best shot guns and rods—'and (hat London leather is leather. I love London! And, just as much, I love the knowledge that in 30 minutes 1 can get out of it —out into tho open country. I and the commissionaire, the wax-ooustached bus driver, the clerk (with his hobby), and the arrogantly independent buck navvy—lying on tho fresh grass. We are comfortable. Perhaps, if we own a bike, we will pedal homeward at sundown, with a big bundle of ilwd flowers on our handle bars, or a rooster's tail -of yellow broom lashed to tho saddle. Back to London, and our nice, little, wasteful coal fire and hot muffins. AND WHAT A REWARD! It’s astounding, when you think of it, the number of men all over the world w'-o are longing to get back to London. ’ • ui tors, ranchers, broken-down actors in New York. It’s the greatest tribute a city could have. I knew a fellow in Egypt who had been trying for 12 years. lie had been an officer in the Cape police, or something like that. Ho left London, he said, because it was overcowded with talent. The competition was too keen and the opportunities too few. He had only done what thousands of other Englishmen had to do rro to the ends of the earth. “I, have to make good out here,” he told. If I don't I need not come back.”. We used to talk about it at night, out in the desert . . . London. Ho had been trying for "12 years. Twice, he had saved up enough money, pot down to Durban —where he drank it all up. AnJ t(jen I passed him one night in Jermvn street. •‘Hi!” he called. “Halloa there— 1 m here . ~ He, Klme to a pub, “ I know a lolly little place.” he exulted. We walked along silently—he with a fatuous grin—and then suddenly 1 felt his fingers gripping my arm. He did not sap anything, but I knew what he meant—London is reward!