EVERLASTING NO.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 964, 14 March 1917, Page 6

EVERLASTING NO.

INGLORIOUS SYDNEY. QUEENSLAND VIEW. I had not been in Sydney since the famous vote was taken three months ago; but, arriving there on a Sunday morning recently, and having abundant time to look round, I seemed to get an impression of the place, and an understanding of it, such as I had never had before. Once when people talked of the beauties of Sydney, and the charm of Sydney (writes a recent satirist from Brisbane), I used to believe them. In fact, I was in the habit of talking that way myself. The only excuse is that it was a good while ago. Sydney lies in front of me now. I can see it from the window of this hotel where I write. It lies in the January sun—inert, sluggish, languorous, moveless, self-satisfied, uninspiring, content. It is not a very hot day either; even the sun does not seem to get up the energy he can in some other places, and particularly in Brisbane. I said Sydney was moveless; but that is hardly correct. It docs move—after a fashion. Big, loaded lorries go slowly lumbering along Pitt and Bligh Streets towards Circular Quay. There is always a ■niotor rushing about somewhere or pulling up somewhere, or standing about somewhere. And as for the trams, they still roar and thunder in a stupid, menacing way along the streets. They are the most idiotic things I know, these Sydney trams. They come rushing round the corner as if they were determined to kill the first person they met; and three times out of four lately that first person has happened to be me. Amazing Complexions. Individual units in Sydney do move. I would not like to say they do not. You can see men and women travelling along George and Pitt Streets at quite an average pace. They accost each other in the streets, and talk about wool sales and seasons, and the state of business, and the prospects of Don Quixote (or some such animal) for the Anniversary Handicap. That is what the men do; as for the women—well, I would not like to say what they talk about. The get-up of these Sydney women, and more especially of the better dressed and better circumstanced, is too amazing for anything. If you want to see some of the loveliest complexions in the world come to Sydney; but don't be too inquisitive. Don't ask questions. And don't be sceptical. It is not your affair, anyway. Sydney has fashions of its own. It has laws and customs of its own. Your business is to accept them as they are. In any of the cafes, restaurants, or hotel drawing rooms you will see the beauties of Sydney talking to each : other when they have nothing else to do, and there is no man worth talking to. In an idle moment I have caught snatches of conversation blown in upon me from half a dozen quarters. I have heard every topic on earth mentioned except one—the War! Escape from the War. Ah, that is it—the Warl If you want to get away from that come to Sydney 1 If you want to find a place where there is no war or rumour of war, come here. Of course you may see certain haedlines in the papers; but Sydney takes no notice of those. And a certain number of leader writers and journalists still deal out platitudes with reference to an alledgcd state of hostilities in Europe. But they did that prior to October 28; and the result was ludicrous. For no one in Sydney is alarmed, or disturbed, or particularly interested by the uninspiring generalities of "Herald" or "Telegraph," both of which have basked in the sleepy atmosphere of Sydney so long ;hat they have become sleepy themselves. Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat; and who drives Sydney —in the newspaper sense—becomes like the thing driven, or attempted to be driven. In the "Herald" this morning I read three-quarters of a column of leading article headed "National Government." The only definite statements I could find were that "everything deepnded on wise action" and that "it was time something was done." As to what it was and who should do it, and what it referred to, and why and how it should be done, there was no information. Luxurious Negation. So there you are! And there is Sydney, lying in front of me this morning, in the January sun. The city that put up the record "No" vote of the Commonwealth; and when you look at it you realise that it could not possibly have done anything else. For it is negation personified; splendid negation if you like; luxurious negation certainly; but yet—negation. I saw it stated in that disturbing, but occasionally interesting paper, "The Brisbane Daily Mail," that "Yes" is the slogan of achievement; and Sydney is the one place in the Universe that cannot and does not and will not achieve. Enjoy, yes; make merry, yes; be satisfied, yes; lie out on the beaches, yes; plunge in the surf, yes; paint its face and put vine leaves in its hair—yes! Anything like that; but achieve —no! A thousand times no. For to achieve one needs a rallying of forces, a huge collective effort, a setting behind one of pleasant memories, a giving up of hope of pleasant things to come. And Sydney will do none of these things; at least, while its present traditions hold and the present generation moves about in it, and the present standards are maintained, and the present gospel is being preached, and the pulse of the city beats as it beats now, it will do

nono of thorn! There May conic a time —but the present writer is not a prophet, or the son of a prophet, and can say nothing of that. Fair enough to look upon, smiling back at its smiling sky, laughing at the feet of its bays and islands, murmuring placidly along its streets, basking in the warmth of its sunny atmosphere, chatting over its tea cups, talking banalities over its bar counters—they shut down on these at C p.m. now—Sydney is what you would like it to be if you are trying to deafen your ears to the voices of the world without. It is not strenuous or exciting or heroic or Homeric; but perhaps you do not want it to be. Perhaps you would rather it were what it is. And if so, you will be more than content to stay here for a while and drink in the sunshine and the languor of the place.