Soap-Boxes on the Sward

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 352, 12 May 1928, Page 24

Soap-Boxes on the Sward

There is Infinite Variety on Sunday

Afternoons in Sydney s Great Domain And “Watchman What of the Night?”

■AY up in the Gulf of Carpentaria, out on the Riverina wheat belt, on the Yarra bank, and even on the Nuliabor Plains, one hears of “The Dorn." “The Dom” is Sydney’s Domain. To some, the abbreviation means domicile; to others, it means a gramophone of revolution, rag-raggism, and sundry other isms; to more, it means Sabbath entertainment—for it's a quiet place during the week. To not a few it means the outlet of effervescing oratory, the possible starting-point of Parliamentary careers.

W. M. Hughes, the dynamic little man whom his opponents fear, once balanced on a soap box in “The Dom.” to say nothing of dozens of others, now leading lights in the political arena, who have from time to

mue uenverea tneir views to the crowds who gather there each Sunday.

This is a great circus—all side shows, with here and there an outstanding feature. The knots of people stop, look, and listen, and then march on to some other attraction, resemb-

ling a colony of ants sampling various sugary morsels. Gaiety rules, though now and then one hears heated words or the expression of morbid sentiments. The orator who has a turn of wit , will command the greater audience. The dry-as-dust individual will be soon talking to a thin trickle of humanity and the noisy locusts, while the experts in repartee will be undoing his collar in the middle of a mob. But not all who provide the “show” . in “The Dom” are politicians or would-be politicians. The Domain’s coat is as variegated as Joseph’s coat. Its voice is conglomerate; its audi- ! ence cosmopolitan almost. There are other attractions. There ' is the Salvation Army, with the same old drum and cymbals. There Is a j ring of long-haired gentry—and ladies also with long hair —who are not al- 1 lowed to sell their literature, but who j thankfully receive donations to help \ defray the cost of printing the Good Word in pamphlet and book form, while they give specific instructions 1 as to how to reach the Better Land. I Hard by these folk, one may have t , his bumps read for the modest sum of one shilling, or learn whether he j | would make a good grocer, butcher, or : editor; and a little further on is a ring j of people singing plaintive hymns in j particularly mournful tones. Right

by them is a long haired man, will several maps, ranting the possibilibM of Mars colliding with Jupiter, or bed colliding with the earth. But there is also a sombre side ti “The Dom.” Near the main entrant sit perhaps two score of distonrf human beings. mostly in infiW chairs, on whom none could look wifle out pity. Some are singing bra®, God help them! Piping voices, voir* low, some silent lips, eyes tkn scarcely see, and some that cannot at all; bodies wracked with

others half-lifeless. And around the*

poor humans flit benevolent pe#' administering to their wants, acefl’ ing the pittances from the heatt' and finally wheeling this cnniprhumanity to their homes at tbe of the day. The night begins. Under tbe o** that sheltered a coloured orator ing the afternoon now lie three saifc- 1 ' with but one penny and thrice * many empty stomachs between tie* Another tree shelters a worti® actor. Where themes of “nationimportance” were propounded dc** the afternoon, schemes are being posed w hereby one may stave ot vation. Old stagers—men who dossed in the domain for claim sole right to special "P°r^ ( —are "the happiest of "J* 1 ® nocturnal habitues. newspapers tucked under their they trudge through the scented gardens perhaps most beautiful gardens ™ jjy tralia—to the caves at quarie’s chair, or where t , other caves. Some ot # regular habit of calling at oW* 4 lishing rooms of the r.ewspapewhere thev secure stout -ryl with Which they make bedsold copies of the papers n»> f blankets. Indeed. Salvation - cers have offered some ° h . nro® 2 * stagers decent beds, and t onJ? t r of good food in the morn • be turned down. p ur vagrant scorns a roof. ~ rs. —EDWIN