Is it perhaps
because the nature of all cities is so complicated? Is it because they
are volatile, changeful, baffling? Or is it only that they are the
mothers of great families of men?
When I arrive in a strange city I feel as though I were making the
acquaintance of a woman of whom I have often heard. I am curious about
her. I am alert. I gaze at her eagerly, wondering if she is as I have
imagined her. I try to read her expression while listening to her voice.
I consider her raiment, noticing whether it is fine, whether it is good
only in spots, and whether it is well put together. I inspect the
important buildings, boulevards, parks, and monuments with which she is
jeweled, and judge by them not only of her prosperity, but of her sense
of beauty. Before long I have a distinct impression of her. Sometimes,
as with a woman, this first impression has to be revised; sometimes not.
Sometimes, on acquaintance, a single feature, or trait, becomes so
important in my eyes that all else seems inconsequential. A noble spirit
may cover physical defects; beauty may seem to compensate for weaknesses
of character. The spell of a beautiful city which is bad resembles the
spell of such a city's prototype among women.
Some young growing cities are like young growing women of whom we think:
"She is as yet unformed, but she will fill out and become more charming
as she grows older.
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