An Irishman In Black Clerical Garb Held The Next Group Together.
He
was in some trouble, owing to a pig-headed and quarrelsome Scotchman
in the front rank, who objected
To each statement that fell from his
lips, thus interfering seriously with the effect of his peroration.
If the Irishman had been more convincing, I suppose the crowd would
have silenced the scoffer, for these little matters of discipline
are always attended to by the audience; but the Scotchman's points
were too well taken; he was so trenchant, in fact, at times, that a
voice would cry, 'Coom up, Sandy, an' 'ave it all your own w'y,
boy!' The discussion continued as long as we were within hearing
distance, for the Irishman, though amiable and ignorant, was firm,
the 'unconquered Scot' was on his native heath of argument, and the
listeners were willing to give them both a hearing.
Under the next tree a fluent Cockney lad of sixteen or eighteen
years was declaiming his bitter experiences with the Salvation Army.
He had been sheltered in one of its beds which was not to his taste,
and it had found employment for him which he had to walk twenty-two
miles to get, and which was not to his liking when he did get it. A
meeting of the Salvation Army at a little distance rendered his
speech more interesting, as its points were repeated and denied as
fast as made.
Of course there were religious groups and temperance groups, and
groups devoted to the tearing down or raising up of most things
except the Government; for on that day there were no Anarchist or
Socialist shouters, as is ordinarily the case.
As we strolled down one of the broad roads under the shade of the
noble trees, we saw the sun setting in a red-gold haze; a glory of
vivid colour made indescribably tender and opalescent by the kind of
luminous mist that veils it; a wholly English sunset, and an
altogether lovely one. And quite away from the other knots of
people, there leaned against a bit of wire fence a poor old man
surrounded by half a dozen children and one tired woman with a
nursing baby. He had a tattered book, which seemed to be the story
of the Gospels, and his little flock sat on the greensward at his
feet as he read. It may be that he, too, had been a shouter in his
lustier manhood, and had held a larger audience together by the
power of his belief; but now he was helpless to attract any but the
children. Whether it was the pathos of his white hairs, his garb of
shreds and patches, or the mild benignity of his eye that moved me,
I know not, but among all the Sunday shouters in Hyde Park it seemed
to me that that quavering voice of the past spoke with the truest
note.
Chapter VI. The English Park Lover.
The English Park Lover, loving his love on a green bench in
Kensington Gardens or Regent's Park, or indeed in any spot where
there is a green bench, so long as it is within full view of the
passer-by, - this English public lover, male or female, is a most
interesting study, for we have not his exact counterpart in America.
He is thoroughly respectable, I should think, my urban Colin. He
does not have the air of a gay deceiver roving from flower to
flower, stealing honey as he goes; he looks, on the contrary, as if
it were his intention to lead Phoebe to the altar on the next bank
holiday; there is a dead calm in his actions which bespeaks no other
course. If Colin were a Don Juan, surely he would be a trifle more
ardent, for there is no tropical fervour in his matter-of-fact
caresses. He does not embrace Phoebe in the park, apparently,
because he adores her to madness; because her smile is like fire in
his veins, melting down all his defences; because the intoxication
of her nearness is irresistible; because, in fine, he cannot wait
until he finds a more secluded spot: nay, verily, he embraces her
because - tell me, infatuated fruiterers, poulterers, soldiers,
haberdashers (limited), what is your reason? For it does not appear
to the casual eye. Stormy weather does not vex the calm of the Park
Lover, for 'the rains of Marly do not wet' when one is in love. By
a clever manipulation of four arms and four hands they can manage an
umbrella and enfold each other at the same time, though a feminine
macintosh is well known to be ill adapted to the purpose, and a
continuous drizzle would dampen almost any other lover in the
universe.
The park embrace, as nearly as I can analyse it, seems to be one
part instinct, one part duty, one part custom, and one part reflex
action. I have purposely omitted pleasure (which, in the analysis
of the ordinary embrace, reduces all the other ingredients to an
almost invisible faction), because I fail to find it; but I am
willing to believe that in some rudimentary form it does exist,
because man attends to no purely unpleasant matter with such
praiseworthy assiduity. Anything more fixedly stolid than the Park
Lover when he passes his arm round his chosen one and takes her
crimson hand in his, I have never seen; unless, indeed, it be the
fixed stolidity of the chosen one herself. I had not at first the
assurance even to glance at them as I passed by, blushing myself to
the roots of my hair, though the offenders themselves never changed
colour. Many a time have I walked out of my way or lowered my
parasol, for fear of invading their Sunday Eden; but a spirit of
inquiry awoke in me at last, and I began to make psychological
investigations, with a view to finding out at what point
embarrassment would appear in the Park Lover.
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