NOW AND THEN.
A Morality (after Morris) in Hyde Park.
"O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!"
Sang Captain Charles Morris. But he was a swell,
Filled with cockney, no doubt anti-democrat, spleen,
At "an ass on a common, a goose on a green."
But what had he said had he lived in our days
Of the scenes that Hyde Park in the season displays?
Where the "goose on the green" is a Socialist scamp,
And the "pig on the dunghill" a somnolent tramp.
O sweet rus in urbe, our London delight!
A Ghetto by day, a Gehenna by night!
Who cares for the meaningless trill of a lark,
When the shriek of the spouter is heard in Hyde Park?
"In London the spirits are cheerful and light,"
O Morris, your lyre is not up-to-date—quite.
You knew not how coarse Boanerges can bawl,
Saw not on the turf filthy vagrants asprawl.
In Liberty's name what strange license is shown
To the scoundrels who swear, and the zealots who groan;
On turf that is tender, 'midst leaves that are green,
The sights are repulsive, the sounds are obscene.
Yes, Morris, that's what we now make of our Park;
And as to the deeds that go on after dark,
They would be far too gross for your liberal Muse,
And to sing them e'en satirists now must refuse.
You fancied each object in town a fresh treat;
Had you seen a tramp huddled upon a park seat,
You might not have felt so "revived by that whim,"
And you certainly had not sat down after him!
Full many a trait of the times of gross George
Makes humanity shrink, raises Liberty's gorge;
But certain things now that to Park and Pall Mall come,
In Freedom's name, truly are more free than welcome.
In a Park that is spacious, umbrageous, and green,
Seats, sprawlers, and speeches, at least, should be clean.
And oh what avail that 'tis fragrant and floral,
If loungers are frowsy and manners immoral?
"In London, thank heaven! our peace is secure"
You sang; and your London you knew, to be sure.
But whether by daylight, or whether by dark,
Our peace is by no means secure—in Hyde Park!
Ah, Morris, we're freer, more human, more kind,
Since you found your London so much to your mind.
But, though to your days we've no wish to return,
In the art of park-keeping we've something to learn.
The Poet-Laureate Stakes (by "Our Special Commissioner").—There is not much to choose between the competitors for the above unimportant fixture. Ever since the publication of the weights Sir Edwin Arnold has held the position of first favourite. He appears to have derived no harm from his recent journey to "India"; indeed, on visiting him at his new quarters in "the Tenth Mews" we found him in the pink of condition. Although Mr. Austin has, owing to a strained cæsura, and consequent restriction to walking exercise, gone back in the betting, he is, nevertheless, looked upon in some quarters as a likely candidate; while Sir Lewis Morris is very much fancied—by himself. A somewhat sensational wager of £3000 to £10 was booked against Sir Lewis and Mr. Henley "coupled."
Caution in Right Direction.—Dear Mr. Punch,—The direction, written by a correspondent, on an envelope I found on returning from a short trip, suggested to me exactly the description of a sly puss (which I am not) of a young lady (which I am) who would be a perfect model of propriety ("that's me") in her own domestic circle, but
"Forward if away from home!"
There's a nice description! So misleading! I mention this as something to be avoided by any one writing to a nice girl of his, or her, acquaintance, and placing special posting directions on the envelope.
Yours ever,
Lalage.
Cowardly Action on the part of a Soldier.—To "strike a tent."
