The avenues were choked in every direction with swarms of the commonest-looking people our eyes had ever rested upon. Rags and squalor were seldom seen, and the yeomanry and their families were fresh-colored and plump. The representatives from London and other large cities were easily distinguishable by a sharper, sometimes a pinched look, leaden complexions and smarter clothes. There is a Continental saying that in England, blacksmiths make the women’s dresses and men’s hats. If the ladies of rank, beginning with the queen, are notably ill-dressed, what shall we say of the apparel of mechanics’, small tradesmen’s and farmers’ wives and daughters, such as we beheld at Sydenham? Linsey skirts, quite clearing slippered feet and ankles clothed in home-knit hose, were converted into gala-suits by polonaises of low-priced grenadine, or worked muslin of a style twenty years old, and bonnets out-flaunting the geranium-beds. The English gardeners may have borrowed the device of massing lawn-flowers from their countrywomen’s hats. White was in high favor with the young, generally opaque stuffs such as piqué and thick cambric, but we did not see one that was really clean and smooth. Most had evidently done holiday-duty for several seasons and were still considered “fresh enough.” Elderly matrons and spinsters panted in rusty black silk and shiny alpacas, set off by broad cotton lace collars, astounding exhibitions of French lace, cheap flowers and often white feathers, upon hats that had not seen a milliner’s block in a dozen seasons. Old and young were prone to ribbon-sashes with flying or drooping ends, and cotton gloves. Some wore fur tippets over their summer-robes. These we remarked the less for having seen ladies, traveling first-class, with footmen and maids in attendance, wear in August, grenadine and muslin dresses and sealskin jackets.
The women were more easy in their finery than were the men in broadcloth, shirt-fronts and blackened boots. These huddled in awkward groups, talked loudly and laughed blusteringly, while their feminine companions strolled about, exchanging greetings and gossip. The little girls kept close to their mothers in conformity with British traditions on the government of girls of all ages; the small boys munched apples and gingerbread-nuts, and stared stolidly around; those of the bigger lads who could afford the few pence paid for the privilege, rode bicycles up and down the avenues until the blood threatened to start from the pores of their purple faces, and their eyes from the sockets. From that date to this, the picture of a half-grown Briton,—done up to the extreme of uncomfortableness in best jacket and breeches that would “just meet,”—careering violently over the gravel under the fierce July sun, directing two-thirds of his energies to the maintenance of his centre of gravity upon the ticklish seat, the rest to the perpetual motion of arms and legs,—stands with me as the type of the pitiable-ludicrous. Of men, women and children, at least one-half wore ribbon badges, variously lettered and illuminated. Standards were borne in oblique, undress fashion, upon shoulders, and leaned against trees, advertising the presence of “Bands of Hope,” “Rain Drops,” “Rechabites,” “Summer Clouds,” “Snow-Flakes” and “Cooling Springs.” Many men, and of women not a few, had velvet trappings, in shape and size resembling Flemish horse-collars, about their necks, labeled in gold with cabalistic characters, denoting the title borne by the wearer in some one of the Temperance Societies represented.
Caput was right. The element of the picturesque was utterly wanting from the holiday crowd. The naïve jollity that almost compensates for this deficiency in the fests of Deutschland was likewise absent. The brass bands pealed on perseveringly, the crowd shifted lumberingly to and fro, and we grew hungry as well as tired. The Palace Restaurant would be crowded, we knew, but we worked our way thither by a circuitous course, avoiding the densest “jams” in corridors and stairways, and were agreeably surprised at finding less than twenty persons at lunch, and in the long, lofty dining-room, the coolest, quietest retreat we had had that day. The dinner was excellent, the waiters prompt and attentive, and with the feeling that the doors (bolted by the restaurant-prices), were an effectual bulwark against the roaring rabble, we dallied over our dessert as we might in the back drawing-room in Brighton with good Mr. Chipp behind Caput’s chair.
We would fain have lingered in the concert-hall to hear the chorus of five thousand voices upborne by the full swell of the mighty organ. There were the tiers of singers, mostly school-girls in white frocks, piled up to the ceiling, waiting for the signal to rise. Somebody said the organ was preluding, but of this we were not sure, such was the reigning hubbub. The important moment came. The thousands of the choir were upon their feet; opened their mouths as moved by one unseen spring. The conductor swung his bâton with musical emphasis and discretion. The mouths expanded and contracted in good time. We heard not one note of it all. Men shouted to one another and laughed uproariously; women scolded and cackled; babies screamed,—as if music, “heavenly maid,” had never been born, and it was no concern of theirs whether the Queen might, could, would, or should be saved.
Caput put his mouth to my ear.
“This will kill you!” he said, and by dint of strong elbows and broad shoulders, fought a way for us out of the press.
“From all such—and the rest of it!” gasped Prima, when we were seeking lost breath, and smoothing rumpled plumage in the outer air.
That blessed man was magnanimous! He never so much as looked—“You would come!”
He only said solicitously to me—“I am afraid your head aches! Would you like to sit quietly in the shade for awhile before we go home?”
Fallacious dream! The British Public had lunched out-of-doors while we sat at ease within. The park, containing more than two hundred acres, was littered with whitey-brown papers that had enwrapped the “British Sangwich;” empty beer-bottles were piled under the trees, and the late consumers of the regulation-refreshments lounged upon the grass in every shady corner, smoking, talking and snoring. Abandoning the project of rest within the grounds, we walked toward the gate of egress. Everywhere was the same waste of greasy papers, cheese-parings, bacon-rinds and recumbent figures, and, at as many points of our progress we saw three drunken women—too drunk to walk or rise. One lay in the blazing sunshine, untouched by Good Samaritan or paid police, a baby not over two years old sitting by her, crying bitterly. Caput directed a policeman to the shocking spectacle. He shook his head.