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.
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