HYDE PARK ON SUNDAY

Evening Star, Issue 19660, 13 September 1927, Page 11

HYDE PARK ON SUNDAY

WHERE ORATORY STILL FLOWS SAFETY VALVE OF DISCONTENT. London over tho week-end is the world’s deadest city, so it is said. • This is true, for most of the city’s 690 square miles included within the metropolitan police district; and it is especially true at this season of the year, for in summer London is like an immense reversed human whirlpool that scatters rushing tides of human beings to all points of tho compass. The whirlpool begins quietly enough on Friday, reaches its greatest speed and volume on Sunday morning, ebbs for a few hours Sunday afternoon, and then the immense streams surge back into the heart of tho city again. These human tides flow in sequence. Dismiss the well-to-do, for they remain in the country throughout the summer and visit London as occasion requires. Those who occupy the next rung of the social or financial ladder seem to divide their time almost equally between grey streets and green pastures, their week-ends beginning Thursday afternoon and ending Tuesday morning. Then come the genuine weekenders. leaving Friday evening and returning Monday morning, if we consider these classes in thousands, tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands respectively, we must raise our figures to millions when wc conic to the proletariat. But London is not entirely dead on Sunday. Hyde Park is at its liveliest on a clear Sunday afternoon. This life is not the laughter of children playing with the dog. The benches are not occupied by spooning couples. There are few mothers or nursemaids pushing perambulators. LISTENERS OR IDLERS. Hyde Park, indeed, presents an entirely different aspect of life. It has suddenly become the forum of tho world’s most populous city, where any man or woman with a message may give public expression to his or her opinions. Many orators are speaking simultaneously within a scant few acres. What subjects are being discussed there? How curiously the crowds pack closer and closer towards the boxes whereon the spellbinders stand, and what strange human beings make up the audiences! Over there upon his soap box stands a very earnest man, speaking as if lie has said the same thing a thousand times. Below him is a sign which reads: VINGIT VERITAS. Air Ralph Dixon. Founder of the New and Old Science, Will lecture to-day showing The Power and Significance of Numbers over Destiny and Oriental Diversions. Questions Invited. Is that silent crowd listening to Mr Dixon really interested in the subject of his talk, or are they merely curious idlers? Their faces wear changeless expressions, and no one accepts the invitation to ask questions. Had they been watching a hear wink at tho Zoo they could not show loss understanding of what the bear meant than they seem to know of tho purport of Mr Dixon’s remarks. Ah, here is a black-faced artist telling a smiling circle how to win money on the races. “Never back a horse for place,” he is yelling. “Put your money right on his nose. If he’s good enough to run second he’s good enough to win. Never back an English horse if there is a French horse in the race. Frenchmen don’t send a horse to run in England unless they think he’s got a chance to win. Watch the Irish. They don’t send horses over that have been on hunger strike. They send them over because they expect to get English money.” Ho gasps for breath, (lieu begins giving unsolicited tips. “Praise the Lord!” comes in stentorian tones above tho surge of the next group. The “ Amens ” are few and far between. Three religious fanatics are striving to outdo each other in Billy Sunday technique, lint they make a rather dismal showing. If one of them manages io get a (lying start with his sermon, the other two, fearful that they will he lost sight of, cut in with variegated hosannas that effectually stop their rival. This is almost a parody on religion, and ihc crowd is amused and far from reverent. SOMETHING Ob' A WIT. Tho “ Red ” flag ripples in the breeze above a dishevelled speaker, and a great concourse of people is listening to him. Police in adequate numbers arc scattered through this crowd. The British Fascist! have been known to topple a Bolshevist from his insecure perch in Hyde Park, and oven a Bolshevist enjoys freedom of speech here. This “ Red ” speaker considers himself something of a wit. lie laughs much more heartily at his own jokes and jibes than do his listeners. Ho is considerate, too, and gives them ample time to think over his witticism, waiting for his laugh meanwhile with a knowing look. His manner changes suddenly. “ 1 Tin to blood.” ho cries at the top of his raucous voice. “Wo don’t want to massacre the capitalists. We don’t want to put them in gaol. Wc want to put them to work - . That, would kill them.” That clever idea draws .some laughter and applause. Encouraged, he starts in on Royalty. Suddenly ho hesitates, hems and haws incoherently a moment, and changes the subject. “What made him slop so abruptly?” asks a stranger in the land. “ Got a signal from a bobby not to tread on the King’s toes,” replied a bystander. Other shows beckon. Hyde Park is no ordinary three-ring circus. Jt is a forty or fifty-ring circus on a good sunny Sunday. Hyde Park is indeed a queer human medley when tiic orators arc blooming in tho sunshine of a summer Sunday afternoon. Go there if yon think London is dead over the week-end, and enjoy the “lunatic fringe.”