Dr J J Edwards

The Heart of Kingston

A series of articles written by W A Stephenson portrayed some of the interesting characters who frequented the Parade Gardens before World War One.

Click here for a brief history of the Parade

HOME OF SOME CITY PHILOSOPHERS

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Parade Gardens, Kingston

Daily Gleaner, 1911 November 18 page 6

THE STORY OF LIFE IN THE PARK

Men of All Shades and Opinions Meet There

RECENT EXPERIENCES

The Parade Gardens are no longer known as the resort for members of the do-nothing circle. It has broadened out; and to-day it is regarded as the centre for “philosophers,” Bohemians, epicures and politicians. To have knowledge of what life in the Park is, one has got to pass through the mill. I have seen men – young and old – who have known better days and who at the zenith of their success denounced the frequenters of the Park as loafers – men who were good for nothing. To-day I see some of those very men there. Alas! Such are the vicissitudes of life! Hitherto my attention whenever I passed through the place was riveted on “Teacher.” His chanting of a Psalm or the reading of some passage from Scripture had had the effect of overshadowing my observation at the other celebrities around. The peculiar habits of the man were extremely interesting and although I endeavoured on more than one occasion to discuss things earthly with him, his observations were in relation to the celestial kingdom. But Teacher has had a vision. He is to be found in the Park no more; and the other celebrities whose lights were dimmed by this “modern prophet” are now holding sway. It is only by spending a couple of hours in the Park that one can realize what a splendid rendezvous it is for the poet or humorist. Like all great places [th]ere is to be found different specimens of manhood - men of different callings; and strange to say there is a section for every “profession” one can think of. I had not been in the Park long before I met a group of “poets” and they were able to recite anything I desired from the various authors. I pointed out to the leader of the gang that he was wasting his time, and really and truly he should have been Poet Laureate.

‘Well”, he said with great emphasis, “I have wasted my time. I could not do worse than Alfred Austen. Why, there is only one man to equal me and that is Kipling.”

The conversation was becoming too deep for me, and then I passed on to

ANOTHER GROUP

who claimed to be descendants of royalty. Without the slightest hesitation one or two of the number were able to trace their pedigrees and bemoaned their fate at having fallen on evil days. One went so far as to claim to be a lineal descendant of the Duke of Portland and as he recalled the valour of this ancient House the leader of the “poets” who had joined me in my rounds, proclaimed:

“Lord God of Hosts be with us yet. Lest we forget, lest we forget.”

From the epicures I learnt a good deal that would stagger humanity. I was pointed out a man who had eaten a kid and six breadfruits and to dry the thirst which he created, washed it down with a pint of Finzi’s at one gulp. The story seemed incredible and it was only when he challenged me that he would perform the feat again - aye to increase the amount of ”water provision;” that I realized I was up against a serious proposition and effected a compromise.

I also had an interesting experience with a disciple of Mr. Micawber.

“What a misfortune has befallen me,” he declared. “I have worked all the week and through being late I did not receive my pay. Would you mind lending me a shilling?”

I had met him before - night and day - at this particular spot ; and taking me for a different person all the time, he would tell the same story. The ‘‘Poet Laureate” of the Park opened my eyes to this fact:

“He is little Tommy Harper

Who would pay,

Only on the 33rd of May.’’

It was in the philosophers’ corner that I learnt a good deal. I became aware of the fact that it was useless discussing philosophy with “philosophers” if you were not prepared to meet their whims. On more than one occasion, I had heard a brilliant exposition of Spencer’s philosophy, but the discourse by the “philosophers” of the Park on this particular day had excelled anything that I had heard before. The chief speaker not only showed his great knowledge of Spencer’s works but tackled those of HuxIey and Darwin. He ended up challenging any man present to answer, what he plainly regarded as an unanswerable question: Who was Cain’s wife? and on not getting an answer he claimed that the bible was wrong and that Spencer was right.

A BAND 0F POLITICIANS

Passing from the philosophers I came across a band of politicians. They were discussing the relative merits of Messrs [S.A.G.] Cox and [H.A.L.]Simpson [prominent Jamaican politicians of the time] when a suffragette came on the scene urging woman’s rights. She was militant and it was only when the leader of the “stump orators” reminded her that her militant attitude would soon be calmed if she did not leave them in peace to pass judgment upon the work of the present city councillors and to allow them to nominate a new set of men for the coming election in September next [sentence apparently incomplete: what did the suffragette do then?].

I learnt a good deal from the village lawyers who were much in evidence.

“You should have been In the Supreme Court yesterday boy, to hear Mr. Philip Stern lay down the law,’’ said one of them. “He had things pulling; and it was a masterpiece to hear him enunciate the proposition as to when a door is not a door. Doesn’t it show that he is the ablest lawyer here?”

And there came forth a chorus of approval.

To my sorrow, however, I found that before long I was surrounded by representatives of all sections of the “home of philosophy” and as they confessed to be gentlemen who neither worked nor wanted, but should like to oblige me by celebrating my visit to the “centre of wisdom.” I had to take them across to the “Poor Man’s Club.”

Then it was the ‘‘Poet Laureate” shone. In the midst of the inspiration which rose from the temple of Bacchus he proclaimed:

Come fill the cup, ‘tis folly to repeat

That time is flying from beneath our feet.

Unborn to-morrow and dead yesterday

Why fret about them, if to-day be sweet?

[Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 37]

S.A.H.

[This piece is clearly not by W. A. Stephenson, but I know nothing so far about the identitiy of S. A. H. - can anyone help?]