Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 June 1894 — NEW YORK ON SUNDAY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

NEW YORK ON SUNDAY.

A CONCERT ON CENTRAL PARK MALL. Perfume FIIM the Air and Nature Was Praaaad hi Her Richest, Ten. derest Green Mantle. Smiling softly, sweet and sunny . was the gentle breath that filled the Metropolis with its gladsome spirit Fair was everything—the earth, the sky, tiie bright faces of the promenaders, the doings and the goings-on of everything human, worldly, divine. Thousands were out upon the streets in their best array. The paries and the resorts of public recreation were thronged as the budding season hasn’t seen them before. The frolic and chatter of children, mingled with the more sober talk of theif elders, with faint snatches of song from gay parties passing on in the distance through the mazes of the drives and the secluded promenades, with that buzz and hum of happy content that seems to come even from the trees and the thicknesses of the shrubbery. Central Park was in its glory. Not one of its 840 acres failed to reflect some species of merriment. Its lakes and reservoirs, its three dozen bridges and archways, no two alike; its tunnels, its woods, with their halfmillion trees, vines and shrubs; its rustic seats, with room for ten thousand persons; its 600 secluded arbors, overgrown and concealed from the common eye by vines and the greenest of greens—all had their testimony to offer that summer had copie again, and that the people were well aware of it. From noon till sunset the rare treasures of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were examined by thousands. That ancient old obelisk,that stands with such stiff dignity just outside the museum, was surrounded

all day by a wondering and interested crowd. The terrace, the Bethesda fountain, the Dairy, the Casino, the Ramble, the Belvidere, the menagerie, the conservatories, McGowan’s Pass Tavern, the Mall—there they were, those 80,000 or 40,000 idlers, people of the great Metropolis who were out for an airing and a little modest recreation on that lovely summer’s day. Through the drives smart equipages of the rich rumbled along with their tinkling of silver trappings, their show of gay livery, their footmen and their proud occupants. Over the bridlepaths dashed the fine steeds of those who knew how to sit a noble animal’s back handsomely. It was a brilliant panorama. There were the steeds with the banged tails, the pretty horses with the bushy manes; then came a bit of flirtation between young enthusiasts on prancing steppers ; then the monstrous woman, who sits the back of her horse like a bag of meal and rides to reduce her weight, came jogging along as nice as you please. That, indeed, was the way the rich enjoyed the people’s great recreation ground. But the Mall—the Mall was where the wives and daughters of the hard-working class, the awkward swains, the little ones, the beaus and the gallants, the lovers and sweethearts, the great masses were sunning themselves; or, perchance, if the sunning became too warm, were promenading under the shadows of Shakespeare, of Humboldt, of Moore and of Burns, of Scott, of Schiller, of Beethoven and of Webster; or, mayhap, 'were wondering at the bronzes of “Eagle and Goat, “Tigress and Young,” “Falconer,” “Indian Hunter,” “Still Hunt’’ or “Pilgrim.” The Mall—it’s the Sunday Rialto of the sons and daughters of New York; and 20,000 of them were promenading there when the Seventh Regiment Band appeared in that pretty little stand.

“Chir-r-r-ip! ’’trilled the nimble birds in the trees. “ Toot-toot!—Scratch!—Trill-11-11-11 ! ” went the instruments of the musicians in preparatory discord, while the chatter of the thousands of promenaders in their Sunday attire was a great background chorus. Then, of a sudden, the birds and the background chorus and everything were drowned in the swelling strains of i “The Star-Spangled Banner” that soared from the little stand and leaped on through the trees, rousing the sleepy bronze statues from their lethargy, sweeping on and on and on till it seemed as if the whole magnificent Park was one vast sounding-drum of patriotic melody. It was the first of the season’s concerts on the Mall. The promenading

went oa. a spectacular from real life, a scene such as of old used to be peopled with elves and fairy queens, touching everything with their magic wands of sunshine and radiance —a chapter from the life of the great metropolis that no one can realize till it is studied, and watched, and dreamed over, as those old hoary statues have been dreaming over it now for decades and decades, till they begin to know the return of summer by the melody that floats around them on Sunday afternoon, and seem to welcome it with a gleain of brightness and intelligence upon their hard, stolid faces, such as is never seen there on the frozen days of grim, gray winter.

On rushes the band with never a cease in its melody. The wood resounds. The boughs wave in rhythm; they beat time, they dance, they fairly exult with the joy of this first concert in the Mall. The great trees absorb the music eagerly. Benjamin’s “Nero,” Schubert’s “Rosamunde,” the “Bal d’Enfant,” Jaxone; Verdi’s solo for the clarinet, “Rigoletto,” “A Musical Critic’s Dream,” by Dix, a scene from Sullivan’s “Utopia,” Faye’s cornet solo, “Romanza,” Qottschalk’s “Pasquinade,” and those elaborate pictures in music of the North and South, with their stirring patriotism, the work of Bendix—all re-echo in that revel of harmony under the trees of the Mall, with the ears of 20,000 of the great city’s people to listen and applaud. The Doxology; and it is over. The 20,000 disperse, not to their homes, all of them; some go to the carrousel, some to other nooks and cozy corners that they know so well, for all of them have been in the Park before, and all have their favorite spots. There is the German section—the Dairy—the American one,that around the tennis grounds and northwest to the Blockhouse; then the Hebrews are always to be found around the

Casino and Mt. St. Vincent; and the sweethearts and lovers—they are everywhere. Yes, such is only one tiny glimpse of what a real summer Sunday afternoon is in the big city.—[New York Recorder.

AT THE CONCERT ON THE MALL.