After all, I think I had more real delight in the noble public parks
and gardens of London than in palaces and cathedrals They were all
wonders and novelties to me--for, to our misfortune and discredit,--we
have nothing of the kind in our country. To see the poor little public
squares in our towns and cities, where a few stunted trees seem huddled
together, as though scared by the great red-faced houses that crowd so
close upon them, one would think that we were sadly stinted and
straitened for land, instead of being loosely scattered over a vast
continent, many times larger than all Great Britain.
The English government, with all its faults, has always been wise and
generous toward the people in regard to their out-door comfort and
pleasure. It does not mean that they shall be stifled for want of air,
or cramped for room to exercise in. Everywhere over the kingdom, the
traveller sees shady parks, pleasant gardens, breezy downs, and wide
heaths, open to the public, and as much for the enjoyment of the poor
as the rich.
The great Hyde Park of London, has been the property of the crown since
the time of Henry VIII. It was formerly walled in, and held deer for
royal hunting--but in the reign of George IV. it was inclosed with an
open iron railing, and is now only used for drives, promenades, rides,
and military reviews.
Connected with Hyde Park, by a bridge over the Serpentine, an
artificial river, are Kensington Gardens, beautiful pleasure-grounds
attached to Kensington Palace, a building belonging to the royal family.
This palace was for several years the town residence of the widowed
Duchess of Kent, and here her illustrious daughter, the princess, now
Queen Victoria, was educated.
Strangers sometimes met the young princess walking in the gardens, or
saw her sitting under the shade of the trees, accompanied by her
mother, or governess. She was always very simply dressed, and always
wore a sweet, gentle look on her fresh, young face.
In Hyde Park, every pleasant afternoon, there may be seen hosts of
splendid equipages, and hundreds of ladies and gentlemen mounted on
elegant horses, riding up and down a long, broad avenue, called "Rotten
Row," which is devoted entirely to equestrians.
In Hyde Park stood the Crystal Palace--now removed to Sydenham--where
it stands on an eminence, and seems in itself a great mountain of light.
A smaller, but yet a fine park, is that of St. James. King Charles I.
walked through this from the Palace of St. James to the scaffold before
White Hall, on the morning of his execution. He was very calm, and on
his way he pointed out a tree to one of his attendants, as having been
planted by his brother, the young Prince Henry, who, if he had lived,
would have been king,--and poor Charles might have kept his head;
which, doubtless, was of more value to him than all the crowns of all
the kingdoms of the world.
King Charles II. made many improvements in this park, and took much
pleasure in riding, sporting, and idly strolling here. He might often
be seen with half a dozen dogs at his heels, lounging along by the
banks of the ponds, feeding the ducks with his own delicate royal
hands. The foolish people were greatly moved and delighted at this,
thinking that a king, who could be so kind and gracious to dogs and
ducks, must be a good sovereign; but they were wofully mistaken there.
Regent's Park was so named for the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV.
This park is extensive, and exceedingly beautiful. It has winding
roads and shady paths, ornamental plantations, clear, shining sheets of
water--noble trees and fairy-like bowers, so secluded and shadowy, that
the birds sing and nest in them as fearlessly as in the deep heart of a
country wood.
Within this park are several elegant villas--among which I best
remember St. Dunstan's Villa--the residence of the late Marquis of
Hertford, about whom and this place I have heard a pretty little story,
which I will tell you.
In Fleet Street, London, stands the Church of St. Dunstan, built on the
site of a church of the same name, which was torn down about thirty
years ago.
The old Church of St. Dunstan had a curious clock, which was considered
a very wonderful piece of mechanism, almost a work of witchcraft.
Standing out on the side of the church, in full view of the passers-by,
were two figures of Hercules, holding clubs, with which they struck on
two bells the hours and the quarters. All children took delight in
watching these gigantic figures, but none so much as the little Marquis
of Hertford, whose kind nurse used to take him to see them--whenever he
was a particularly good boy. Every time that he saw them he would
strike his hands together and declare that as soon as he was a grown
man, he would buy those beautiful giants, and have them all to himself.
Well, strangely enough, when the Marquis grew to be a man, and got
possession of all his property, and built his new villa in Regent's
Park, it happened that old St. Dunstan's Church was torn down, and that
famous clock set up at auction. So, the Marquis, who had never
forgotten his beloved giants, bought them, and set them up in his
garden, where night and day, rain or shine, they still stand, sturdily
swinging their big clubs, striking the hours and the quarters.
St. Dunstan's Villa contains fine marble statues, rare bronzes, vases,
and pictures, and much costly furniture; but nothing in all the house
or grounds was half so dear to the Marquis as that quaint old clock,
and those uncouth giants--for the sight of them always took him back to
the time when he was a happy innocent child, and thought them the most
wonderful things in all the world.
Regent's Park contains The Botanical Gardens, where are to be seen
almost all species and varieties of plants and flowers. In a great
conservatory, I saw the _Victoria Regia_, the largest aquatic plant in
the world. Its vast leaves lie on the water like those of the
water-lily, which they resemble--and so broad and thick are they, that
it is said a little girl of six years may stand on one of them, without
weighing it down enough to wet her feet.
But the most interesting portions of Regent's Park are the Zoological
Gardens, where are kept all varieties of beasts, birds, and serpents.
I had far more pleasure in visiting these gardens than I had ever found
in seeing collections of wild beasts in our own country, because the
animals themselves seemed so much more comfortable and happy. I had
been accustomed to see the lions, leopards, tigers, and bears cramped
up in miserable little grated boxes, and looking as fierce, surly, and
wretched as possible. But here they walked up and down large airy
cages, or stretched themselves out in the sun, or dozed in their
sleeping-rooms--with no brutal showmen to molest them, and no Van
Amburgh to make them afraid--and seemed really very well to do,
good-humored, and contented. Even the polar bear, who had a quiet,
shady retreat, seemed to be taking matters coolly, instead of panting
and lolling and tumbling about in the old uncomfortable way.
The zebras looked almost amiable, and the hyenas respectable, while the
poor camels wore a far less woe-begone expression than those
long-suffering animals are expected to wear. As for the monkeys, apes,
and ourang-outangs, they were the noisiest, jolliest, most frolicsome
set of creatures you can imagine.
In a yard by themselves, we saw several giraffes, who appeared to be
having a pleasant gossipping time, overlooking the affairs of all their
neighbors. It seemed to me that if they could put their necks
together, they would reach almost as high as Jack's famous bean-stalk
climbed.
Very curious sights to me were the rhinoceros and hippopotamus, both of
whom I saw luxuriating in great vats of muddy water. This hippopotamus
is an enormous animal, very clumsy in his motions, and rather indolent
in his habits. He has an Arab keeper, of whom he is so fond that he
will take food from no one else--will not even sleep away from him.
The Arab is said to return his fat friend's affection, and by no means
objects to him as a bedfellow.
A strange, piteous-looking creature was the seal, that I saw stretched
on a rock at the edge of a little pond. Its eyes were large and dark
and sad--so like human eyes, that I shuddered as I looked at them; for
it almost seemed that the poor, helpless seal itself was a human form,
bound and pinioned, and flung down there to die.
I have no fancy for serpents--indeed, to tell the truth, I detest and
fear them--so, I did not visit that department.
Among the birds, I was most amused by the large collection of parrots.
When I entered the gallery in which they are kept, I was almost crazed
by the confusion of tongues. There were scores of parrots, parroquets,
macaws, and cockatoos, all chattering and laughing and screaming
together. It was like a village school just let out, or a large party
of gossiping ladies over their tea.
No two were alike, except in name--for the majority were Pollies. Some
were ugly, yet were vain enough to call themselves "pretty;" and some
were beautiful, and sleek, and plump, though they piteously declared
themselves "poor," and begged of us as we passed.
And now I will tell you a little story--something very simple in
itself, but which I hope will serve to impress this chapter upon your
memories.