Greenwich, though a large market town, containing a goodly number of
elegant and noble buildings, and many thousand inhabitants, appears in
this age of steam to form a part of London--for when you set out from
the metropolis to visit it, you seem to have hardly got comfortably
seated in the railway carriage, before you are _there_.
Greenwich is delightfully situated on the south bank of the Thames, and
is certainly one of the most beautiful and interesting places in the
vicinity of London. From the time of Edward I., the English monarchs
had a royal residence here, but by the time of Charles II., this old
palace had become a rather mouldy and tumble-down affair, so he
commanded that it should be demolished entirely, and a magnificent
structure of freestone erected in its place. We read that "riches take
to themselves wings," but King Charles's riches seem to have gone off
with one wing, for he had only means enough to finish that much of his
new palace, and even that cost him thirty-six thousand pounds--an
enormous sum for his time, or for any time, indeed. This answered his
purpose tolerably well, and he condescended to reside here
occasionally, when he was tired of Hampton Court and his London palaces.
No more was done to the building till the reign of William III. It had
been suggested by his queen, Mary, that an asylum for old and disabled
seamen should be built, and as the royal family had really no need of
the palace at Greenwich, Sir Christopher Wren ventured to advise that
it should be finished, and converted into a hospital. The king and
queen graciously consented, and so the good work went on. The building
was enlarged, beautified, and finished with simple elegance, and now
there is not a more imposing palace in all England. Not only is it a
princely, but a comfortable and happy home for nearly three thousand
poor seamen. Here they have excellent and abundant food and clothing;
skilful medical treatment, when they are ill, and their wives, as paid
nurses, to attend them; a reasonable sum of pocket-money is given them
to spend as they please. Here is a library, a picture-gallery, and a
chapel, for their especial benefit, and a school, where their children
can be educated. Is it any wonder that these veteran seamen, nearly
every man of whom has lost a leg or an arm in the service of his
country, should be contented and happy, in such a noble asylum as
this--such a quiet and comfortable place of refuge and rest?
Near the hospital is Greenwich Park, an inclosure of nearly two hundred
acres, planted principally with elms and Spanish chestnuts, many of
which are very large and magnificent trees. This park is hilly, and on
the highest eminence stands the Royal Observatory, where, as you know,
many valuable astronomical calculations are made.
In the park, on pleasant days, many of the old pensioners can always be
seen, hobbling along the shady avenues, or sitting together on the
benches, under the great trees, talking over old times--telling tales
of storms and shipwrecks, or more terrible still, of battles at sea.
Those who fought under the heroic Lord Nelson most love to talk of him,
for he was idolized by all his men.
In the great hall of the hospital hang many pictures of him and his
battles; and there also, in a glass case, are kept the clothes which he
wore when he was killed--all stained with his blood. Not a man among
his veteran seamen can look at these relics without feeling his dim old
eyes grow yet more dim with tears. Among the pictures, there was one
which, though not very fine in itself, impressed me not a little at the
time, and which I still remember vividly. It represents an adventure
which happened to Lord Nelson when he was a young sailor-boy, cruising
in the north seas. In the picture, he seems to have wandered off in a
freak of boyish rashness, far from the boat and crew, and is standing
on the ice, surrounded by vast wastes and mountains of ice, alone, but
in a very fearless attitude, facing a monstrous white bear, who is
evidently coming up, eagerly, to _hug_ the young mariner, yet has any
thing but an affectionate expression on his ugly face. Nelson has his
long knife drawn, and seems to say: "Come on; I'm ready for you, old
fellow!"
I do not remember ever to have read any account of this adventure, so I
cannot tell how it terminated for the bear. We know well enough that
Bruin did not get the better of Nelson, for he lived to fight again and
again with foes no less ferocious than the bear, though without his
excuse of brute instincts and hunger. But only suppose it had been
different; suppose the bear had killed and eaten the hero of Trafalgar,
like any common sailor-boy, what a difference it would have made with
the glory and boasting of England, and it may be, in its power on land
and sea.
In the eastern part of Greenwich Park are "the barrows," very singular
circular mounds, supposed to be burial-places of ancient Britons.
These the English people so much respect that they will not suffer them
to be opened, or even levelled.
Just without the park lies Blackheath, a large expanse of common, full
a mile wide, and more than that long, I should say. Opening off from
this is Blackheath Park, and here, in a lovely homelike cottage,
embowered in trees and flowers and vines, I spent some of the happiest
days of my happy visit in England. Oh, I so often think with a sad
longing of that home, and wonder if I shall ever see it again! There
is a certain pleasant window of the family parlor, looking out into the
garden, and sometimes, when I sit alone at evening, I dream that I am
sitting at that window, enjoying the long English twilight. I seem to
see one very dear to me, flitting lightly about among the flowers,
singing low, and smiling to herself, because her heart is made so glad
by their beauty and their fragrance. And the flowers seem to know her,
and bend to her and claim relationship with her--the roses for her
bloom, the lilies for her white dress and innocent look, while the
violets kiss her feet, as she passes, because she is good.
I can almost hear the good-night song of the blackbird, before he goes
to sleep among the golden laburnum boughs; can almost smell the
good-night sigh of the flowers, as they nod their sleepy heads and
swing lazily in the evening wind.
Just across the heath lives another dear friend, Mrs. Crosland, whom my
little readers know. When going to visit her, I never chose to ride,
enjoying much more that walk across the heath. Here the air was always
fresh and cool, and the winds, without a tree or house to obstruct
them, had a bold, strong, frolicsome sweep, as though glad to be free
of both forest and town.
The ground of this heath is smooth, and gently rolling. It does not
grow the heather, but is covered everywhere with a firm turf of fine
grass, which, thanks to frequent showers, always looks soft and green,
though it is kept very closely cropped.
In pleasant summer weather there can always be seen ranged along one
side of this heath, queer little pony chaises, donkey carts, goat
carriages, and ponies and donkeys saddled and bridled, all waiting to
be let to invalids and children, by the hour, or for the ride.
It was very amusing, on Saturday afternoons, to see school children
consoling themselves for the week's confinement and study, by a wild
pony trot, or a scrambling donkey gallop across the heath. Wild girls,
with gipsy bonnets falling on their shoulders, and their long hair
flying in the wind; wilder boys, with their satchels bobbing at their
backs, their hats swung in the air, and their feet remorselessly
digging into the sides of the poor little bewildered beasts who carried
them.
"Great fun!" "splendid sport!" they said it was, when they dismounted
and paid their six-pence, but perhaps the ponies and donkeys had an
opinion of their own on the subject.
Donkey-riding is said to be a very healthful exercise, and invalids
often drive out from town to the heaths, where these animals are always
to be had, for the sake of a free ride in those fresh, open places.
Hampstead-heath, which lies on the other side of London, is more
frequented, both for health and pleasure; and as this was the scene of
the story I am about to tell, we will take leave of Blackheath, a dear,
pleasant, sunny place, in spite of its name.