Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children Part 1

Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children.

by Grace Greenwood.

DEDICATION.

To my little friends, MARY and ALICE SEELYE, I wish to inscribe this volume, in remembrance of a pleasant summer spent under their father's roof--the Water Cure, at Cleveland, where a part of these sketches were written,--in remembrance of their happy, cordial faces, and of the "loving kindness" of their parents--of much genial companions.h.i.+p and generous sympathy.

In remembrance of the beautiful wood, with its flowery paths, its hills and dells and darkly shadowed water, where we often wandered together;--where my dear baby grew like the flowers, drinking in dew and suns.h.i.+ne--strengthened by fresh winds and aromatic odors,--where under fluttering forest-leaves her little face caught its first gleams of thought and tender meanings, like their glinting lights and flying shades, and her little voice seemed intoned by their silvery murmurs, the love-notes of birds and prattle of streams. In remembrance of the sweet spring in the glen, and the shady resting-places on the hill,--of the grand old oaks, and of the violets at their feet.

In remembrance of the lovely child, with whom we last visited that wood,--dear _Georgiana Gordon_.

GRACE GREENWOOD.

CHRISTMAS, 1857.

London Parks and Gardens

MABEL HOWARD AND HER PET.

After all, I think I had more real delight in the n.o.ble 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 d.u.c.h.ess of Kent, and here her ill.u.s.trious 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, s.h.i.+ning sheets of water--n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sers-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 s.h.i.+ne, they still stand, st.u.r.dily 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 c.o.c.katoos, 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 pa.s.sed.

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.

MABEL HOWARD AND HER PET.

Mabel Howard, my little heroine, was not exactly an English girl, though she was the daughter of English parents. She was born in India, in Calcutta, where her father, Colonel Howard, was stationed for several years with his regiment. Mabel was not, I am sorry to say, a bright and blooming little maiden, though she had a sweet, intelligent face, and very endearing ways. From her birth, she had been pale, slight, and feeble. The climate was very bad for her; and, though all possible pains were taken with her health, she did not gain strength, but grew weaker and weaker. At last, when she was about nine years of age, it was resolved to send her to England, to stay with her grandparents, who lived in London. Neither her papa nor her mamma could go with her; but Katuka, her ayah, or native nurse, a kind, faithful woman, would go and stay with her always, and a friend of Colonel Howard, an officer returning home, would take charge of them both till they should reach London.

Poor Mabel's loving little heart was almost broken at the thought of being sent so far away from her papa and mamma and baby-brother; but she knew it was all meant for her good, and did not complain.

Of all Mabel's pets, she loved best a beautiful red and white c.o.c.katoo, that her papa had given her on her seventh birthday.

Bobby--for so this favorite was called--was a very knowing bird indeed--talking fluently, if not wisely, in both English and Hindostanee; and though somewhat vain of his beauty and accomplishments, and a little too selfish and fond of good living, never arrogant or surly, but the most gracious and amiable of c.o.c.katoos.

Bobby had a fine gilded cage, which hung in a shaded veranda, where the family sat in the cool morning and evening hours; so, when not talking, or talked to himself, he picked up a good deal of knowledge by listening to the conversation of others.

Everybody liked Bobby, he was so clever and comical; but Mabel not only liked and petted him, but cared for him constantly; patiently ministered to his dainty appet.i.te, and tried always to teach him good and useful things. Indeed, I am afraid that, if it had not been for his young mistress, Bobby would have been a wicked little heathen, like other Hindoo c.o.c.katoos.

When Mabel was told that she must go to England, almost the first words which she sobbed out were, "May I take Bobby?"

"Of course, darling," said her papa; "Bobby shall go with you."

But on the morning when Katuka and her young mistress sailed, lo, Bobby was nowhere to be found! He had been stolen in his cage from the veranda, and carried away during the night, by some straggling native; and poor little Mabel was obliged to go away with a new grief weighing down her tender, childish heart. All through the long voyage, she missed and mourned for her lost pet, and, when she reached London, her good grandmamma could give her nothing that would quite take its place.