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terraces, which are like one continued palace, along Regent's Park, I stopped at the Zoological Gardens, which are very like Niblo's, as they are laid out; but besides the immense collection of plants and flowers of almost all species, fountains, etc., here are wild animals, quadrupeds, birds, and amphybiæ, of many species which have never been exhibited in our country, and you see them almost in their natural state; not chained up in cages and close rooms, but allowed free air and exercise. Bears were climbing poles ; and scores of water-birds were revelling in the luxuries of a pond. There are more than two hundred different species of parrots, and all are together. But the chief • lions' at present, are the beautiful Giraffes and their attending Arabs, recently arrived. Well, as I was saying, I made the circuit of Regent's Park, and then rode down to Hyde Park, which is smaller, but more frequented. Hyde Park Corner is famous all over the world. Nothing can exceed the gayety and splendor of the scene on a fine afternoon, at this season
superb equipages of the great, with the gold-laced and crimson-velveted footman the ladies and gentlemen on horseback in another path, and the pedestrians in a third — but all mingled in dashing confusion. I rode boldly in among the best of them, and had a fine chance to inspect the interior of the carriages, and the pretty faces of my lady this, and the duchess of that — for many of these great ladies are really pretty and with what exquisite neatness and elegance some of them dress! The ladies on horseback invariably wear men's hats literally, and with out the least alteration, except that a black veil is appended. This is the fashion at present. What a luxury these parks are, in such a city as this! To have a fine open space of three or four hundred acres, kept in the nicest order, with foot-paths, and carriage-paths, groves and ponds, etc., surrounded by a collection of palaces! I can well believe Willis' remark, that the West End of London is unequalled in Europe. One of Miss Edgeworth's heroes rescued a child from drowning in 'the Serpentine river. When I read it, the idea of a river, in what I imagined a little park, somewhat larger than Washington-Square, seemed laughable enough; but this Serpentine river
is in this park, and might drown the king, if he should fall into it. The Humane Society have a house and boats close by, to receive the luckless wights who get drowned. There is good fishing in the river, and it looks fresh and clear, and it is delightful to ride along its banks on a warm day. These parks, especially Regent's, would make a large farm. They afford abundant room for an airy ride or walk, without going out of the city. At Hyde Park Corner is Apsley House, the duke
of Wellington's residence, and close by is the colossal statue of Achilles, cast from cannon taken in the duke's battles, and erected to commemorate them by his countrywomen.'
Last Saturday I took it into my head to go to Woolwich, nine miles from London, to help the Prince of Orange review the troops. By dint of active exertion, I attained a seat on the deck of a bit of a steam-boat, loaded with two hundred and fifty pleasure-seeking
mortals like myself, while as many more were left disconsolate on the wharf - inadmissible. Off we went with the tide, under Westminster, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Southwark, and London Bridges, over Thames Tunnel, and between a multitude of ships and steamboats, large boats and small boats, rowed perhaps by a Jacob Faithful, or his posterity, and following the serpentine course of Old Father Thames' through a beautiful green meadow, passed Greenwich, and arrived at our ultimatum in good time to see the show. The prince was dressed as a general, decorated with half-a-dozen badges of different orders; and he galloped about the field in true military style, accompanied by his two sons, and a squadron of princes, dukes, lords, etc. They fired bombs, and had a grand imitation-battle, with horse-artillery -- in other words, a sham-fight, which was all vastly fine. Returning, I walked to Greenwich, three miles, where, as you know, is the observatory from which longitude is reckoned all over the world, as the school-girls are well aware. The observatory is on a high, steep hill, in the centre of a large and beautiful park, filled with hills and dales, deer, trees, ponds, and every thing pretty. The prospect from the observatory is superb. London on the left — St. Paul's and a few spires only peeping above the dun smoke — the Thames, winding about in a zig-zag direction, covered with the freighted argosies' of all nations, some just arrived perhaps from the East Indies or the North pole some destined for Botany Bay or Nootka Sound; beyond, the green hills and meadows; and at your feet this lovely park, and the noble hospital for seamen, on the banks of the river. It is a scene for a painter.
To-Day I have ‘done' Thames Tunnel, and laughed at the humors of an English country fair, in true, genuine style, at Greenwich. The tunnel is just like the pictures of it. You have to descend as many steps to get to it as would take you to a church steeple. I walked to the end of this subterraneous cavern, where they were at work, under the very centre of the river. Ugh! Only to think of being at the mercy of those frail brick arches, under the very bed of a mighty river, on which the largest ships are moving over our heads! What if they should come in contact with the arches, at low water! The whole place would be instantly filled, and wo to the luckless wight who happens to be in it! In case of such an accident, there is no chance of escape.
The fair was amusing enough. The immense park I have described was the principal scene, and thousands of country beaux and lasses were cutting up all sorts of capers. Some were running down the steep hills, with dangerous velocity, and many a poor girl fell sprawling in the attempt. Some, in groups, were listening to a strolling songster - some looking through the telescopes and glasses, on the beautiful landscape. Here and there a ring was formed, in which the damsels challenged their swains, by throwing a glove, and then scampering away. The favored one gives chase, brings back the blushing fair one, and gives her a kiss in the centre of the ring. There were many very well dressed and passably pretty girls among them. I joined in without any ceremony, determined to make the best of the sport. It was marvellous what a sensation I produced! The girls threw the gauntlet as fast as I could overtake them — and merry chases they were.
You will recollect, from Kenilworth,' that Elizabeth kept her court at Greenwich, and went from thence to Deptford in a barge, to visit the earl of Sussex — which same voyage I also performed. The same inn where the scene opens, at Cumnor, is yet used as such, but the sign had been altered. When the novel came out, the Oxford students went out to Cumnor, four miles, and persuaded mine host to let them put up the sign of The Bear' again. The bishops, Ridley and Latimer, were burnt in Broad-street, Oxford, and Antony Foster there acquired his nick-name by firing the faggots.' I saw 'Kenilworth' performed at Drury Lane, and it was very well done. The haughty, worthy, sensible, capricious queen was to the life.
And poets, thick as stars on high,
Are twinkling on our earth below;
Of 'frenzy fine,' (says Shakspeare so :)
Some weep in rhymes, like summer rain,
Have look'd upon them with disdain.
With lips of 'ruby – marble' breast
(Some poets differ which is best.)
The cynic poet next appears :
His thoughts are night-shade, willows, urns;
Where pilgrim man all vainly turns
For one bright ray to light his path
For one sweet flower to glad his eye;
Come down like tempests from the sky;
Yet bards immortal we can boast,
Around whose temples, fresh and green,
Undying leaves of fame are seen ; Who lift their foreheads from the host
That croak around, as mountains lift
Inheritors of a rare gift,
An inspiration pure and strong,
And bore them, willing slaves, along.
And, BRYANT, clust'ring round thy name,
Who, angel-like, their beauties caught,
The prize to living pictures wrought.
HALLECK — whose lyre of many strings,
At home amid the battle-strife,
Stands the warm current of their life.
Who paints the lovely and sublime -
And curious contrasts in his rhyme.
But poets, though their fount of fire
Is pure as that which burns above,
Together in some willow-grove;
And mortgages, are now the rage;
A goose upon this mortal stage; There's poetry in the falling chink
of many dollars -- rustling bills – The hammer 's music, when they think
The prize is won — the voice that fills
Is poetry as well as prose
Of speculation also shows
In beauty float around the brain
Till morning curbs their flight again.
I'll take the hint, and rhyme no more :
I write for sport, and not for fame ;
I say: What is it but a name?'
11. H. R.
Kind Reader : All eyes of late have been turned toward Washington. The last process of president-making has there been perfected, and the beauty of the republican system made manifest. The national metropolis - which is indeed, and punning aside, a capital place – was crowded to abundant repletion. Men, it is said, in the annals of that week, slept wheresoever they could place their superabounding skulls : some in rail-cars, some in the corners of suburban fences, and others, like the harvests of old, were gathered into barns,' consorting with jealous rats, and provident mousers — lashed by the scampering tails of the one, and visited by the omniscient whiskers of the other. In truth, from all we hear, it was a pressing time altogether, and the bed-market was never so tight before in the memory of the oldest inhabitant of Washington. But why should I enlarge upon this point — an imaginary one as far as I am concerned ?
of the people that suffered from evils that were,
I cannot tell - for I was not there.' But the pressure thitherward has awakened the remembrance of a visit to that region some dozens of moons ago. Washington is always sui generis, in its main features; and turnpikes, sheets of water, with towns and cities, do not change materially in so short a time.
Every one who has crossed the line of Mason and Dixon, knows what sort of a river the Delaware is. On one side, as thou goest toward the south, from the city of Penn, thou perceivest the low shore of Jersey, calm and green ; on the other, in the direction of the occident, may be seen the undulating slopes and swells of Pennsylvania, melting into distance ; before thee is the crystal river affrighted member of the ichthyological tribe, frightened by the coming boat, springing now and then from its bosom saltation by steam.
Consider me on my way to the City of Distances. The difference between the two shores and states is preserved, as far as you go.
I pointed out to my friends, G. W.C - and Le Compte C - 1, the beauty of the scenes we were passing. The latter enjoyed them with that keen and relishing sense, natural in one but a few months in the country, and sharp with his eyes. The tame canals of Europe, the trekschuyt, and the sleepy landscapes from its portals of observation, were contrasted with the free and majestic movement of our good steamer, and the scenes from its airy deck, or its cabin windows.
We are on the Chesapeake. It is early autumn. A few frosts have descended upon the woodlands, whose painted masses hang over the edge of the distant wave, like an ocean of rainbows, just breaking in turbulence upon a lake of pure and molten silver. Golden flashes of sunshine play in tremulous lines for miles along the waves