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.