Part 5

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.

LITTLE ROBERT AND HIS NOBLE FRIEND.

Robert Selwyn was the only son of a poor widow, who kept a small green grocer's shop, at Hampstead.

Robert, at the period at which our story commences, was a fine, handsome, intelligent lad of twelve, with frank, engaging manners, and a warm, honest heart.

For a boy of his age, he was remarkably thoughtful and serious; he loved books more than any thing in the world, except his mother, and actually seemed to hunger and thirst after knowledge. Mrs. Selwyn was a woman of considerable education, as she had seen better days in her youth, and now she taught Robert all that she knew, beside sending him to the parish school as often as she could spare him.

The widow owned a very pretty fawn-colored donkey,--good tempered and well trained, which she used to hire out to invalids, and so added something to her little income. Every pleasant summer afternoon she would send Robert with "Billy" to the heath, telling him never to allow any wild boys or girls to ride the good little animal for sport, but to let him to invalids or very young children, and always to walk or run by his side. Robert faithfully obeyed his mother, and though bold boys and girls thought him hard and disobliging, he and his pretty donkey were in great demand among the invalids and children. Many were the sweet little girls and gentle boys that he taught to ride--trotting along beside them, up and down the heath.

One balmy afternoon, late in May, Robert was standing on the edge of the heath, leaning against his donkey, waiting for a customer. Billy always plump and sleek, was wearing, for the first time, a nice new saddle, with a fine white linen cloth, fringed with crimson, and really looked fit to carry a prince.

At length, an open carriage came slowly driving that way; it had a coachman and a footman in handsome livery, and contained a lady and a little boy. This child was about Robert's age, but looked much smaller. He was slight and delicate, and his face, which was very beautiful, was almost as white as marble, and would have been sad to look upon, had it not been for a sweet lovingness about the mouth, and a cheerful, patient spirit smiling out of the eyes.

The lady was a noble, stately person, dressed all in black, and looking as if she had seen a great deal of sorrow. She had an anxious expression on her face, and held the hand of the little boy tenderly clasped in hers.

"Oh, mamma," the child suddenly exclaimed, "may I not have a ride on that nice donkey yonder, standing by that handsome, red-cheeked boy?"

The lady sighed as she looked at Robert's robust form and blooming face, but she answered, cheerfully:--

"Certainly, my love, you may take a little ride, if the donkey and the boy seem trustworthy."

So Robert was called, and questioned about Billy, and answered so frankly and modestly, that the young invalid was soon seated on donkey-back, and gently trotting down the heath, with Robert running at his side. He liked his attendant so well, that he soon got into conversation with him, asked his name, and told him his own. Robert was a little startled, when he found that his sociable new customer was a real young nobleman--Arthur, Lord Evremond.

When they returned to the carriage, his lordship felt so much benefited by his ride, and was so much pleased with both donkey and donkey-boy, that he engaged their services for the next afternoon.

Lady Evremond had come up to London from her country-seat, where she lived in great retirement, for the best medical advice for her son, who had come home from Eton, ill, and who, young as he was, seemed threatened with consumption. Her husband and daughter had died of that disease, in Italy, and she had not the heart to take her Arthur away from England to die.