Chatterbox, 1905 Part 82

X.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!'"]

DON'T BEGIN.

Two little dogs, one summer's day, Who tired of play had grown, Discovered lying in their way A most attractive bone.

'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!'

The one in anger cried; 'I shan't, how dare you say 'tis so,'

The other one replied.

And so no doubt they wrangled on, Although I cannot tell Where those two little dogs have gone, Or how the fight befell.

But quarrels, as we know, take two, And some one must give in, So far the wisest thing to do Is simply--don't begin.

C. D. B.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A Scene in Clissold Park.]

THE PARKS OF LONDON.--II.

In the days of Queen Bess the pretty village of Stoke Newington was a pleasant object for a country walk of about three miles from the City boundary of London. The village lay amid dense woods whence came its name--Stoe being the Saxon word for wood, and Stoke Newington meaning the new town in the wood. Its derivation shows what an old place it is, and we may picture to ourselves how, ages ago, the dwellers within the City walls would joyfully leave London, on holidays, by the Moor Gate, and wend their way northward to the shady trees and gra.s.sy banks of the roadway known as the 'Green Lanes'--names which, like Stoke Newington, still survive. Along that road the royal chariot of Queen Elizabeth might occasionally be met coming from the Tower; for at Stoke Newington, in a mansion beside the church, dwelt some of the Dudley family, whom she delighted to honour.

A story is told how, when her Majesty was the persecuted Princess Elizabeth, living under the stern rule of her sister, Queen Mary, she paid a stolen visit to London to see how Court matters were progressing.

The Dudleys befriended her, and went so far as to hide her in a brick tower in the Park, communicating with their home by a secret pa.s.sage. To judge by what history tells of Queen Mary, these devoted friends ran no slight risk, and Queen Elizabeth, in later years, did her best to repay their kindness. We read that, on one visit after her accession, she took a jewel of great value from her dress and presented it to the daughter of the house, Lady Anne Dudley. One avenue off the Park is still known as Queen Elizabeth's Walk, and tradition says she was fond of pacing up and down there with the master of the house.

The next time we hear much of Stoke Newington Park, it was in the hands of Mr. Jonathan h.o.a.re, one of the founders of the great banking house of that name; and, later still, it was rented from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners by one of the Crawshay family, then known as 'the iron princes' of Wales. His lease set forth that he was to pay the sum of one hundred and nine pounds a year rent, with one good, fat turkey, the latter probably appearing at the annual dinner of his landlords. For this consideration he was allowed to call house and land after his own name, but was forbidden to cut down timber. Mr. Crawshay's tenancy closed romantically with the incident which won the place its present t.i.tle.

He had two fair daughters, whom no doubt he wished to see married to rich and n.o.ble husbands. Great, therefore, was his anger when he found that one of them had given her affections to the curate of the parish, Mr. Clissold by name. Mr. Clissold was forthwith forbidden to set foot within Crawshay Farm again. To ensure this, the walls of the place were made higher, and the hard-hearted parent expressed his firm resolve of shooting any messenger who tried to carry letters secretly. How long this state of affairs lasted does not appear, but it was ended by the death of Mr. Crawshay. Then the curate and his hardly-won bride became tenants of the mansion, and changed its name to Clissold Park or Place.

As Clissold Park it was bought from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners for ninety-six thousand pounds, and formally opened by Lord Rosebery in 1889.

Perhaps the greatest charm of this particular park lies in its evident old age--trees, turf, and the disused mansion all bear witness that it is no newly planted recreation ground, but a n.o.ble relic of the days of old, with a stately dignity all its own.

A number of deer enclosed in the middle of the park prove that these pretty creatures are not always shy. A family of kittens could not be less afraid of the admiring crowd which watches them. At the same time the deer were presented to the park, a number of guinea-pigs were also introduced, and they still flourish in their cosy enclosure, giving endless delight to the children of the neighbourhood.

The beauty of the park is greatly increased by the waters of the New River, which wind in and out of the grounds as well as round them, although the charm of the stream is somewhat spoilt by a close iron fencing, walling in the water on both sides. This, however, appears to be a necessity, to protect the numerous fish from the keenness of would-be fishermen.

Bridges cross the river in many places, and two lakes of some size, studded with wooded islets, afford homes for swans, ducks, and other water-fowl. Near the mansion there is a bandstand, and all about the grounds there are seats and rustic shelters for the elders, whilst the young folk and children are making merry with games.

In the spring and autumn a very favourite place for basking in the sun is the terrace before the old house, in part of which refreshments are provided. Some of the views in the park are exceedingly pretty, especially in the direction of the deer park, looking towards the mansion, where the old parish church stands out against the trees, whilst the fine open tower of a new church, with a graceful spire, rises above the green foliage.

Stoke Newington has been the home of various celebrated men: John Howard, the philanthropist, who did so much to alleviate the horrors of prison-life; Defoe, whom we all love for the sake of _Robinson Crusoe_; Dr. Watts, author of many of our best-known hymns, among the number.

It is pleasant to know that the leafy walk of the Green Lanes is still an attractive one for Londoners, although the mossy banks of former days have long been lined with handsome houses, and though a wide expanse of densely populated town lies between Clissold Park and the street still known as London Wall, whence the Moor Gate, with all its companion portals, have long vanished.

HE SET THE EXAMPLE.

A gentleman was once entertaining his friends at a grand dinner. He was a sad boaster, and was often guilty of describing deeds that he had done when an officer in the army, which those who knew him well felt sure were greatly exaggerated. He was in the midst of some such anecdote when the butler brought him word that a man wished to see him.

'Tell him I am engaged with my friends, and can see no one,' said the gentleman, pompously.

The butler retired, but soon came back to say the man was most urgent in wis.h.i.+ng to speak to the gentleman, and said he had been in his regiment at a famous battle, where he owed his life to the officer.

'Show him in! show him in!' said the host, much gratified. 'This good fellow says I saved his life at X----,' he added, turning to his guests as the old soldier came in. 'How was it?' he went on, 'for I am sure I forget; in the heat of battle one does brave things almost unconsciously.'

'It was like this, your Honour,' said the soldier: 'I owed my life to you, for I certainly should never have thought of running away if you had not set me the example!'

A PEEP AT NORTHERN ITALY.

It is comparatively easy now to run over to Switzerland, and through the lovely scenery of the St. Gothard Pa.s.s, to the plains of sunny Italy; but this land of light and song is very little known to English boys and girls.

Of all the lovely lakes that reflect the deep blue of the summer skies, none is more beautiful than Lake Lugano, although Como is larger and Maggiore has a charm of its own. The town of Lugano stands at one end of the lake. It is pretty and bright, with many things to interest and amuse; but it is in the villages dotted along the south side of the lake that the real life of the people is to be seen.

These villages are surrounded by vineyards. The grapes are gathered in October, when the whole scene is very animated and gay. Every one--men, women, children, even the ox-waggons of the country--is pressed into the service, and the vineyards resound with songs and laughter. From these grapes a red wine is made. It is the ambition of every peasant to own a small vineyard and a boat.

On the other side of the lake rises a range of hills covered almost to the water's edge with deep green woods. In some places cliffs rise between wood and water, and in these cliffs are many small natural caves. These have been enlarged and enclosed with doors, so as to form wine vaults, and in them is stored much of the wine made in the district.

On Sunday afternoons in summer the lake is alive with boats, each holding a happy family party of father, mother, and children, and laden with cakes made from _polenta_, and other dainties. They are all bound for the caves, where a series of merry picnic parties is soon in progress.

The provisions are taken from the boats, the wine vault is opened with a key, for all are kept carefully locked, and then the feast begins. Soon the air is filled with song and laughter. The whole afternoon is spent in this way, and only in the cool of the evening do the merry revellers return to their simple homes across the lake.

The boats look very pretty. They are rather wide and shallow, and in the middle a white canvas covering is stretched from side to side, supported on bent canes, to make a shelter from the heat of the sun. The boatman in the dress of the country stands at the end, and drives the boat through the water with rapid strokes from his single oar.

The streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses are built very irregularly. There is no pavement, and the dust is amazing. The brown-faced, bare-legged children, with large solemn-looking brown eyes, tumble about in it, munching ripe red tomatoes with their hunches of brown bread. In the gra.s.s by the road-side funny little green lizards run in and out, hurrying away at your approach as fast as their legs will carry them.

It is very strange to see even the smallest cottages fitted with electric light, but this is the case in one village, Marroggia. A clever German has set up some works close by, and drives the machinery by power derived from a beautiful waterfall near the village.

From Marroggia a young Italian went to London some years ago to seek his fortune. He succeeded so well that he soon became rich. Returning to his native village, he built there a beautiful villa, with gardens and lawns sloping down to the lake. When it was finished he gave a feast to all the villagers. Thousands of fairy lamps and Chinese lanterns were sent for from London to illuminate the gardens, and turn them for the occasion into fairyland. The peasants had never before seen anything like it. They danced, they sang, and ate the good things provided for them. They would willingly have lingered there all night, and it was only when the last lamp flickered and went out that they returned home to dream of what they had enjoyed.

At one end of the lake stands Monte Generoso. The top is reached by a mountain railway, which zig-zags its way up through the woods. It feels very strange as the engine goes up panting and puffing, turning a sharp corner at every few yards; but the view from the summit is very fine, and the journey down still more exciting than the ascent.

At the other end of the lake is a famous china and earthenware manufactory. You can reach it by steamboat, but it is much better fun to go in a small boat, where you can lie under the awning and watch the boatman, in his white s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and coloured velvet waistcoat, steering his boat like the gondoliers of Venice.