MR. DOWNING'S LETTERS FROM ENGLAND. 



with broad glades of turf, noble trees, rich masses of shrubbery and flowering plants — 

 lakes filled with rare water-fowl, and the proper surroundings, in fact, to two royal palaces 

 and the finest private houses in London; but still, all open to the enjoyment of hundreds 

 of thousands daily. You look out upon the forest of verdure in Green Park, as you sit in 

 the windows of our present minister's fine mansion in Piccadilly, astonished at the breadth 

 and beauty of the green landscape, which seems to you more like a glimpse into one of 

 the loveliest pleasure grounds on the Hudson, than the belongings of the great metropolis. 



But the pride of London is in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, which, together, con- 

 tain nearly 800 acres, so that you have to make a circuit of nearly seven miles to go over 

 the entire circumference. If you enter Hyde Park between seven and eight in the morn- 

 ing, when all the world of fashion is asleep, you will fancy, after you have left the 

 great gateways and the fine colossal statue of Achilles far enough behind you to be quite 

 out of sight, that you have made a mistake and strolled out into the country unawares. 

 Scarcely a person is to be seen at this time of day, unless it be some lonely foot-passenger, 

 who looks as if he had lost his way, or his wits, at this early hour. But you see broad 

 grass meadows with scattered groups of trees, not at all unlike what you remember on 

 the smooth banks of the Connecticut, and j-our impression that you have got astray and 

 quite out of the reach of the jNIetropolis, is confirmed by hearing the tinkle of sheep-bells 

 and seeing flocks of these and other pastoral creatures, feeding quietly on the short tuff 

 of the secluded portions of the Park. You walk on till you are quite weary, without find- 

 ing the end of the matter — for Kensington Garden, which is only another and a larger Park, 

 is but the continuation of Hyde Park — and you turn back in a sort of bewildered aston- 

 ishment at the vastness and wealth of a city which can afi'ord such an illimitable space 

 for the pleasure of air and exercise of its inhabitants. 



That is Hyde Park in dishabille. Now go in again with me in the afternoon, any 

 time during the London season, and you shall see the same place in full dress, and so 

 altered and animated by the dramatis person<B, that you will hardly identify it as the locale 

 of the solitary country ramble jou took in the morning. 



It is half-past four in the afternoon, and the fashionable world (who dine at seven all 

 over England) is now taking its morning airing. If you will sit down on one of 

 these solid-looking seats under the shadow of this large elm, you will see such a display 

 of equipage, pass you in the course of a single hour, as no other part of the Avorld can 

 parallel. This broad well-macadamized carriage-drive, which makes a circuit of some 4 

 or 5 miles in Hyde Park, is, at this moment, fairly filled with private carriages of all 

 degrees. Here are heavy coaches and four, with postillions and footmen, and massive 

 carriages emblazoned with family crests and gay with all the brilliancy of gold and crimson 

 liveries; yonder superb barouche with eight spirited horses and numerous outriders, is the 

 royal equipage, and as you lean forward to catch a glimpse of the sovereign, the close 

 coach of the hero of Waterloo, the servants with cockades in their hats, dashes past you 

 the other Avay at a rate so rapid that you doubt if he who rides within, is out merely for an 

 airing. Yonder tasteful turn-out with liveries of a peculiar delicate mulberry, with only a 

 single tall figure in the coach, is the Duke of Devonshire's. Here is the carriage of one of 

 the foreign ambassadors, less showy and lighter than the English vehicles, and that pret- 

 ty phaeton drawn by two beautiful blood horses, is, you see, driven by a woman of extra- 

 ordinary beauty, with extraordinary skill. She is quite alone, and behind her sits a foot- 

 man with his arms folded, his face as grave and solemn as stones that have sermons in 

 them. As you express your surprise at the air of conscious " grace with which the 

 drives," your London friend quietly remarks, " yes, but she is «of a lady." Uncea 



