CHAPTER VI
MUNICIPAL PARKS
London is almost completely surrounded by a chain of parks. Luckily, as the town grew, the necessity for fresh air began to be realised, and before it was too late, in the thickly-populated districts north, south, east, and west, any available open space has been converted into a public garden, or into a more ambitious park. Would that this laudable spirit had moved people sooner, and then there might have been a Finsbury Park nearer Finsbury, and the circle of green patches on the map might have been more evenly dotted about some of the intervening parishes. Many of the open spaces are heaths, or commons, or Lammas Lands, which have various rights attached to them, and, in consequence, have been saved from the encroachments which have threatened them from time to time, and have thus been preserved, in spite of the growth of the surrounding districts. Of late years the rights have in many instances been acquired by public bodies, so as to keep for ever these priceless boons. It was not until the middle of last century that the movement in favour of city parks assumed definite form. They were in contemplation before 1840, but none were completed until several years later. Victoria was the first, opened in 1845; Battersea, although begun then, was not ready for planting till 1857; Kennington, Finsbury, and Southwark had followed before 1870, and, since then, every few years new open spaces have been added. They have been purchased by public bodies for the most part, but a large share of the honour of acquiring these grounds is due to private munificence and individual enterprise.
Irrespective of the commons which link them together, the principal parks are the following. Beginning on the extreme north there is Golder’s Hill, then to the east of Hampstead lies Waterlow, the next going eastwards is Finsbury, then Clissold and Springfield, and down towards the east Victoria. In South London, between Woolwich and Greenwich, lies Maryon Park; then, west of Greenwich, Deptford and Southwark; then a densely built-over district before Kennington, Vauxhall, and Battersea are reached; while away to the south lie Camberwell, Ruskin, Brockwell, and Dulwich; right away into the country, on the south-east, Avery Hill and Eltham; and back again west, across the river again, in Hammersmith, is Ravenscourt. These parks of varying sizes, and smaller recreation grounds between, make up the actual parks, although some of the commons, with playgrounds, artificial water, and band-stands, can hardly be distinguished from the true park.
The oldest of the parks now under the London County Council—Battersea, Kennington, and Victoria—were for many years under the Office of Works, and on the same footing as the Royal Parks. Government, and no municipal authority, has the credit of their formation. Then came several formed by or transferred to the Metropolitan Board of Works. To all these, already over 2050 acres, the London County Council automatically succeeded. After the Bill reorganising the disposal of the funds of the London Parochial Charities in 1883, a part of their money was allotted to provide open spaces, and they helped to purchase many of the parks—Clissold, Vauxhall, Ravenscourt, Brockwell, and so on. The acquisition of parks has, in many cases, been due to private individuals, who helped to raise the necessary funds, and themselves contributed, and were generally assisted by the local vestries, and, later on, Borough Councils. Miss Octavia Hill, by writing and trying to influence public opinion, made many efforts to secure open spaces. At her instance the Kyrle Society was founded for the general improvement of homes, of disused burial-grounds, and open spaces; and from this developed the Metropolitan Gardens Association, of which the Earl of Meath is Chairman. Immense credit is due to this Society, both for acquiring new sites and beautifying existing ones, and being instrumental in having countless places opened to the public. And to private individuals who have given whole parks, or largely contributed to others, too much gratitude cannot be expressed. Since they came into office, the London County Council has had added some 2300 acres of open spaces and parks to those under its care, which have been purchased, or given in whole or in part, by private individuals or other public bodies. Some of the last acquisitions of the London County Council lie quite outside the county boundary, so are beyond the limit set to this volume. Marble Hill is away at Twickenham, but half the purchase-money of £72,000 was paid by the London County Council, and the entire cost of alteration and maintenance is found by it. The place was bought chiefly to preserve the wooded aspect of the view from Richmond Hill. The Forest of Hainault is also outside the bounds, near Epping. The 805 acres there are partly fields, and in part the remains of the old Forest of “Hyneholt,” as it was often written, a section of the Royal Forest which covered a large tract of Essex.
The most natural division, when dealing with these open spaces, is the river, and it is a division which strikes a fairly even balance. Including Royal Parks, which contain some 1266 acres, the northern side can claim the larger area, as, irrespective of squares and churchyards and gardens, there are about 3141 acres of green. The south side has only Greenwich Park of 185 acres of Royal Park, and, exclusive of that, there are quite 2169 acres, as against 1875 of the municipal areas on the northern side, when the Crown land is deducted. Besides these, there are 226 acres maintained by the Borough Councils; so in round numbers London has about 5721 acres of open space. These figures are only rough estimates, and do not include all the smaller recreation grounds or gardens of less than an acre.
These parks scattered around London are enjoyed by hundreds of thousands annually, and yet, to a comparative handful of people who live near Hyde Park, they are as much unexplored country as the regions of Timbuctoo. The bicycling craze of ten years ago suddenly brought Battersea Park into fashion; but the miles of crowded streets, with their rushing trams and top-heavy omnibuses, put a considerable bar between the “West End” and those more distant favoured spots. There is much variety in these parks, both north and south, and the chief difference lies in their origin. When a suburban manor-house, standing in its own grounds, with well-timbered park and a garden of some design, has been acquired, a much finer effect is produced than when fields or market-gardens have been bought up and made into a park.
Finsbury Park, for instance, was merely fields, while Waterlow has always been part of a private demesne. It is the same on the south of the river. Brockwell is an old park and garden. Battersea was entirely made. Each park has features which give it an individual character, while there is and must be a certain repetition in describing every one separately.
Many details are of necessity more or less the same in each. The London County Council is responsible for the greater number, and in every case they have thought certain things essential. For instance, the band-stand; no park, large or small, is considered complete without one. It is hardly necessary to mention each individually, though some are of the ordinary patterns, others more “rustic” in construction (as in Brockwell Park), with branching oak supports and thatched or tiled roofs. Every park, except Waterlow, which is too hilly, furnishes ample area for games. Cricket pitches by the dozen, and space for numerous goal-posts is provided for, in each and all of the larger parks. Gymnasiums, too, are included in the requirements of a fully-equipped park. Swings for the smaller children, bars, ropes, and higher swings for older boys and girls, are supplied. Bathing pools of greater or less dimensions are often added, the one in Victoria Park being especially large and crowded. Then the larger parks have green-houses, and a succession of plants are on view all the year round. The chrysanthemum time is one specially looked forward to in the East End districts. Iron railings and paths, of course, are the inevitable beginnings in the creation of a park, and more or less ambitious gates. It is only in the larger ones, such as Finsbury, Victoria, Dulwich, and Battersea, that carriages are anticipated. Though there is a drive through Brockwell, and the steep hill in Waterlow might be climbed, and the avenue in Ravenscourt is wide enough, it is evidently only foot passengers who are expected, as a rule. Fancy ducks and geese attract the small children on all the ponds, and some parks have enclosures for deer or other animals. Sand gardens, or “seasides” for children to dig in, are also frequently included.
The larger parks are self-contained—that is to say, the bedding out and all the plants necessary for the flower-gardens are reared on the premises. There is a frame-ground with green-houses attached, where the stock is kept and propagated. Of course, much depends on the soil and locality. In some parks the things will stand the winter much better than in others, where fog and smoke and damp work deadly havoc.
A great deal is now done with simple, hardy flowers, which give just as good an effect as more elaborate and expensive bedding. Roses in the show beds will do well for two or even three years; with a few annuals between they make charming effects. In Finsbury Park, the dark red roses with Canterbury bells, and fuchsias with a ground of alyssum, were effective and simple. In some parks the spring plants will thrive all through the winter. Beds of white Arabis with pink tulips between; forget-me-nots with white tulips; mixed collections of auriculas, that dear old-fashioned “bear’s ears,” put in about the end of October, make a little show all the winter, and produce a mass of colour in spring. There is still room for improvement in the direction of the planting, but of late years the war waged against the monopoly of calceolarias, geraniums, and blue lobelias has, fortunately, had its effect in a marked degree on the London Parks, municipal as well as royal.
There is apt to be a great uniformity in the selection of plants, more especially among the trees and bushes. The future should always be borne in mind in planting, and alas! that is not always the case. Anything that will grow quickly is often put in, whereas a little patience and a much finer effect would be the result in the end. Privet grows faster than holly, but can the two results be compared? There is a very fine old elm avenue in Ravenscourt; trees which the planter never saw in perfection, but which many generations have since enjoyed. But will the avenue of poplars in Finsbury Park have such a future? After thirty-five years’ growth they are considerable trees, but how long will they last? The plane does grow remarkably well, there is no denying, but is it necessary for that reason to exclude almost every other tree? Ash trees thrive surprisingly. Some of the oaks take kindly to London, yet how few are planted. Richard Jefferies, that most delightful of writers on nature, bemoans the lack of English trees in the suburban gardens of London, and the same may be said of the parks to some extent. “Go round the entire circumference of Greater London,” he writes, “and find the list ceaselessly repeated. There are acacias, sumachs, cedar deodaras, araucarias, laurels, planes, beds of rhododendrons, and so on.” “If, again, search were made in these enclosures for English trees and English shrubs, it would be found that none have been introduced.”
It would be even more charming in a London Park than a suburban garden to plant some of the delights of our English country, such as thorns, crab apples, elder, and wild roses, with horse-chestnuts, and hazel. What can be more beautiful than birches at all times of the year? That they grow readily, their well-washed white stems in Hyde Park testify. Birds, too, love the native trees, and some of the songsters, which till lately were plentiful in many parks, might return to build if thus encouraged.
There is much monotony in the laying out of all these parks. The undulating green turf with a wavy line of bushes seems the only recognised form. A narrow strip of herbaceous plants is put between the smutty bushes and well-mown turf, and the official park flower-border is produced. Curving lines of uncertain direction, tortuous paths that carefully avoid the straight line, are all part of the generally received idea of a correct outline. It is always more easy to criticise than to suggest, but surely more variety would be achieved if parks were planted really like wild gardens—the groups of plants more as they might occur in a natural glade or woodland. Then let the herbaceous border be a thing apart—a garden, straight and formal, or curved and round, but not always in bays and promontories jutting into seas of undulating green. A straight line occasionally is a great rest to the eye, but it should begin and end at a definite and tangible point. The small Park in Camberwell has a little avenue of limes running straight across, with a centre where seats can be put and paths diverge at right angles. It is quite small, and yet the Park would be exactly like every other piece of ground, with no particular design, without this. It gives a point and centre to the meandering paths, and comes as a distinct relief. In Southwark Park an avenue is growing up into fairly large trees. It seems stuck on to the Park—it is not straight, but it is not a definite curve, and it ends somehow by turning towards the entrance at one end and twisting in the direction of the pond at the other. So it remains a shady walk, but not an avenue with any pretension to forming part of a design.
It is not for the formal only this appeal is made, it is for less formality and more real wildness, also a protest against the monotony of the green banks, and bunches of bushes, and meaningless curves, too often the only form of design. The aim in every case must be to have as much variety as possible without incongruity, and to make the utmost use of the ground; to give the most pleasure at the least expense.
One of the great difficulties must always be the numbers of people who enjoy these parks. The grass suffers to such an extent that portions must be periodically enclosed to recover. Then the children have to be kept at a certain distance from the flowers, or the temptation to gather one over-masters the fear of the park-keeper.
A green walk between trees would be a pleasing change from gravel and asphalt in a less-frequented part of some park, but it would doubtless have to be closed in sections, or there would soon be no turf left; but such an experiment might well be tried. The attempts in Brockwell, Golder’s Hill, and Ravenscourt at “old English gardens” are most successful, and a welcome change in the monotony, and one has only to look at the crowded seats to see how much they are appreciated.
The effort to make use of the parks to supplement nature-teaching in the schools is also an advance in the right direction, and one that could be followed up with advantage.
The trials of the climate of London, and the hurtful fogs, must not be forgotten when criticising. They are no new thing, and gardeners for two hundred years have had to contend with the smoke, and wage war against its effects. But the evil has, of course, become greatly intensified during the last fifty years. Fairchild, the author of the “City Gardener,” in 1722, regrets that plants will not prosper because of the “Sea Coal.” Mirabeau, writing from London in 1784, deplores the fogs in England, and especially “those of London. The prodigious quantity of coal that is consumed, adds to their consistence, prolongs their duration, and eminently contributes to render these vapours more black, and more suffocating—you feel this when rising in the morning. To breathe the fresh morning air is a sort of happiness you cannot enjoy in this immense Capital.” Yet in spite of this gloomy picture there are trees now within the London area, which were getting black when Mirabeau wrote. Smuts are by no means solely responsible for trees dying. There are many other contributory causes. The drainage and want of water is often a serious danger, and bad pruning in the case of the younger trees is another. When branches begin to die, it is a very safe and salutary precaution to lop them off, as has lately been done to such a noticeable extent in Kensington Gardens. But the cutting and pruning of trees by those employed by various municipal bodies is often lamentably performed. The branches are not cut off clean, or to a joint, where fresh twigs will soon sprout and fill in and make good the gaps. Often they are cut leaving a piece of wood, which decays back to the young growth, and rots into the sound part of the tree.
Some of the worst enemies of the gardener are the electric power-stations. The trees suffer terribly from the smoke they emit. Even healthy young shrubs and bushes, such as laurels, are destroyed by it. In a very short time they become completely dried up, brown, and shrivelled. In a memorandum on the Electric Power and Supply Bill of 1906, the First Commissioner of Works pointed out these disastrous effects. He says, “The case is not entirely one of the emission or consumption of black or sooty or tarry matters. The other products of combustion, such as sulphurous and sulphuric acid, with solid particles of mineral matter or ash, are very deleterious to vegetation.” It appears from the report of Dr. Thorpe, of the Government Laboratory, that the production of sulphuric acid could be “much diminished, if not entirely prevented, by pouring lime-water on the coal before it goes into the furnaces, but from the look of trees in some neighbourhoods this precaution does not appear to be taken.” These hindrances are often very disheartening, and the many and serious difficulties that have to be contended with, must never be lost sight of in any review of the parks.
In every case the park is thoroughly appreciated by the inhabitants, and no one can overestimate the health-giving properties of these lungs of the city. It would be vain repetition to point out the fact in each case, or to picture the crowds who enjoy them on Sundays—who walk about, or lounge, or listen to the bands, or to what appears still more stimulating, to the impassioned harangue of some would-be reformer or earnest preacher. The densely-packed audiences, the gesticulations and heated and declamatory arguments, are not confined to Hyde Park. Victoria Park gathers just such assemblies, and every park could make more or less the same boast. The seats are equally full in each and all, and the grass as thickly strewn with prostrate forms. Perambulators are as numerous and children as conspicuous in the north, south, and eastern parks as in those of the west.
In looking round the parks it will be well to take a glance at the smaller ones, then to consider each of the larger ones more in detail, in every case missing out some of the obvious appendages which are characteristic of all.
How pathetic some of these little parks are, and what a part they play in the lives of those who live in the dingy streets near. Take, for instance, one with a high-sounding name, Avondale Park. It is little more than ten minutes’ walk from Shepherd’s Bush Station or Notting Hill Gate. Yet, on inquiry for the most direct road, nobody can give a satisfactory answer. One man will say, “I have lived here for years and never heard of it”; another, “I don’t think it can be in this district.” The same would be the result even nearer to it; but ask for the recreation ground, and any child will tell you. “Down the first narrow turning and to the right again, by the pawnbroker at the corner.” It is a melancholy shop, with the plain necessaries of life and tiny babies’ boots for sale on the trays outside the door—what a volume of wretchedness and poverty those poor things bespeak. A few yards further, and the iron railings of the “Park” come in view. The happy shrill voices of children resound, the swings are in full motion, the seats well filled, and up and down the asphalt walk, old and young are enjoying themselves. When the band plays the place is packed. “I’ve calculated as many as nine hundred at one time,” says the old guardian, who is proud of the place, “and as for the children, you often can’t see the ground for them.” Yes, this open space of four and a quarter acres is really appreciated. It is difficult for those in easier circumstances to realise what a difference that little patch of green, those few bright flowers, make to the neighbourhood, or the social effect of the summer evenings, when the band and the pleasant trees offer a counter-attraction to the public-house. For some twelve years this little Park has been enjoyed. Formed by the vestry, and kept up by the Royal Borough of Kensington, it greatly pleases, although it scarce can be called beautiful. The centre is given over to the children, and the boys have ample room, and the girls and infants keep their twenty-four swings in constant motion. A path twists round the irregular plot, and most of the way is bordered by those London-loving plants, the iris, and the usual groups of smutty bushes. Along the front runs a wide asphalt walk, well furnished with seats, a band-stand half way, and a fountain at one end. Some bedding out with gay flowers is the attraction here. A gardener and a boy keep it in order, while for about £20 a year a nurseryman supplies all the necessary bedding-out plants. The old guardian sweeps the scraps of paper up and sees the children are not too riotous at the swings. Thus, for no great expense, widespread pleasure is conferred.
The Embankment Gardens, between Westminster and Blackfriars, are much frequented. At all seasons of the year the seats are crowded, and now, with the statues, bands playing in summer, refreshment buffet, and newspaper kiosk, they look more like a foreign garden than the usual solemn squares of London. During the dinner-hour they are filled with the printers from the many newspaper offices near, and the band was in the first instance paid for by the Press.
They are divided into three sections, and measure ten acres in all, not including the garden beyond the Victoria Tower. The peace has been utterly destroyed by the din of trams, which are for ever passing and re-passing, and it is much to be feared that the trees next the river, which were growing so well, will not withstand the ill-treatment they have received—the cutting of roots and depriving them of moisture. The Gardens are entirely on the ground made up when the Embankment was formed, between 1864 and 1870.
The Gardens were opened in 1870, but many improvements have since been made in the design, and various statues put up to famous men. One is to John Stuart Mill, and at the Westminster end, one of William Tyndall, the translator of the New Testament and Pentateuch, to which translation is due much of the beautiful language of the Authorised Version of the Bible.
Of the old gardens and entrances to the great houses which stretched the whole length of the river bank, from Westminster and Whitehall to the City, only one trace remains. It is the Water Gate of York House. The low level on which it stands, below the terrace end of Buckingham Street, shows to what point the river rose. York House was so called as it was the town house of the Archbishops of York, but none of them ever lived there except Heath, in Queen Mary’s time, who was the first to possess it. It was let, as a rule, to the Keepers of the Great Seal, and Bacon lived there. George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, pulled down most of the old house, and commenced rebuilding. Nothing now remains but the Water Gate, supposed to be by Inigo Jones, although the design is also attributed to Nicholas Stone, who built it. The house and gardens were sold and divided in 1672. Buckingham Street and the streets adjoining are built on the site, and all that is left is the fine old gateway, with most modern-looking gardens between it and the river, which once flowed up to its arches.
Another Embankment recreation ground is the Island Garden, Poplar, and it is one that is also much appreciated. It was made on some ground not required for ship-building or docks on the river front of the Isle of Dogs, and opened to the public in 1895. The idea of making a garden of it had for some few years been in contemplation, and as soon as the necessary funds were found, this space, somewhat less than three acres, was saved from being built over, and a wide walk of about 700 feet made along the river embankment. The view from the seats, with which it is plentifully supplied, over towards Greenwich Hospital and Park makes it a really charming promenade. The quaint name of this part of London is said to be derived from the fact that the kennels of the sporting dogs of the royal residents of Greenwich Palace were kept there, “which usually making a great noise, the seamen and others thereupon called the place the Isle of Dogs.” This seems the most plausible of the various definitions of the name of this peninsula—for it is only an island by means of the dock canal, made in 1800. A quotation from a play of Middleton and Dekker, in 1611, shows that then, at any rate, it was associated with actual dogs.
“Moll Cutpurse: O Sir, he hath been brought up in the Isle of Dogs, and can both fawn like a spaniel and bite like a mastiff, as he finds occasion.”
The ground in those days and until much later times was a fertile marsh, subject to frequent inundations, but affording very rich pasture. Breaches in the embankment occurred at intervals until a solid pile and brick wall was made in the last century, above which the “Island Gardens” were laid.
Further along the north bank of the river there is another and a larger garden, kept up by the London County Council, although it is in East Ham and not within the County of London. This was made on the site of the North Woolwich Tea Gardens, which enjoyed a kind of popularity for some fifty years. Having been started in 1851, they kept up their reputation for “Baby Shows,” “Beard Shows,” and such-like attractions, until the ground became too valuable for building, and too heavily rated for them to exist, and, but for timely interference, this open space would have been converted into wharves.
The story of the Bethnal Green Gardens is very different. Although it was only in 1891 that the present arrangements with regard to keeping up the Gardens were established, the 15½ acres of which they form part has a long history. As far back as 1667 the land was purchased by a group of residents, who collectively subscribed £200, and by a trust-deed dated 1690 conveyed the land to trustees, to be administered for the benefit of the poor. It had been purchased and enclosed, the deed specified, “for the prevention of any new building thereon.” Of this ground 9 acres form the present Garden; on part of the remainder St. John’s Church was built, and in 1872 the Bethnal Green Museum, an offshoot from South Kensington, was opened on another section. The most exhaustive work on Municipal Parks says that when the land “came into the possession of the London County Council” it “consisted of orchard, paddock, kitchen garden, and pleasure grounds, all in a rough and neglected condition.” Under the levelling hand of the London County Council it has been made to look exactly like every other public garden, with “ornamental wrought-iron enclosing fences, broad walks, shrubberies,” and so on, at a cost of over £5000, and was opened in 1895. There is no trace of its former condition, nothing to point to its antiquity or any difference in its appearance from the most modern acquisition. Perhaps after all it is as well, for among the thousands of that poor and crowded district that use and enjoy it, there is not one to whom a passing thought of the old weavers who were settled there when the land was given, or to whom the legend of pretty Bessee the Blind Beggar’s daughter of Bethnal Green would occur. Though the design is prosaic, the gardens are made cheerful and gay, and if they add a gleam of brightness to the lives of toil of those living near them, they must be said to fulfil their purpose.
Victoria Park
Victoria Park was the first of the modern Parks to be laid out, and it is the largest. When the advantage of an East End Park was admitted, the work of forming one was carried out by the Commissioners of Woods and Forests. An Act passed in 1840 enabled them to sell York House to the Duke of Sutherland (hence it became Stafford House), for £72,000, and to purchase about 290 acres of land in the East End in the parishes of Hackney, Bethnal Green, and Bow. Part of this was reserved for building improved dwellings, and 193 acres formed Victoria Park, the laying out of which began in 1842. Thirty years later, when some of the land adjoining was about to be built on, the Metropolitan Board of Works bought some 24 acres to add to the Park, the whole of which, including the new part, was under the Office of Works. Other additions have been made from time to time, chiefly with a view to opening entrances to the Park, so as to make it as easy of access as possible from the crowded districts in the direction of Limehouse and the docks, and round Mile End Road.
The ground which the Park covers was chiefly brick-fields and market-gardens, and Bishop’s Hall Farm. The latter place is the only part with any historical association. The farm was in the manor of Stepney, which was held by the Bishops of London, and Bishop’s or Bonner’s Hall was the Manor House. Many of the Bishops of London resided here in early days. Stowe, in 1598, referring to Bishop Richard de Gravesend in 1280, writes: “It appeareth by the Charter [of free] warren granted to this Bishop, that (in his time) there were two Woods in the Parish of Stebunheth [Stepney], pertaining to the said Bishop: I have (since I kept house for my selfe) knowne the one of them by Bishops Hall, but now they are both made plaine of wood, and not to be discerned from other grounds.” These woods were on the ground covered by the Park. Stowe notices in his short accounts of the Bishops of London that Ralph Stratford, who was Bishop from 1339 to 1354, “deceased at Stebunhith.” The name Bonner’s Hall somehow became attached to the Manor House. The same chronicler also records that Bishop Ridley gave the manors of Stepney and Hackney to the King in the fourth year of Edward VI., who granted them to Lord Wentworth. Bonner, therefore, would be the last Bishop who could have resided there. The old Manor House was not destroyed till 1800, when part of the material was taken to build a farm-house, which was cleared away when the Park was formed.
The first laying out of the Park does not seem to have been altogether satisfactory. A writer in 1851 criticises it very severely. The roads and paths, he says, were so badly laid as to require almost reconstruction. The “banks of the lake must be reduced to something like shape to resist the wash of the water,” and the remodelling of the plantations will be “a work of time.” Just then Mr. Gibson assumed the charge of the Park, and even this captious critic seems to have been well satisfied that he had “begun in real earnest” to carry out the necessary improvements. Modern gardeners might not applaud all his planting quite so enthusiastically as his contemporaries. For instance, the rage for araucarias—monkey puzzles—has somewhat subsided, though the planting of a number met with great praise in the Fifties. Most of the Park was planted with discrimination. In a line with the canal which forms one boundary, an avenue was put, now a charming shady road with well-grown trees. The artificial water with fancy ducks, in which is a wooded island with a Chinese pagoda, is a great delight for boating. The bathing-lake has still greater attraction, and thousands bathe there daily all through the summer months. It is said, as many as 25,000 have been counted on a summer’s morning. Bedding out was at its height when Victoria Park was laid out, so the flower-garden included some elaborate scroll designs which were suited to the style of carpet-bedding then in vogue. Now, though less stiff, the formal bedding is well done, and attracts great attention. Those in the East End have just as keen an appreciation as the frequenters of Hyde Park, of the display of flowers. The green-house in winter is much enjoyed, and a succession of bright flowers is kept there during the dark months of the year. The children’s sand garden is also a delight.
In spite of its situation in a densely-populated district, the feathered tribes have not quite deserted the Park. The moor-hen builds by the lake and the ringdove nests in the trees. Though the greenfinch and the wren have vanished, some songsters still gladden the world. Blackbirds, thrushes, and chaffinches are by no means uncommon. Some of these latter get caught, and take part in the popular amusement of singing-matches. Many men in the district keep chaffinches in cages, and bring them to the Park on a Sunday morning that they may practise their notes in chorus with their wild associates, and so beat the caged bird of some rival. Sometimes the temptation is too great, and the wild birds are kidnapped to join the competition.
Finsbury Park
Finsbury is second in size, and second in date of construction, of the Parks of North London. It is far from Finsbury, being really in Hornsey, but as the idea, first expressed about 1850, was to make a Park for the borough of Finsbury, the name was retained although the land acquired some years later was somewhat remote.
The movement was first set on foot when building began to destroy all the open spaces near Finsbury Fields. Some of these, like Spa Fields, had been popular places of resort as Tea Gardens, but were being rapidly covered with houses, and separating Finsbury altogether from the country. Many delays, owing to changes of Government, occurred before the necessary legislation was accomplished. When the Metropolitan Board of Works came into being, it took up the scheme, and it was finally under its auspices that the land was purchased, and the Park, 115 acres in extent, was opened in 1869.
On the highest point of the ground there is a lake, which was in existence before it became a public park. Near there stood Hornsey Wood House, a Tea Garden of some reputation in the eighteenth century. About the year 1800 the old house was pulled down, and the new proprietor built another tavern, and converted part of the remains of Hornsey Wood into an artificial lake for boating and angling. This second house existed until it was pulled down in 1866, when the Park was in progress. Hornsey Wood was part of the forest which bounded London on the north, and the site of the Park was in the manor of Brownswood, which was held by the See of London.
Accounts of various incidents which are connected with this spot are given in histories of Hornsey. The most picturesque is that in which the ill-fated little King Edward V. is the central figure, overshadowed by his perfidious uncle. “The King on his way to London [from Ludlow] was on the fourth of May met at Hornsey Park (now [1756] Highgate) by Edmund Shaw, the Mayor, accompanied by the Aldermen, Sheriffs and five hundred Citizens on Horseback, richly accoutered in purple Gowns; whence they conducted him to the City; where he was received by the Citizens with a joy inexpressible.... In this solemn Cavalcade, the Duke of Gloucester’s Deportment was very remarkable; for riding before the King, uncovered, he frequently called to the Citizens, with an audible voice, to behold their Prince and Sovereign.” What a scene must the site of Finsbury Park have presented that May morning. The Londoners, incensed at Gloucester’s having taken possession of the young King, no doubt meet him with distrust and anger, and while the procession moves on towards the City he allays their suspicions, acting a part to deceive them.
The trees in Finsbury are beginning to grow up, and the Park is losing the new, bare look which made it unattractive in its early years. Poplars (fast-growing trees) have been largely used. That is very well for a beginning, but others of a slower growth, but making finer timber, are the trees for the future. There is nothing very special to notice in the general laying out of the grounds, as beyond the avenue of black poplars and the lake, there are no striking features. The view from the high ground, towards Epping, adds to the attractions of this useful open space but not very interesting Park. One of the most pleasing corners is the rock garden, not far from the lake. The plants seem well established and very much at home. The green-houses, too, are well kept up, and in the gloomy seasons of the year especially are much frequented.
Clissold Park
Clissold, or Stoke Newington Park, is one of the parks which has the advantage of having been the grounds of a private house, and enjoys all the benefits of a well-planted suburban demesne. The old trees at once give it a certain cachet that even County Council railings, notice-boards, and bird-cages cannot destroy. It has the additional charm of the New River passing through the heart of it, and, furthermore, the ground is undulating.
One of the approaches to the Park still has a semi-rural aspect and associations attached to it. This is Queen Elizabeth’s Walk, with a row of fine elm trees, under which the Queen may have passed as a girl while staying in seclusion at the manor-house, then in the possession of the Dudley family, relations to the Earl of Leicester. Stoke Newington, until lately, was not so overrun with small houses as most of the suburbs. In 1855 it was described as “one of the few rural villages in the immediate environs [of London]. Though, as the crow flies, but three miles from the General Post Office, it is still rich in parks, gardens, and old trees.” The last fifty years have quite transformed its appearance. “Green Lanes,” which skirts the west of the Park, though with such a rural-sounding name, is a busy thoroughfare, with rushing trams; and, but for Clissold Park and Abney Park Cemetery, but little of its former attractions would remain. The Cemetery is on the grounds of the old Manor House, where Sir Thomas Abney lived, and “the late excellent Dr. Isaac Watts was treated for thirty-six years with all the kindness that friendship could prompt, and all the attention that respect could dictate.” The manor was sold by direction of Sir Thomas’s daughter’s will, and the proceeds devoted to charitable purposes. The old church, with its thin spire, and the new large, handsome Gothic church, built to meet the needs of the growing population, stand close together at one corner of the Park, at the end of Queen Elizabeth’s Walk, and on all sides the towers among the trees form pretty and conspicuous objects. The house in the Park, for the most part disused, stands above the bend of the New River, which makes a loop through the grounds. It is a white Georgian house with columns, and looks well with wide steps and slope to the water’s edge, now alas! disfigured by high iron railings. The place belonged to the Crawshay family, by whom it was sold. The daughter of one of the owners had a romantic attachment to a curate, the Rev. Augustus Clissold, but the father would not allow the marriage, and kept his daughter more or less a prisoner. After her father’s death, however, she married her lover, and succeeded to the estate, and changed its name from Crawshay Farm to Clissold Place. This title has stuck to it, although it reverted to the Crawshays, and in 1886 was sold by them.
The Park measures 53 acres. There is a small enclosure with fallow deer and guinea-pigs, some artificial water, and wide green spaces for games; but the special beauty of the Park consists in the canal-like New River, with walks beside it, and in places foliage arching over it, and the fine large specimen trees round the house. There are some good cedars, deciduous cypress, ilex, thorns, and laburnums; a good specimen of one of the American varieties of oak, Quercus palustris; also acacias and chestnuts—all looking quite healthy.
Springfield Park
Not very far from Clissold lies Springfield Park, in Upper Clapton, opened to the public in 1905. It also has the advantage of being made out of well laid out private grounds. The area, 32½ acres, embraced three residences, two of which have been pulled down, while the third, Springfield House, which gives its name to the Park, has been retained, and serves as refreshment rooms. The view from the front of the house over Walthamstow Marshes is very extensive. The ground slopes steeply to the river Lea, and beyond on the plain, like a lake, the reservoirs of the “East London Works,” now part of the Metropolitan Water Board, make a striking picture. Springfield House was, until lately, one of those pleasant old-fashioned residences of which there were many in this neighbourhood, standing in well-planted gardens overlooking the marshes and fertile flats below. These delightful houses are becoming more rare every year, and it is fortunate that the grounds of one of the most attractive should have been preserved as a public park. The place was well cared for in old days, as the good specimen trees testify. A flourishing purple beech is growing up, also a sweet chestnut and several birches. A very old black mulberry still survives, although showing signs of age. There are other nice timber trees on the hillside, and among the shrubs an Arbutus unedo, the strawberry tree, is one of the most unusual. This Park, though small, is quite unlike any other, and has much to recommend it to the general public, while in the more immediate neighbourhood it is greatly appreciated.
Waterlow Park
Undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the parks is Waterlow, the munificent gift of Sir Sydney Waterlow. Its situation near Highgate, above all City smoke; its steep slopes and fine trees; its old garden and historic associations, combine to give it a character and a charm of its own. It is small in comparison with such parks as Victoria, Battersea, or Finsbury, being only 29 acres, but it has a fascination quite out of proportion to its size. There are few pleasanter spots on a summer’s day, and at any season of the year it would well repay a visit. It is especially attractive when the great city with its domes and towers is seen clearly at the foot of the hill. London from a distance never looks hard and sharp and clear, like some foreign towns. The buildings do not stand up in definite outline like the churches of Paris looked down upon from the Eiffel Tower: the soft curtain of smoke, the mysterious blue light, a gentle reminder of orange and black fog, shrouds and beautifies everything it touches. On a June day, when the grass is vivid and the trees a bright pale green, Waterlow Park is at its best. The dome of St. Paul’s, the countless towers of Wren’s city churches, the pinnacles of the Law Courts, the wonderful Tower Bridge, dwarfing the old Norman White Tower, all appear in softened beauty behind the fresh verdure, through well-contrived peeps and gaps in the trees.
Most of the ground is too steep for the cricket and football to which the greater part of other parks are given over. Only lawn tennis and bowls can be provided for, on the green lawns at the top of the Park. A delightful old pond, with steep banks overshadowed by limes and chestnuts, has a feeling of the real country about it. The concrete edges, the little patches of aquatic plants and neat turf, are missing. The banks show signs of last year’s leaves, fallen sticks, and blackened chestnuts, and any green near it, is only natural wild plants that enjoy shade and moisture. It is the sort of place a water-hen would feel at home in, and not expect to meet intruding Mandarin ducks or Canadian geese. Let us hope this quiet spot may long remain untouched. There are two newer lakes lower down, laid out in approved County Council style, trim and neat, with water-fowl, water-lilies, and judicious planting round the banks of weeping willows and rhododendron clumps. Probably many visitors find them more attractive than the upper pool. There is no fault to find with them, and they are perhaps more suited to a public park, but they are devoid of the poetry which raises the other out of the commonplace. As the slopes towards the lower lakes are the playground of multitudes of babies, it is necessary to protect them from the water’s edge by substantial railings, but most of the Park is singularly free from these unsightly but often necessary safeguards. The trees all through the grounds are unusually fine. Four hickories are particularly worthy of note. They are indeed grand and graceful trees, and it is astonishing they should be so little planted. These are noble specimens, and look extremely healthy.
The most characteristic feature in the Park is the house it contains and the garden immediately round it. This was built for Lauderdale, the “L” in the Cabal of Charles II., probably about 1660. When this unattractive character was not living there himself, he not unfrequently lent it to Nell Gwynn. The ground floor of the house is open to the public as refreshment rooms, and one empty parlour with seats has much good old carving, of the date of the house, over the mantelpiece, also in a recess which encloses a marble bath known as “Nell Gwynn’s bath.” It is said to have been from a window in Lauderdale House that she held out her son when Charles was walking below, threatening to let him drop if the King did not promise to confer some title upon him. In response Charles exclaimed, “Save the Earl of Burford,” which title (and later, that of Duke of St. Albans) was formally conferred upon him.
The terrace along which the King was walking is still there. A little inscription has been inserted on a sun-dial near the wall, to record the fact that the dial-plate is level with the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. A flight of steps leads to a lower terrace. This is planted in a formal design consisting of three circles, the centre one having a fountain. Two more flights of steps descend, in a line from the fountain, to a broad walk bordered with flowers leading to one of the entrances to the Park. At right angles to the other steps a walk leads from the fountain to another part of the garden, which is planted with old fruit-trees on the grassy slope. It is at the foot of these steps that the water-colour sketch is taken. The “eagles with wings expanded” are the supporters of the Lauderdale arms. The whole garden is delightful, and so much in keeping with the house that it is easy to picture the much-disliked Lauderdale, the genial King, and fascinating “Nell,” living and moving on its terraces. Pepys gives a glimpse of one of these characters at home. He drove up alone with Lord Brouncker, in a coach and six. No doubt the hill made the six very necessary, as in another place Pepys talks of the bad road to Highgate. They joined Lord Lauderdale “and his lady, and some Scotch people,” at supper. Scotch airs were played by one of the servants on the violin; “the best of their country, as they seemed to esteem them, by their praising and admiring them: but, Lord! the strangest ayre that ever I heard in my life, and all of one cast. But strange to hear my Lord Lauderdale say himself that he had rather hear a cat mew, than the best musique in the world; and the better the musique, the more sick it makes him; and that of all instruments, he hates the lute most, and next to that the baggpipe.” These sentiments may not prove that Lauderdale was “a man of mighty good reason and judgement,” as Lord Brouncker assured Pepys when he said he thought it “odd company,” but at least it shows him honest! How many people who sit patiently through a performance of the “Ring” would have as much courage of their opinions?