Leaves from the Note-Books of Lady Dorothy Nevill

by Lady Dorothy Nevill

XII

Favourites of the past—Siamese cats—Sir William Gregory—A feline tragedy—A dog’s last farewell—Chinese dogs at Goodwood—A reluctant swain—Mr. Mallock’s epitaph—Sandringham—Riding and driving—Anecdote of a parrot—Strange diet of a stork—My choughs and their nests—Disappointed hopes—An unwelcome arrival—Mr. Darwin’s interest in my garden—Mr. Cobden’s letter from Algiers—His interest in my silkworms—Garden books—Some pretty verses by Mr. Lowe.

SIAMESE CATS

In some of my old scrap and photograph books I have many memorials of long dead and gone animal favourites, such as horses and dogs, besides one or two pictures of the Siamese cats which at one time were great favourites of mine. It was the late Mr. Harrison Weir, a true lover of animals if ever there was one, who first brought these beautiful creatures to my notice, and by a fortunate chance I became possessed of several of them, which had been imported from Siam and were presented to me by Sir R. Herbert of the Colonial Office. Exceedingly docile and domesticated, as well as ornamental in the highest degree, these cats were unfortunately very delicate in their constitution, and I never managed to keep any one of them alive longer than two years. At that time the only pure breed was kept by the King of Siam, and specimens were very difficult to procure, for they could only be obtained by those having high influence in the palace. Of a beautiful dun colour, the nose, face, ears, feet, and tail of a dark chocolate brown, and with a tail shorter and finer than that of our own English species, the “royal cat of Siam” (as the animal is properly called) is exceptionally loving and affectionate in its nature, following its owner from room to room more after the manner of a dog than that of an ordinary puss. Curiously enough these cats as a rule are quite friendly with the dogs of the house they inhabit, frequently occupying the same baskets. The best I ever had was a lady cat which I called Mrs. Poodles, and exhibited at the Crystal Palace Show, where it was awarded the gold medal. It had three kittens by an English cat, but oddly enough none of them exhibited the slightest trace of their Siamese descent, all being pure tabbies. Since those days—I am speaking of the ’seventies—I fancy the mania for Siamese cats has died away, for I have never come across any in recent years. I myself gave up keeping them on account of their extreme delicacy of constitution, to which I have already alluded, and also on account of the sad end of another Poodles to which I was much attached. She also, like my prize cat, contented herself with an ordinary plebeian cat as a husband, for I was unable to obtain any suitor of her own royal line, though many people did their best to help me to do so. Amongst these was that delightful man the late Sir William Gregory, who before setting out for the East wrote me an amusing letter, in which he said:—

I shall enter into relations with mercenary and desperate men to steal a tom cat from the palace of the King of Siam, and when stolen he shall be conveyed as a comfort to your Siamese tabby.

However, as no royal lover could be procured, this poor Poodles became visibly more and more depressed, and as time went on developed a mania for strolling off into the woods, where I fancy she dallied with certain humble admirers who began to hang around the grounds. This partiality for wandering did not cause me much alarm, as she always came safely back, remaining away, as a rule, for but a short time; but, alas, there came the fatal day when my poor Poodles did not appear for twenty-four hours. She had been caught in a trap, and we should never have known her fate had it not been for the devotion of a humble cat, evidently her lover, who hung around the house uttering such piercing wails that he at last induced some one to follow him into a little wood just outside the garden, where we found his suffering love—a touching instance of feline devotion. Though we did everything we could for her, the accident ended in poor puss’s premature death, and after her demise I ceased, as I have said, to keep any more Siamese cats. I still have a memento of this Poodles in the shape of a muff made of her coat, very much resembling beautiful sealskin, which it is usually taken to be.

A DOG’S LAST FAREWELL

Of dogs I have always been very fond, and have had many in my possession of all sorts, breeds, and sizes. Looking over one of my old scrap-books the other day, I came upon a little sketch of a pet of long ago to which I was particularly devoted. This was a little dog called Shuck, after the phantom dog which is supposed to haunt the Norfolk lanes round Cromer and the country-side in that part of Norfolk in which was my old home. Poor little Shuck lived far longer than most of his race, for when he died he had reached the age of seventeen years—a sort of canine Methuselah. His end was pathetic in the extreme. He always slept at the foot of my bed, and I was one night awakened by feeling him creep up and gently lick my hand, after which he somewhat laboriously returned to his usual place, once more to relapse, as I thought, into peaceful slumber. From this sleep, however, he was not to awake, for in the morning I found him dead. It has always seemed to me that the caress which he gave me that night was a last farewell, bestowed whilst dimly conscious of his impending end.

For some years I always had one or two of the dogs known as the “lion dogs of China,” most beautiful little animals with a luxuriant coat of a light brown colour, and having particularly fine tails. These were given me by the late Duchess of Richmond; indeed the breed was then only to be obtained from Goodwood, the late Duke of Richmond having been sent some of them from China. I believe, however, that now there are other families of these Chinese dogs in England, for of late I have occasionally observed them in the streets. Every dog of this kind which I possessed was called Goodie, from Goodwood, the home of its family. These Goodies were dogs of very curious characters and marked individuality. One especially I recall to mind, an extremely fine dog, who was a canine misogynist of the most pronounced kind. On one occasion it was arranged that he should accompany me on a visit to Goodwood, there to form a matrimonial alliance with a distant cousin—a charming little lady Goodie. Her attractions, however, did not appeal to him, and the moment that he set eyes upon his fiancée he became moody and ill-tempered, immediately attempting to run away. The extreme disgust he manifested was only too visibly shown in a photograph taken of the couple (the fiancée, by the way, looking somewhat ashamed and embarrassed), side by side, sitting up on their hind legs. Nothing would induce him to stay with her, and when he eventually escaped he at once demonstrated his extreme joy by racing all over the house, barking in the most obstreperous manner. All ideas of the contemplated alliance had to be dropped, and when my Goodie returned with me to London he was still a bachelor, in which celibate condition he ever afterwards remained.

CANINE PETS

A breed of dogs somewhat resembling the “lion dogs” are the little Pekinese, some beautiful specimens of which are owned by Lady Algernon Gordon-Lennox. I believe that there is only one other possessor of the true breed of these very valuable little dogs in England.

Amongst other dogs which I have possessed, I very well remember a Kurdish sheep-dog which was sent me by my brother from Turkey. It had an extraordinary name, Bedar Khan Beg, I think it was, and this, together with the £40 which its journey to England cost me, causes it to linger in my recollection. It was not a particularly attractive animal, and I never got to care for it very much. I hardly had time to do so, indeed, for it only lived a month after it arrived, never recovering from the fatigue of its very costly voyage.

In the letter which my brother wrote announcing the despatch of this canine gift, he told me that an interview he had had with a certain Pasha had much amused him—amongst other humorous incidents, his dragoman translated a remark made in Turkish by the Pasha, “The dog lies,” as “Le Pasha dit que monsieur se trompe!”

Sir Edwin Landseer once gave me a collie, and a very beautiful animal it was, with one rather annoying fault, however, that of barking on every possible opportunity—a habit, I believe, which is very often found amongst collies.

Looking back upon the many canine pets which have lived out their little lives by my side, it is a pleasure for me to think that their existence was in every case about as happy as a dog’s life can be, for their faithfulness and affection I delighted to repay in the best manner I could; and when, in the natural course of events, they sank into their eternal slumber, I felt that I had nothing wherewith to reproach myself on the score of neglect or inhumanity. Many of my dogs lie peacefully buried in an animals’ cemetery which I had laid out at our house in Hampshire, and over the graves of some of them I even put up short epitaphs, one of the best of which was written by Mr. W. H. Mallock, who at that time had just created a considerable sensation with his very clever book. The New Republic:—

ON TOPSY

Where art thou now, little wandering

Life, that so faithfully dwelt with us,

Played with us, felt with us, fed with us,

Years we grew fonder and fonder in?

You who but yesterday sprang to us,

Are we for ever bereft of thee,

And is this all that is left of thee,

One little grave and a pang to us?

I do not know whether the lines written by Louis XVIII., to be inscribed on the collar of a dog belonging to Madame de Caylus, are generally known:—

On n’offre point de largesse à celui qui me trouvera,

Qui me rapporte à ma maîtresse pour récompense il la verra.

The dogs most to be envied in England are certainly those at Sandringham, King Edward’s Norfolk home. Here Queen Alexandra, kindest and most feminine of queens, whose love of animals is quite unbounded, has always several beautiful indoor pets who are looked after with the most loving care; whilst the splendid condition of a number of more robust dogs, who live out of doors under the most perfect conditions possible, attests the great attention devoted to their welfare.

HORSES AND RIDING

Besides dogs, I have had many horses which were more or less pets. Such a one was a mare, Black Bess by name, who was so gentle that I could ride her up close to a street door and ring the bell from her back. I rode more or less for the greater portion of my life, but I cannot say that I was ever very devoted to riding—perhaps I had too much of it when I was a child, when a very great deal of my time was spent in the saddle.

The first horse which I recollect being allowed to have for my very own was a beautiful grey mare, Testina, so called on account of her little head. She was the daughter of my father’s racehorse, Clearwell, the winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and on her, as a little girl, I rode with him from Antwerp to Munich in the ’thirties, when railways were scarcely in existence. After this I had many other horses, but I eventually gave up riding with but little regret; my early experiences with Testina, who was seventeen hands high, and extremely difficult to manage, having rather set me against that form of exercise.

Driving appealed to me much more in the ’sixties and early ’seventies. I had two ponies which I really loved. These I used to drive in the low pony-chaise so fashionable at that date, controlling them with the whip combined with a parasol, which the present generation only knows from Leech’s drawings in Punch. At the slightest touch they would (though in reality perfectly manageable) perform the most astounding antics, rearing up in the air and shaking their heads in a manner which startled every one except myself, who knew the real gentleness of their disposition. These ponies lived to a great age, and when they were past work I took care that they should spend their last years in well-earned peace and happiness in a pleasant paddock.

Birds of all sorts I have owned in numbers, amongst them a parrot which never talked at all for a year, till one day when we had a luncheon-party it burst out into a torrent of bad language which much disconcerted everybody.

Mr. Bernal Osborne, I remember, used to have an amusing story about a parrot, which he used to tell when desirous of administering a sly dig at any one who had contrived to obtain a reputation for cleverness by merely saying nothing at all. A great ornithologist, he declared, once advertised for sale the cleverest parrot in the world. The price was large—£500—but would-be purchasers were asked to realise that the bird was absolutely the cleverest in the world. This announcement created a considerable sensation amongst lovers of parrots, and eventually a rich old lady, having somewhat reluctantly paid the required price, secured the treasure. She kept it for some months, during which it said not a single word; but thinking the bird still felt strange amidst its new surroundings she determined to wait a year, and if she had waited a hundred the result would have been the same—never a word did the parrot utter. At the end of this time, being very naturally annoyed, she went to the ornithologist and expressed her surprise and disappointment. “The parrot you sold me,” said she,—“the cleverest bird in the world, you called it,—never speaks at all.” “No,” was the reply, “but remember, it’s a very devil to think.”

A DEMOISELLE CRANE

At the time of the Crimean War General Sir John Mitchell sent me a live demoiselle crane—whether the bird was a demoiselle or a monsieur we never discovered, but she or he lived with us at our home in Hampshire in the greatest amity and peace. There were, indeed, occasional insinuations that fresh eggs disappeared in a mysterious manner, but we did our best not to believe these base accusations against our dear friend. At one time, I remember, she insisted on taking care of a little family of chickens, leaving the inconsolable mother to go crying about in a despondent manner. In addition to the crane we usually used to have two storks striding about the grounds, but I do not believe they were ever really happy; possibly they did not easily resign themselves to the want of water to bathe and splash about in. I fear also that there must have been something wanting in the food we gave them, for after a short sojourn with us pair after pair went to a better land. In consequence of this continued mortality we eventually had recourse to a post-mortem examination, in order to discover the exact cause of their death. It was then found that the responsibility lay with their diet, which was shown to have been somewhat Spartan in character, and to have consisted for the most part of small pieces of slate, bricks, and what was still more singular, brass buttons of various sizes. The digestion of these poor birds, strong as it was, had not been able to cope with this extraordinary collection of hardware, which they had probably been forced to adopt as a menu owing to the lack of some substance which the soil did not supply.

For many years I delighted in the possession of two choughs,—delightful birds, with red feet and beaks, as tame as magpies. A pair of them, to our great astonishment and delight, made a nest in a tower of our house, laid a couple of eggs, and gave every appearance of preparing for the advent of a family. We were all much excited about it, for it is, I believe, an unheard-of thing for choughs to breed in captivity. In the expectation of an event which seemed likely to cause a considerable stir in natural history circles, we forbore from disturbing the enterprising couple in any way; but at last it became clear from careful observation that the blessed day of hatching would never arrive.

MY CHOUGHS

Sir William (then Mr.) Flower was immensely interested in our choughs, so when all hope of offspring was at an end I wrote informing him of the sad downfall of our anticipations, and received the following letter in return:—

St. John’s Lodge, nr. Aylesbury,

Sept. 5, 1882.

My Dear Lady Dorothy—I am sorry to hear that the choughs did not hatch, but hope that they will do better next year; it is something that you have saved two of the eggs, and I shall be very pleased to add one of them to the collection under my care, if you will kindly send it addressed to me at the College of Surgeons, any time after the 16th of this month, when I return to town.

It will be safer than sending it here, where we are all spending a pleasant autumn holiday.

We were for a week, last month, at Norfolk, at Lord Walsingham’s, whose beautiful entomological collections you are probably acquainted with. He is a very enthusiastic naturalist.

We have not been to Combe Lodge or Dangstein since the spring, though Lady Thompson has kindly asked us to go again; but as we have several other visits to pay, I am not sure whether we shall be able to accomplish it before the autumn has gone.

I trust that when you are in London again you will not forget to come to see my museum; just now we are full of painters, and I am afraid it will be two months at least before it is restored to its normal condition of order.

With kind regards, in which Mrs. Flower joins,—I remain, yours very truly,

W. H. Flower.

The following year our choughs were once again observed building a nest in the same tower, and in due course our eyes were gladdened by the sight of eggs lying peacefully in the nest, at which we used to peer through a trap-door which could be opened without arousing the choughs’ alarm. At last came the happy day when one little fledgling actually made its appearance; at last we seemed certain of being able to announce that we had achieved an ornithological record. From time to time, however, further peeps at the new arrival began to disconcert and puzzle us, for its plumage of the most unchoughlike character did not at all accord with that of its parents; and one fine day, alas, the dreadful truth was at last forced upon us—the choughs had hatched out a little starling!

In the end everything was explained, for, on investigation, it was discovered that our pair of choughs were both of them hens—the reason that the two eggs had never produced offspring! The two poor birds, evidently realising that their only hope of a family lay in adoption, had the next year annexed the eggs of some unfortunate starling, and then hatched out the little alien, whose arrival in the world was the cause of our disappointment and disgust.

At our place in Sussex, just on the borders of Hampshire, I had a very large garden, and here, besides greenhouses, was an aviary in which were kept many different kinds of birds. I do not know, however, that aviaries are ever a great success; it is far more pleasant, indeed, to see birds at liberty like my choughs, who used to stalk about the grounds as if the whole place belonged to them, as did also the poor storks; these latter, however, always looked melancholy, owing, I suppose, to the permanent state of indigestion produced by their partiality for dining off broken crockery. I was very proud of my garden, in which most of the distinguished botanists and biologists of that day, including Sir Joseph Hooker and Charles Darwin, took a great interest.

MR. DARWIN

In my greenhouses I had at one time a large collection of insectivorous plants, specimens of which I used occasionally to send to Mr. Darwin, who carried on a correspondence with me about these curious things, in which he was very much interested. I went once to pay him a visit at his house at Down, in Kent, but unluckily found him suffering from one of those attacks from which he perpetually suffered, he having never perfectly recovered from the terrible sea-sickness which tortured him during his voyage on the Beagle. In consequence of his indisposition I was only able to talk to him for a short while, but, nevertheless, he told me a great deal about the digestive powers of the secretion of the drosera or sun-dew, which, as he had actually proved by experiment, acted upon albuminous compounds in exactly the same manner as does the gastric juice of mammals.

One or two of our greenhouses were entirely devoted to rare plants and orchids, which were sent to me by my friends from every part of the world. The late Lord Sherbrooke, then Mr. Lowe, and Mr. Bernal Osborne, I remember, used rather to laugh at my partiality for horticulture—the latter especially used to declare that ladies liked taking in scientific men by pretending an interest in the subjects which were their especial study. Mr. Cobden, however, took the warmest interest in my gardening experiments, and wrote to me often on the subject. In 1861, when in Algiers, which in those days was, of course, not nearly so well known as at present, he sent me the following letter:—

LETTER FROM MR. COBDEN

Algiers,

19th January 1861.

My Dear Lady Dorothy—It was, indeed, very kind of you to think of me when in another quarter of the globe. I will not lose a post in replying to your kind inquiries. The weather here is delightful. It is an English summer. I suspect from the admission of the natives that we have an exceptional fine season. However, I have derived great benefit from the change. There is really no excuse for coughs or asthmas here, for we have generally a blue sky, and never any fogs or white frosts. I have been annoyed for many months with a sort of stiff neck. It is precisely the same as if I had sat in a draught and caught cold yesterday. I have a difficulty in turning my head without turning my body. You know I have been (all my life) rather stiff-necked in a moral sense, but this permanent muscular affection is rather novel and puzzling. However, I hope it will yield to the warm weather and other remedies. You would be delighted to see the fields and the gardens covered with roses and flowers. In walking in the country the other day I plucked a little wild flower like a larkspur, with leaves somewhat resembling parsley, and I remarked to my wife, “If we had found this in Lady Dorothy’s conservatory, how we should have admired it!” The hedges are generally made of cactus and aloes, and they would puzzle the fox-hunters to go through them. The country is generally very uncultivated, and is covered with dwarf palms. The date-palm does not bear fruit here, though the trees grow very tall. You must penetrate some hundreds of miles into the interior to find the best dates. The city of Algiers, which stands on the steep slope of a hill, presents a strange aspect to the European visitor. There is a greater variety of costume than even at Cairo. You see Arabs, Turks, Jews, and Greeks mixed up with every variety of military French uniforms. There are a great many soldiers here, and I confess I should not feel quite so safe among the Arabs (who in their heart have no love for the infidel) if we had not a strong garrison of the pantalons rouges. The Moorish women walk about with their figures enveloped in white muslin, leaving only holes for the eyes. If one of these were seen walking near Dangstein the country people would be frightened, and would think that a newly buried corpse had escaped from the churchyard. There is a Jardin d’Essai, or experimental nursery garden, near Algiers, kept up by Government, which affords pleasant walks. A great number of the shrubs which you have under glass are flourishing here. The custard-apple flourishes. What surprises one is the rapidity with which the trees grow. There are some which in fifteen years have grown as large as they would have grown in forty or fifty in England. They have very little idle time, for there is no winter, and, if they get plenty of water, they grow rapidly in the summer. The orange tree is very fine in Algeria, but they are cultivated more extensively at Blidah, thirty miles in the interior, than here. They require a great deal of water at their roots. In fact, all the fruit, whether dates or other things, depends on irrigation. “Their feet in water and their heads in the fire” is the phrase used by the natives to show the treatment that agrees with them. If the climate did not make people idle, what an immense production there might be where there is no winter and the land of waters requires no rest! The vegetable market in Algiers at eight in the morning is a sight to see, such piles of cauliflowers, beans, peas, and new potatoes. I cannot say a word about politics; I am busy with Adam Bede, The Woman in White, and other equally amusing volumes. I spend as much time as possible out of doors. There are forty or fifty English visitors here for their health, besides a few residents, and there is a staff of engineers and navvies employed by Peto and Co. on a railway and a boulevard, for which they have a contract. The hotels are good, but not cheap. Many people find lodgings a little way in the country. There—I am afraid I have exhausted nearly all my Algerian news. Pray give my kind regards to Mr. Nevill. I hope the severe weather has not interfered with his farming operations. I hear a good account of my lambs. I shall remain here till I get quite strong, and my return home will depend on the weather in England. I shall not attempt to be in the House at the opening of Parliament. I was working in Paris the whole of last summer and autumn, and can therefore take a little holiday with a clear conscience. My wife joins me in kind regards to you and family.—Very truly yours,

R. C.

SILKWORMS

It was through Mr. Cobden that I obtained a special sort of silkworm which at one time I kept in my garden. Before this I had from time to time experimented with the ordinary silkworm which feeds upon mulberry leaves; but my experiences had not been very satisfactory, for, in addition to other inconveniences, my silkworms, which were kept in the house, used occasionally to stray about and get up people’s trousers, much to their inconvenience and horror. So I determined to make an altogether new departure, and had a sort of regular silkworm farm laid out in a part of the garden where it could be under constant observation. A certain portion of this ground was entirely devoted to the Ailanthus glandulosa, or “Tree of Heaven,” which is quite hardy. On its leaves lives the Ailanthus silkworm, which I then set about to procure, and wrote to several of my friends asking them to assist me. Eventually it was through the kindly efforts of Mr. Cobden that my ambition was achieved, as the following letter will show:—

Algiers, 23rd February 1861.

My Dear Lady Dorothy—My wife will have the pleasure of writing to you with the beads, and I merely wish to add that I am also sending some amber beads they procured for me. Having called at the Jardin d’Essai here, and spoken with the intelligent director, he tells me that he has only about one hundred cocoons of the kind of silkworm you allude to, and that he obtained them from Paris, where he advises me to apply for some. He wrote me the following:—“Pour avoir des œufs ou des cocons de ver à soie de l’Ailante, s’addresser à M. G. Ménéirlle, secrétaire de la société Impériale d’acclimatation à Paris.” I give you this address so minutely that you may be enabled, if you are impatient to possess these little animals, to send for them before I return through Paris, otherwise, if you will be so good as to express the wish, I shall be delighted to execute the commission for you on my way home. The weather is delightful here. Last week I placed a thermometer on a table in the sun in front of the house, and it stood up to 95°. We find it too warm. With kind remembrances to Mr. Nevill,—I remain, very truly yours,

R. C.

These silkworms did very well indeed, and I actually obtained enough silk to have a dress made out of it; but in the end I was compelled to give up keeping the Ailanthus moth on account of the small birds—tits in particular—which were so taken with what they came to regard as an irresistible gastronomic treat, that all precautions, such as nets, scarecrows, and the like, proved powerless to save the poor silkworms from destruction.

At that time the cult of gardens was not, as now, universally popular; it was before the day of garden books, though some very good works on horticulture of a more serious type were occasionally published. Such a one was a very interesting book called My Garden, written by a Mr. Smee, who had a beautiful garden near Carshalton. This was embellished with cuts of nearly every plant, bird, or insect which the owner had observed upon his domain—a most excellent idea which was admirably carried out. Of course, amongst modern garden books there is none to compare with the delightful Potpourri from a Surrey Garden, a work which, in addition to containing much valuable horticultural information, is also permeated with the personal charm and originality of its gifted writer.

LINES BY MR. LOWE

Though people did not, as a rule, formerly devote so much care and attention to their gardens as is now the case, many country houses had attached to them “a garden of friendship.” One of these, at Cortachy, in Scotland, I particularly recall to mind, on account of the many happy days I have spent with its mistress, Lady Airlie, a very dear and old friend of mine. Mr. Lowe (afterwards Lord Sherbrooke) once wrote on this garden some very pretty verses, a tribute to a hostess for whom he entertained the very highest admiration. It was, alas, but seldom that Mr. Lowe exercised his gift of graceful versification, but the lines in question show that his talents in this direction were of no mean order:—

THE GARDEN OF FRIENDSHIP AT CORTACHY

Is life a good? then if a good it be,

Mine be a life like thine, thou steadfast tree;

The selfsame earth that gave the sapling place

Receives the mouldering trunk in soft embrace,

The selfsame comrades ever at thy side,

Who knows not Envy, Wilfulness, or Pride.

The Winter’s waste repaired by lavish Spring,

The rustling breezes that about thee sing,

The intertwining shadows at thy feet,

Make up thy life, and such a life is sweet.

What though beneath this artificial shade

No Fauns have gambolled and no Dryads strayed!

Though the coy nurslings of serener skies

Shudder when Caledonian tempests rise,

Yet sways a cheering influence o’er the grove

More soft than nature, more sedate than love.

And not unhonoured shall thy grove ascend

For every stem was planted by a friend,

And she, at whose command its shades arise,

Is good and gracious, true and fair and wise.