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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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,