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.
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:—