Part 15

When thoroughly cleaned and put into good order, with the addition of a modern spring mattress, they make by no means an unattractive couch. As a rule those four-posters are low, for people had low bedrooms in old days. In many of them the woodwork above the shelf at the head of the bed is a good deal charred—this is the result of burning by the candles placed there by their former occupants, who would seem to have been very careless as to fire. A great many oak bedsteads have very thick pillars at the foot, the bases of which in some cases resemble the legs of the old dining-tables, which were in most cases relegated to outhouses and attics about the time of the downfall of the Stuarts. These tables were in many cases adorned with some slight degree of inlaid work, and could be lengthened by pulling out flaps at each end. At the particular period when these tables were in use, furniture was not very abundant in English houses, but what there was of it was very useful and solid, elaborate ornamentation being principally confined to the chairs, specimens of which may still sometimes be found in out-of-the-way villages. Authentic pieces of Jacobean furniture of oak of English growth and of somewhat severe design may generally be recognised by its colour, which is something quite different from the dull black surface of modern imitations. Its patina, indeed, if such a word can be applied to furniture, is one which time alone can give, and this not even the most skilled manipulator can copy. In the time of the Charleses there was also a certain quantity of richly upholstered furniture in which velvet and tapestry had their place. At Knole, Lord Sackville’s beautiful treasure-house, are many fine examples of this sort of work, amongst them a bed and a complete set of bedroom furniture given by King James I., the coverings being of red silk ornamented with gold thread and silver spangles.

A curious feature of Knole is the attic which for generations has been known as the Dumb-bell Gallery, on account of its containing a quaint wooden machine something like a windlass without handles. Around the middle of the roller is wound a rope, and at each end are four iron arms terminating in a ball of lead. The rope formerly passed through a hole in the floor into a gallery below, and any one pulling it would cause the roller to revolve and rewind the rope again, giving the person pulling it the same exercise as is obtained by ringing a church bell. In the seventeenth century, bell-ringing was a very popular pastime, and probably it was about this time that the machine was set up in order to afford opportunities for silent practice.

In all likelihood the modern wooden dumb-bell was developed from the handles of the windlass dumb-bell by some athlete who understood its possibilities. An illustration of this windlass and its handles is given in an excellent privately printed account of Knole which Colonel Sackville West has written.

A dumb-bell machine of the same kind, or rather the remains of it, was also in existence up to some few years ago at New College, Oxford—indeed, it may be still there to-day.

The leaden waterspouts at Knole are other very curious features, most of them being some two hundred years old and bearing the initials and arms of Thomas Sackville. There is also some chintz in the house which is over a hundred years old. Made of a material known as _Toile de Jouy_, it still retains its colour in spite of the countless cleanings which it must have undergone. The old English furniture at Knole with its original coverings is one of the marvels of the place—the rare old stuffs being in a most unusual state of preservation.

Some time ago, when one of the sofas from a set covered with old red velvet belonging to the Great Gallery was under repair, a yet older covering, dating from the reign of Elizabeth, came to light. The woodwork of the set in question, it may be added, is elaborately carved, the work in all probability of Italian workmen who were imported into England in Jacobean days. Few old mansions are in such a wonderful state of preservation as Knole, which in its present condition may be called a monument of judicious taste. This happy effect, I may add, has been in a great measure produced by the reverent restorations and judicious care exercised by Mrs. Sackville West, a lady whose knowledge of art and whose artistic discrimination are of the highest possible character. Of these gifts Knole itself as it is to-day forms a sufficiently convincing demonstration.

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.

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,

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.