Collectanea de Diversis Rebus: Addresses and Papers

A vinery, and a verandah utilised as a summer conservatory, complete this note of the arrangements of my city garden, and from this brief record it will be seen that an effort has been made to make every use of the available space and of its several possibilities.

I do not propose to detain you with any detailed account of the flowers and plants which can be grown, or which flourish fairly at the present date in this limited city garden. There are many which are hopeless by reason of the city air and city soil. And I have found the more delicate flowers to be so uncertain as to be scarcely worth the trouble of planting out. Others again fall inevitable victims to the myriads of autumn slugs. But spring bulbs, the autumn hardy flowers, and some annuals, as well as the robuster ferns, do well, and fully repay the trouble of cultivation.

As to ferns, in my former and more open garden higher up the street, I once had as many as forty different varieties growing abroad; but, of course, these gradually died out, so that at the end of four or five years only the common and hardier sorts remained. Some of these, which were removed, are still very fine specimens, and have lasted in their new home, as such, for many years.

It would have been very interesting had any list or catalogue of Sir Thomas Browne’s “paradise” of vegetable rarities been left to us, for a comparison of the possibilities of a city garden two hundred years ago with those of the present day, but none such is known to exist.

I have mentioned the fact that several old apple trees exist in my garden, possibly as old as the house itself, which is understood to have been built 160 or 170 years ago. And I would just mention here that beyond the roof of my stable buildings, and seen conspicuously from my garden, rises – nay, towers up towards the sky, that grand old Aspen-poplar, which is, perhaps, the greatest ornament of the adjacent Chapel Field, though I think scarcely adequately appreciated. This tree has a girth of some 15 feet about a yard above the ground, is 90 to 100 feet high, and was so remarkable even fifty-eight years ago as to have been then pictured by Grigor, in his “Eastern Arboretum,” as one of the most notable trees in this district. In its later state a photographic sketch of it is given in my book on St. Giles’s parish, published in 1886, although I fear that this scarcely adequately pictures its grandeur.8

Blomfield states that the great avenue of elm trees in Chapel Field, also partly visible from my garden, was planted in 1746 by Sir Thomas Churchman, who is understood to have then lived in my present house, and who, I believe, then hired the open Chapel Field of the Norwich Corporation. It may be interesting to state here that some three or four years ago one of the largest of that row of elm trees was blown down in a gale. When this tree was sawn across, I took the trouble to count the rings which this section displayed. The outer ones were so thin and irregular that it was not possible to tell their number quite exactly, but as nearly as I could count the total number was between 140 and 150. This number, added to the few which would exist on the young tree when planted, would give a date approximating very closely to that assigned by Blomfield. This is an interesting historical fact, though, perhaps, somewhat irrelevant, and its mention will, I hope, be excused on this ground.

In my own garden the various trees appear to be healthy, but some of them increase very slowly. A small pear tree planted against the ivy-covered wall some twenty years ago is scarcely larger than when planted there, even although it every year sends out a full quantity of fresh green shoots. And a pink thorn tree, transplanted into it a few years ago, actually remained perfectly quiescent, as if dead, for a whole year, and then resumed vitality and growth. It is now a vigorous healthy tree, sending forth every year its normal shoots and blossoms.

Animal Life. – Such a garden as mine affords a considerable opportunity for observing the ways, and habits, and manners of many animals, none of which are uninteresting. Shall I weary you by mentioning the cats, which so often make it their playground, and their afternoon as well as their nightly meeting-place? Although I cannot say that caterwauling is harmonious, or equivalent to the strains of the bands which so agreeably discourse music in the adjacent Chapel Field on summer evenings, yet there is much of interest, as well as amusement, to be derived from noting the varied yet distinct language, and from watching the very curious customs of the cats themselves, familiar as these may be to all of us. I am favoured with visits of cats of all sizes and all colours – black, grey, cyprus, sandy, grey and white, and almost all intermediate shades. And it is certainly curious to watch the manifestations of their loves and their hates, their friendliness and their jealousies, their sunny enjoyments and their predatory instincts, and their methods of attack and defence. These latter, though often very noisy, by no means necessarily consist in open fighting, but are very commonly carried on by what Mr. C. Morris calls the mentality of latter-day life. These hostile cats (as you have probably observed) will very constantly settle their relative superiority, not by biting and scratching, or actual fighting, but by what is actually a “staring match,” in which the influence of mind over matter is well demonstrated. They place themselves a few feet apart, and stare at each other, until one of them confesses himself beaten, by slowly backing away from his opponent, and then suddenly turning round and running away. This is a form of duelling which might well be copied in human life; and, still more, might properly be adopted in the case of nations, where “mental” arbitration, from a steady calculation of strength, would take the place of bullets and bayonets.

As with Cats, so with Sparrows; it may be said that they are constant friends that are always with us. Yet, though so common, they are a never failing source of interest in a city garden, if only because they always provide some conspicuous life and motion; and in mine, because they may nearly always be heard chirping or quarrelling in the ivy, which covers so much of the garden walls.

I am sorry that Miss Ormerod gives them such a bad character as to their appetites. But not being personally engaged in agriculture, I can only rejoice that nature has provided them with such strong constitutions, and healthy and active digestions. Beyond this, it is certainly a pleasure to a townsman to note their chatterings, their amicable, if noisy, contentions for the best places in the ivy, their demonstrative courtships, their dust-baths in the dry ground, or their water-baths in the pans provided for them for this purpose, and their evident love for the neighbourhood and companionship (at a properly regulated distance) of mankind.

What a contrast there is between the active, fluttering, often noisy House Sparrow, and its quiet, retiring, and gentle-mannered neighbour, the Hedge Sparrow.

This was well illustrated in the early part of last December, in this way; the Hedge Sparrow (or Dunnock or Accentor) does not often visit my garden, but one of these pretty birds did come at this time, and having incautiously entered the open door of my greenhouse, got shut up in it. Next morning, on my entering, it was, of course, somewhat frightened. But instead of violently fluttering about, and dashing itself against the window, as the House Sparrow will do in like circumstances, it very quietly and gently flew away from me, and then at once dropped down behind the brick flue, where it remained quiet and concealed, in spite of my efforts to find it, as I desired to do in order to give it its liberty. The same thing exactly happened on some following mornings; and being fed regularly, it has remained there to the present time, i. e. the date of this paper.

There are plenty of other birds whose visits and whose peculiarities would provide abundant material for a paper much longer than I can venture now to inflict upon you. But they are all welcome for the sake of the varieties of life and habits they present – as well as for what Tennyson so prettily describes as their “singing and calling.”

My grass-plot is the feeding-ground of the greedy and quarrelsome Starlings, which will often come for their meal of worms or other food at quite regular hours, usually at ten or eleven o’clock in the morning, and three to four in the afternoon. And occasionally the Jackdaws, from our neighbouring church-steeple, where they live and breed, will venture – most carefully and cautiously – to alight on the grass in search of food. Whilst even the Norwich Rooks will, when hard pressed in bad weather, occasionally dart down from a tree for crusts of bread or other edible matter obtainable in the garden.

Thrushes and Blackbirds are chiefly in evidence during the nesting season; and it is noticeable how tame or rather incautious they appear to become during this period. It would almost seem as if the sitting process produced in them (as has been noted of other birds) a dullness or partial stupor of intelligence. Whilst after hatching, the urgent and continuous calls of their young ones for food evidently renders their desire to satisfy these imperative and destructive of prudence. This very year a full-grown Blackbird ventured along the grass in search of worms almost up to the house verandah, in which, unfortunately, a cat lay basking; and, as a matter of course, the bird was instantly pounced upon. She escaped, however, almost by a miracle, but she left nearly the whole of her feathers behind her, and almost in a state of nudity.

It is curious to observe how the Blackbirds and Thrushes will not only provide worm-food for their nestlings, but how they will prepare these worms and make them fit for swallowing down the young throats. They will often, when they have tugged a worm out of the grass, proceed to peck it into small and suitable lengths, and will then carry these, arranged in their mouths in suitable bundles, to the nest.

Blackbirds appear not to gain knowledge by experience, at least in some particulars. I witness almost every year a repetition of what I may term “the tragedy of the Blackbirds.” Evidently the same old birds will yearly build a nest in almost the same portion of the ivy on one of the walls, and not more than six or seven feet from the ground. Well, this is all right so long as the old birds are merely sitting and make no noise, so as to attract feline attention. But as soon as the young birds are hatched, and begin to make vocal demonstrations, of course they fall victims to their natural enemies and “bird-fanciers,” and the nests and their occupants are ruthlessly dragged out from their positions and destroyed. This occurs year after year. I believe that then the birds will sometimes build again elsewhere. But they certainly return to almost the same locality in the following spring, and their offspring again become victims of the inappropriateness of their selected homes.

Plenty of other birds also come to the garden at various times and seasons, and add to its life and interest —Robins, Bluetits, Nuthatches, Redwings, Missel-thrushes, and others – but of their behaviour in the winter season, and when habitually fed, I have already discoursed to this Society, so will not further trouble you now with their noticeable peculiarities.

Reptiles. – Perhaps it would scarcely be expected that the Reptile race would provide much of interest for a city garden. Yet it may be truly said that this class of creatures has done almost more than any other to provide my garden with material for this.

As this Society will know from my previous communications to its “Transactions,” I have long kept two Tortoises, and year by year noted their habits and most remarkable peculiarities. These have been already fully described in the Society’s records, and I can only now add to what I before stated, that they still continue to increase in size and weight, and at about the same rate of progression as twelve or thirteen years ago. They still gain 1½ to 2 ounces in weight in each summer, and lose about 1 or 1¼ ounce in weight during each winter hybernation. The total result is, that whilst they weighed respectively 2 lbs. 10 ozs. and 2 lbs. 5 ozs. in September, 1886, they weighed in October last 3 lbs. 13 ozs. and 3 lbs. 8 ozs., having thus each gained in weight during this period 1 lb. 3 ozs., or on an average about one ounce and a quarter in each year.

Other reptilians which I have tried to domesticate (for observation) in my garden are Toads and Frogs. But I am bound to say that I have not been successful in preserving them in any numbers for more than a brief period. Their appearance and disappearance has at times been very mysterious and inexplicable, but on the whole those which I have imported have, as a rule, soon either died or been otherwise disposed of. Is it not probable, I would suggest, that they, or at least the smaller ones, have fallen a prey to Jackdaws, Rooks, or even Starlings?

Of the Frogs which I brought home, only one survived the second year. But this one appeared to thrive in a remarkable degree for several years. It would apparently lie dormant for many months, and would then reappear, lively, fat, and much grown, for a few weeks in the late summer or early autumn; after which he would be no more seen until the following year.

Toads are more interesting than Frogs; and, indeed, in a city garden, by no means produce that feeling of loathing which is popularly supposed to be inherent in them. On the contrary, they quickly become tame, and almost assume the status of garden pets. And as a matter of fact, I entirely disagree with Shakespeare, who calls them “ugly and venomous.”

At first the Toads which I imported would come out regularly on suitable evenings, and sit or hop about on the damp grass or flower-borders. And they exhibited a most special tendency (as has been observed by others) to come down to the house as if desiring an entrance. Indeed, when the door was open they would not unfrequently walk in. And I have more than once found one of them in my study or other room, sitting up in a corner, looking happy and comfortable, and quietly staring at me with its bright eyes, as if I were the real intruder.

The direction of my rooms from the garden is from south to north. I do not know if this was possibly expressive of any migratory instinct.

Like the Frogs, of a number of Toads which I introduced into my garden, only three or four remained in the following year; and soon all disappeared, except one, whose end was peculiar and of dramatic interest. It occurred in this way: A neighbour kept in his adjacent garden some other reptiles, namely, some non-poisonous snakes. One of these seems to have escaped from its cage and got over the dividing wall into my garden, and on one summer morning was discovered by me on my grass-plot, with this Toad (about a half-grown one) in his mouth, which he was trying to kill or swallow. I suppose the Toad was too large or too lively, for the snake was making very serious exertions, and was actively agitating its body in a linear direction. When seen at a distance, it looked like a stout piece of cord or fine rope agitated by the wind, with a movement like that of a carpet when it is flapped and shaken. The Toad had been seized by the hinder part of its back, as shown by the two bleeding punctures afterwards found.

When the snake saw me advancing towards it, it rapidly wriggled or undulated away towards the ivy-covered wall, where it was lost. But it retained its hold of the Toad almost to the last, and until I had got quite close up to it.

This incident is not only interesting, but it also shows that these reptiles must have some instinctive power of knowing of the neighbourhood of comparatively distant prey; for the rockery stones from which it was taken must have been at least thirty to forty yards from its own domicile. Such an instinct would seem to be the equivalent of that well known to be possessed by birds of prey. I regret that this poor Toad did not long survive his fright and bad usage.

My Toads have exhibited the usual tendency of these animals to hide away beneath stones or earth, and in unfrequented corners. When discovered it is curious to watch their half-frightened expression, and their peculiar mode of breathing by their under jaw, which appears at once to increase in rapidity. They do not resist much when handled, but it is curious to note how they continue to swell their sides out, until they produce a very prominent rotundity of their body. After the episode of the Snake and my Toad, the idea suggests itself that this is intended to make themselves as large as possible, not from envy of the Ox, as stated in the fable with reference to the Frog, but to make themselves too large a morsel to be swallowed by the lesser of those animals which prey upon them.

These “Toads in holes” would come out from their retreat in dry weather, a few hours before rain, after which they would again disappear, often for a long season.

Insects. – There are plenty of these in every garden, however small; and Bees, Flies, Beetles, and especially Spiders, would afford a never ending source of interest. The only insects which I have specially watched are Ants, nests and colonies of which appear and reappear every summer upon my garden paths, or upon the adjacent portions of the grass-plots.

We all know of the very numerous observers of and writers upon these little creatures; and their works, from Huber down to Sir John Lubbock, will be more or less familiar to us all. Their industry, their building powers, their gregarious nature, their division of labour, their apparent working for the common good, their devotion to the young, their colonizing instincts, as well as some of the changes which their insect forms undergo, are all there recorded.

And many of these things are easily to be observed by anyone who takes the trouble.

I can only venture here to make one or two brief notes on their proceedings in St. Giles’s Street.

Both the small brown and the small black Ants are to be here seen, but they occupy different positions; and not only do not seem to be on neighbourly terms with each other, but fight at once if experimentally placed together.

The brown Ants are the more numerous, and in the summer months display an enormous amount of activity. Doubtless there is a good reason for their incessant movements, but to the ordinary observer these often seem to be purposeless and merely the result of restlessness and excess of energy.

The favourite situation for their little Ant-hills is decidedly along the edge of the gravel path, where this abuts upon the grass sward, and it is noticeable that almost the whole of these are placed on the easterly edge of this. From these nests, or centres, very little use is made of the adjacent grass territory, but from nearly all a track is made across the gravel path to its opposite (westerly) side, where either a hole is made into a small fresh home, or a semi-tunnel is made through the grass edging on to and into the earth of the flower-border beyond. There appears to be no attempt to tunnel in the firm gravel path, but the incessant racing backward and forward in the same line very soon (as Sir John Lubbock, now Lord Avebury, has pointed out) makes a well-trodden road, along which they follow each other in rapid succession.

As to their hour of rising in the morning for work, I cannot speak from personal observation. But as Solomon holds them out as an example to those inclined unduly to keep their beds, I conclude that their motto is, “Early to rise.” But I can say that the opposite half of this proverb, namely, “Early to bed,” does not apply to them, for, at least in the warm weather, they do certainly often work until late at night.

It is very interesting to watch these Ants at work, and to note their activity and energy and strength. An Ant is “but a little creature,” but he is certainly able to perform a large amount of physical work. And especially is this seen in the way he builds up those little heaps of earth known as Ant-hills. I have had many of these under observation, and the rapidity with which they reappear after injury by pressure or a heavy rain-storm is very remarkable. Twenty-four hours, or even less, being often sufficient for their complete restoration. They are of varying form, but some are perfectly conical, with a circular hole at the top exactly like that of some Norfolk “kilns” used for the burning of bricks. Others are irregular, or flattened and spongy, with several holes. But it would seem that the varying shapes are largely due to the special conditions under which they are made.

* 1907. I have noted that this year the brown Ants have varied in colour, or have been replaced in their more usual spots on my gravel walk by others that are nearly if not quite black. And I have also noticed that their habits are somewhat different. The little conical Ant-hills which they make are much smaller, but more numerous, than those of their predecessors, and they seem to burrow more in the adjacent grass lawn. But they keep to almost the same spots. In their daily workings and activities also there is a decided difference. They are very active in the early mornings, but often can scarcely be seen all the mid-day or afternoon, instead of racing about above ground almost the whole day, as the others did. But they may have been influenced in this by the continued cool and showery weather of the season.

One very warm day about noon, in the early part of September, I witnessed some of the proceedings at one of the well-known “wedding ceremonials” of Ants. The whole body of the Ants were swarming on the grass above the nest, and racing about in evidently a great state of excitement. Amongst these were five large winged (Queen) Ants, constantly moving about, though more quietly, and in and out of the nest opening. Also in the group were some forty or more smaller winged (Male) Ants, also moving about upon the ground. None of the winged Ants were flying far about. I watched this state of commotion for some time, then left, and returned in about an hour, when the whole body of these insects had disappeared, presumably into the nest. Whether the brides and bridegrooms were about to take their wedding flight, or whether (as appears most probable) they had just returned, I am unable to state; but I saw no further commotion outside later on in the day.

I have often watched these little creatures at work upon their “heaps,” and have noted how these are gradually built up of aggregations of single grains of earth or sand, which evidently have been dug out grain by grain from the earth, where the excavation is going on, and are then brought in the Ant’s mouth to the surface, and to the top of the rising earth-heap. They are then dropped over its edge, and the Carrier Ant at once races back into the hole presumably for a fresh burden. This process is a very remarkable one, and the way the Ant brings his grain of earth in his mouth and drops it over the edge of the rising Ant-hill, irresistibly reminds one of a railway navvy who wheels his barrow full of earth and tilts it over the edge of the embankment upon which he is at work. The number of single grains in even a small Ant-heap must be very large, and must amount to many thousands, or perhaps to hundreds of thousands. What, then, must be the untiring energy of a small Ant colony, which can reproduce such a granular heap in less than twenty-four hours?

It does not always seem clear what the streams of Ants from the parent nest are so constantly occupied in. They may be, to a certain extent, colonizers, but they certainly do not, with me, raise secondary Ant-hills to any great extent at the end of their runs. They make holes in the ground there, and possibly they may be engaged in their proverbial custom of securing and storing up food for the winter. To the uninstructed eye these holes look very much like Colonial outposts.

The activity of these Ants entirely ceases with the advent of autumn, and their Ant-hills in my garden entirely disappear until the following season.

As we all know, this instinct of storing up food for winter use has been largely denied, but from Sir John Lubbock’s account it certainly exists in some species, though its extent varies greatly. As he says that many of the Ants live through the winter, some food would seem to be required.