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7. Aftermath: Natural History and Gardening Just Before and Well Beyond 1800
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Description: Reconstruction as elevation of a planting plan for a Round Bed at Hartwell House,...
296a. Mark Laird, reconstruction as elevation of a planting plan for a ‘Round Bed’ at Hartwell House, Buckinghamshire, 1799 (from Oxford, Bodleian Library, Top. Gen. b 55, fol. 36, attributed to Lady Elizabeth Lee), pencil, watercolour and crayon, 1989 (first published 1999)
 
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Description: Reconstruction as elevation of a planting plan for the large round old Middle Patch...
296b. Mark Laird, reconstruction as elevation of a planting plan for the ‘large round old Middle Patch’ at Hartwell House, Buckinghamshire, 1799 (fol. 44r), pencil, watercolour and crayon, 1989 (first published 1999)
Epitomizing a pleasure ground’s ‘theatricality’, these plans of 1799 also reflect an elite woman’s fulfilment in widowhood. Elizabeth Lee (née Harcourt), a skilled amateur artist, had just lost her husband of thirty-six years, Sir William, when she reorganized her flower garden with help from her brother, Lord Harcourt of Nuneham Courtenay. Her planting plans show familial, botanical and horticultural pedigree (see staking in pl. 110). Helianthus giganteus (yellow-flowered, top of pl. 296a) and Polygonum orientale (pinkflowered, top right of pl. 296b) were first cultivated in England before 1715 by the duchess of Beaufort; they lengthened the flowering season and gave stature to the pinnacles of a flowerbed.
These plates are dedicated by Mark Laird to Clarissa Campbell Orr, and to John Dixon Hunt and Dumbarton Oaks
This book spans the period covered by two very different histories of English garden design: John Evelyn’s ‘Elysium Britannicum’ (written 1650s to 1690s) and Horace Walpole’s The History of the Modern Taste in Gardening (written 1750s to circa 1770). Walpole (1717–1797), with witty turns of phrase and nonchalant brevity, brought to perfection a profoundly influential work that championed English taste as invented by William Kent — ‘born with a genius to strike out a great system from the twilight of imperfect essays’.1Horace Walpole, The History of the Modern Taste in Gardening [1780] (New York: Ursus Press, 1995, based on 1782 edition), 43. Evelyn, by contrast, rambled far and wide in his manuscript to compare, for example, Robert Hooke’s microscopic view of a fly’s eye (see pls 9 and 47a and b) to fruits of the mulberry tree. He saw snow as a protective ‘bed of downe’ for seeds and winter as the compassionate season for tired gardeners. He specified aggregates for a walk to ‘resiste the weede and abate the Worme’. And he reflected on how gardens gratify all five senses through tinctures, redolent scents, delight of touch, fruit gusto, and warbling birds and echoes.2John Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum; or, The Royal Gardens in Three Books’, British Library, Add. MS 78342, fols 37, 86v, 172v and 231v; see John Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum; or The Royal Gardens, ed. John E. Ingram (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 64, 129, 225 and 301. See Mark Laird, ‘Lilac and Nightingale: A Heritage of Scent and Sound at Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill’, in Sound and Scent in the Garden, ed. Dede Fairchild Ruggles (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections) [forthcoming]. In short, what are now considered entirely separate spheres — natural history and horticulture, meteorology and pomology, artisanal know-how and refined aesthetics — are conjoined in one work (albeit an unfinished work, ‘which’, as Evelyn conceded, ‘abortives the perfection of the most glorious and useful undertakings’).3Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum; quoted by Frances Harris in ‘The Manuscripts of the “Elysium Britannicum” ’, ibid., 15.
The enduring spell cast by Walpole’s History has left English garden history and theory ‘trapped in partiality and prejudice’.4Walpole, The History of the Modern Taste in Gardening, John Dixon Hunt’s introduction, 14. By contrast, and building upon The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, the chapters of A Natural History of English Gardening offer an alternative to the divisive taxonomies of Walpole. They also try to recapture something of the vast ‘ocean’ of Evelyn’s ‘hortulan studies’5Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum, quoted in Harris, ‘The Manuscripts of the “Elysium Britannicum” ’, 14. — studies that form, in effect, cabinets within cabinets.6Douglas Chambers, ‘ “Excuse these Impertinences”: Evelyn in his Letterbooks’, in John Evelyn and his Milieu, ed. Frances Harris and Michael Hunter (London: The British Library, 2003), 21–36 and especially 33. Chambers calls the writings in progress ‘dialectic’ responses to other ‘hypertexts’. Rather than perfect systems, exquisite, but imperfect, fragments resulted: Evelyn’s protean ‘Elysium Britannicum’.
Though this book inclines to the fragmentary, three themes stand out from the various researches for the six chapters. They deserve attention in this final chapter. The first is the contribution of women to natural history and gardening (pls 296a and b). The second is the role of amateurs, both women and men, in relationship to the increasingly professionalized, male-dominated sciences. And the third, also involving gender, are the split sensibilities innate to gardening, which Gilbert White confronted at Selborne. From the surviving dispersed fragments of the gardener-naturalist lives of the duchess of Beaufort and the duchess of Portland a new ‘imperfect’ history now emerges.
Neither Evelyn nor Walpole had anything to say on women and gardening. Walpole’s hero was Kent, and, moving from the ‘good man Noah’ to the ‘excellent man’ Sir William Temple, his History makes only passing reference to dowager queens, Henry II’s mistress in a labyrinth and the countess of Bedford at Moor Park. A trawl through the index of Elysium Britannicum elicits only a few references to mythical women, including Eve ‘the originall of our common mother, {growing} as a plant . . . out of {the side of} Adam’.7Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 8v; see Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum, 31. The virtuoso Evelyn ignored his flesh-and-blood contemporary, Mary, duchess of Beaufort, who, as a virtuosa, contributed so much to amateur knowledge at a time before the professionalization of medicine when ‘wise women’s’ herbal lore still commanded respect. Nineteenth-century science helped erase the legacy of women naturalists like the duchess of Portland, while twenty-first-century garden history remains largely trapped in a patrimony that goes back to Adam.
Rather than considering the three themes as distinct, this concluding chapter weaves them together as threads that, once woven as warp and woof, became unravelled. William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis (1775–98) and Gilbert White’s The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne (1789) support, each in its own way, many of the interwoven themes. These two incomparable works by men of religious persuasion, so significant in the history of disciplinary science, are thus presented in terms of a culture of natural knowledge in which women were once integral and authoritative.
Divided into three parts, then, the first part of the chapter, following on from chapter 6, considers the duchess of Portland’s contributions to natural history and Mrs Delany’s place in horticultural art and botanical science — their accomplishments within the emerging disciplines of conchology and botany. The second part looks at one discipline in particular, ornithology, and its bearing on the garden as a milieu of split sensibilities — an environment in which, despite Pastoral conventions, birds were routinely shot, and despite the rise of museums, popular magazines and public parks, working folk remained downtrodden and polite women marginalized. This part concludes by looking at the emerging field of meteorology as one model of amateur enquiry changing the balance sheets of the time.
The third part, turning away from disciplinary fields, balances culture and nature as a natural history of the specific field: parson-naturalists abroad in the parish, slugs and snails foraging in the vegetable patch, corncrakes and field mice nesting in meadows, children dying before parents and women outliving husbands. Through late flowering, widows could achieve a fulfilment often denied in earlier life. In the meadow and its aftermath, the web of knowledge — ‘Elysium Britannicum’ to Flora Londinensis — encountered a web of life. Such encounters, documented by Gilbert White in his Journals and The Natural History of Selborne — uniting weather observations with field notes on animals and plants — suggest that, while humans got an upper hand by gardening and husbandry, biological forces could always counter-attack. As the concluding section emphasizes, climate, weather and the earth’s energy — what today might be called ‘the environment’ — would often subvert the best-laid schemes.
PART I: NATURAL HISTORY ACCOMPLISHMENTS
The Significance of Flora Londinensis and Bulstrode’s Conchology and Botany
In Flora Londinensis, the splendid work on plants growing wild in the environs of London, William Curtis (1746–1799) wrote poetically about the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea, pl. 299):
How delicate are the little spots which ornament the inside of the flower! and like the wings of some of our small Butterflies smile at every attempt of the Painter to do them justice: how pleasing is it to behold the nestling Bee hide itself in its pendulous blossoms!8For an index to the plants illustrated in Flora Londinensis, see Allan Stevenson’s compilation, Catalogue of Botanical Books in the Collection of Rachel McMasters Miller Hunt, vol. II, part 2: Printed Books, 1701–1800 (Pittsburgh, PA: Hunt Botanical Library, 1961), 389–412. The title of the work is Flora Londinensis; or, Plates and Descriptions of such Plants as Grow Wild in the Environs of London, etc. Although the date of publication of the first volume is 1777, Curtis began work on it in 1775. The second volume is dated 1798. As Stevenson explains: ‘The work was published in six fascicles to be found in two volumes, and each fascicle was issued in twelve “Nos.”, six plates at a time with accompanying text. The plates themselves were numbered in three different ways, as indicated in the list below: a) the numbers assigned to them in each fascicle index, showing relative positions according to the Linnaean system; b) the numbers assigned in each volume index, these also being according to the Linnaean system; and c) the numbers engraved on some of them, which correspond to no others.’ This sequence of three (or sometimes only two) numbers is given with the fascicle number and the ‘Nos.’ numbers. For example, the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) is in fascicle 1, no. 11, and a) is 48 while b) is 132 and c) is missing (see pl. 299).
By 1781 Curtis could describe in equally lyrical terms Menyanthes trifoliata, the bog bean of ‘Battersea Meadows’, which Mary Delany had studied for a lovely collage just a few years before (pl. 300 and see pl. 271a):
. . . one of the most beautiful plants this country can boast, nor does it suffer when compared with the Kalmia’s, the Rhododendron’s, and the Erica’s of foreign climes, which are purchased at an extravagant price, and kept up with much pains and expence, while this delicate native, which might be procured without any expence, and cultivated without any trouble, blossoms unseen, and wastes its beauty in the desart air.9Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Menyanthes trifoliata, fascicle 4, no. 40, a) 17, b) 50, c) 240. Much of the discussion involves bringing ‘neglected British Plants’ into cultivation.
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Description: Digitalis purpurea, detail by Sowerby, James
299. James Sowerby, Digitalis purpurea (detail), 1776, fasc.1, no. 11, 48, 132, from William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London, 1777[1775]–98). Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
James Sowerby (1757–1822) drew and engraved close to fifty plates for the fifth fascicle of Curtis’s Flora Londinensis. He was a considerable scientist, an artist of distinction and a talented engraver, as this plate for the first fascicle shows. Sowerby elevated the status of native flowers to match Curtis’s sometimes lyrical prose. Sowerby also worked with James Edward Smith (1759–1828), founder of the Linnean Society of London.
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Description: Menyanthes trifoliata by Curtis, William
300. William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London: 1777 [1775]–98), Menyanthes trifoliata, 1781, fasc. 4, no. 40, 17, 50, 240. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
Curtis wrote that, while this ‘delicate’ native ‘grows abundantly’ in boggy meadows (in Battersea, St Helena, Rotherhithe and Staines), it could be grown in pots immersed in water for bringing indoors at blooming. Unlike Delany’s collage of 1775 (see pl. 271a), which highlights the fimbriate flowers, this unsigned plate also shows the root system of herbal lore. Growing this plant indoors signified for Curtis how wild plants could be domesticated, thus bringing ‘neglected British Plants’ into cultivation.
Curtis came at the end of a century of championing natives among exotics. Botanical art — from Alexander Marshal and Richard Waller to Georg Dionysius Ehret, and from Thomas Robins the Elder to William Kilburn, James Sowerby and Sydenham Edwards — adds up to a formidable body of work. Mary Delany’s output rounds it off. While Curtis failed to shift gardening towards the indigenous (the celebration of the ‘natural garden’ was a good century away),10The celebration of the ‘weed’ grows out of eighteenth-century sensibilities. For example, see Keith Thomas, Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England, 1500–1800 (London: Allen Lane, 1983), 272–3. Curtis gave a good definition of the weed under Bistort (Polygonum bistorta), fascicle 1, no. 2, 22, 71: ‘WHEN a Plant not intended to be cultivated, in any respect prevents the growth of one which is the object of Cultivation, such a plant, however beautiful, may with propriety be called a Weed.’ But an ideological cult of the ‘native’ (including some plants previously thought of only as ‘weeds’) came much later, as is discussed in Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Nature and Ideology: Natural Garden Design in the Twentieth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1997). his work, with its medico-botanical roots, remains a milestone in the rise of natural history within gardening: from the duchess of Beaufort’s ‘nursing’ lore (chapter 2), to the doings of the Temple Coffee House group; and from John Martyn’s Botanical Society (chapter 3) to G. D. Ehret’s Deliciae botanicae (chapter 4). Along with Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selborne, Flora Londinensis thus provides a good terminus to this book.
William Curtis’s career is usually characterized as a dichotomy: the eventual demise of his native Flora Londinensis, the rise of his exotic Botanical Magazine. Yet, while the cult of exotics proved more resilient than ever after 1800, Curtis’s venture in the realm of the ‘wild’ is a path to the future as well as a terminus. The hybrid character of Flora Londinensis thus stands out Janus-faced: new empirical science arising from old oral lore; a romantic paean to beauty penned in prosaic accounts of herbal medicine and husbandry.
Despite a focus on natives, Curtis sustained a universal or ‘theatrical’ vision that can be traced all the way back to Evelyn’s devotional-cum-scientific doings at Sayes Court, his Elysium on the outskirts of London.11Curtis included plants such as Datura stramonium (fascicle 6, no. 61, 17, 55) that had become naturalized, admitting them as ‘doubtful natives’. Flora Londinensis has much on household uses familiar to genteel and lowly women — decking the halls (flowering rush, Butomus umbellatus, see pls 183 and 303a) or getting ink spots out of linens (wood sorrel, Oxalis acetosella). It has observations on custom (pheasant’s eye, Adonis annua, ‘cried about our streets under the name of red Morocco’), and it covers the dandelion as salad for Huguenots in Spitalfields and as a diuretic (hence called ‘piss-a-bed’).12Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Butomus umbellatus, fascicle 1, no. 1, 29, 79; Oxalis acetosella, fascicle 2, no. 19, 31, 89, 111; Adonis annua, fascicle 2, no. 23, 37, 106, 135; dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), fascicle 1, no. 3, 58, 165. And yet, much more than Evelyn, Curtis codified natural-history lore, turning it into science: for example, scarlet pimpernel (Anagallis arvensis) known, by lore, as the ‘Poor Man’s Weather-glass’; small birds or ‘PASSERES LINNÆI’ known, by science, to be ‘fond of the seeds of this Plant’.13Ibid., Anagallis arvensis, fascicle 1, no. 1, 12, 36. Hence, like Gilbert White’s Selborne, Curtis’s Flora Londinensis is a complex study of a locality’s natural and cultural heritage, an urban counterpart to the parson-naturalist’s bucolic parish.
While William Curtis was breaking new ground with Flora Londinensis — and coinciding with the final years of the duchess of Portland and Mrs Delany — natural history was at a new beginning. Efforts to organize resumed after a lag in organization mid-century, during which the patroness-duchess offered support through her private resources.14See David Elliston Allen, The Naturalist in Britain: A Social History [1976], 2nd edn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 25. For example, as a student in Edinburgh, James Edward Smith set up the Society for the Investigation of Natural History in 1782.15Ibid., 40. Erasmus Darwin’s Botanical Society of Lichfield was active around 1785. And at ‘Mr Dean’s, the Corner house by the Turnpike, Pimlico’, the Society for Promoting Natural History was established in October 1782 with support from William Forsyth of the Society of Apothecaries.
More momentously, J. E. Smith, dissatisfied with that new society in Pimlico, helped create the Linnean Society in 1788 — the year of Mary Delany’s death. It met at the coffee house by Smith’s home in Great Marlborough Street. David Allen sums up: ‘The Linnean Society is thus the oldest body in the country exclusively devoted to natural history with an uninterrupted existence.’16Ibid. The aspirations of those men who had clubbed together informally and sporadically one hundred years before at the Temple Coffee House were roundly fulfilled by institutional longevity.
Herein lies a grand narrative to which this book offers some new material: from club to society, and from cabinet, theatrum or ark to museum.17The most recent and comprehensive account of the cabinet of curiosities is Arthur MacGregor’s Curiosity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007). See also Oliver Impey and Arthur MacGregor, eds, The Origins of Museums: The Cabinets of Curiosities in 16th-and 17th-century Europe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). See also Erik de Jong, Nature and Art: Dutch Garden and Landscape Architecture, 1650–1740 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 135–8, for a good discussion of the early botanic garden as ‘museum’. The public zoo’s evolution from the private menagerie of the Bulstrode type is another such narrative,18See, for example, an extensive literature extending from Gustave Loisel, Histoire des ménageries de l’antiquité à nos jours (Paris, 1912), to Wilfrid Blunt, The Ark in the Park: The Zoo in the Nineteenth Century (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1976), to R. J. Hoage and William A. Deiss, eds, New Worlds, New Animals: From Menagerie to Zoological Park in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), and Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier, Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West (London: Reaktion, 2002). There is a good discussion of ‘exotic captives’ in the age of empire in chapter 5 of Harriet Ritvo’s The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 205–42. while collections have their own histories stretching back over centuries and across geographies and cultures.19The Center for the History of Collecting at the Frick Art Reference Library, New York, established in 2007, represents the increasing interest in the field of collecting history. The Journal of the History of Collections, currently under the editorship of Arthur MacGregor and Kate Heard, was established as an Oxford University Press publication in 1989. For recent scholarship, see again MacGregor, Curiosity and Enlightenment. By considering shell and flower collecting at Bulstrode within the more limited scope of pre- and post-Flora Londinensis contexts, it appears possible to put forward, among other things, a compelling argument about the contribution of eighteenth-century women gardener-naturalists to English culture.
Ann Shteir first helped to reconstruct how drawing-room conversations and breakfast-room productions were once energetically undertaken by gentlewomen in city homes and country houses under the sway of Linnaeus; the exhibition and book Mrs Delany and her Circle furthered that reconstructive work in the realm of Delany’s virtù.20Ann B. Shteir, Cultivating Women, Cultivating Science: Flora’s Daughters and Botany in England, 1760–1860 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996); Mark Laird and Alicia Weisberg-Roberts, eds, Mrs Delany and her Circle (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009). Now, by complement, Beth Tobin’s study of the duchess of Portland’s shell collecting re-evaluates one eighteenth-century woman naturalist — a category that Tobin claims was virtually erased by the scientific literature of ensuing centuries.21Beth Fowkes Tobin, ‘The Duchess’s Shells: Natural History Collecting, Gender and Scientific Practice’, in Material Women, 1750–1950: Consuming Desires and Collecting Practices, ed. Maureen Daly Goggin and Beth Fowkes Tobin (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), 244–63. See also Beth Fowkes Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells: Natural History Collecting in the Age of Cook’s Voyages (New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2014), 249 and chapter 7 in general. This ‘erasure’ of women is rooted in the early modern period and tied to property and inheritance, religion and myth, professions and knowledge dissemination.
Female fulfilment often meant defying the many constraints and disabilities to which women were subject. Keith Thomas writes in The Ends of Life how the lives of women in early modern England were ‘more circumscribed than those of men’:
Women, it was assumed, would find their primary fulfilment as wives, mothers, and home-makers. There was no acknowledged obvious place in contemporary social theory for those who, for whatever reason, remained unmarried . . . John Evelyn observed in 1676 that a young woman who chose not to marry would make herself ‘singular and fantastic’. Unmarried women were regarded as anomalies.22Keith Thomas, The Ends of Life: Roads to Fulfilment in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 21, and more generally 20–24 and 104–7.
Thomas suggests that, by 1800, gender divisions had sharpened and the sexual division of labour had become more rigid, based on assumptions of inherent differences in complementary human qualities. And yet, by contrast, he gives evidence of unmarried women between the early sixteenth century and the late eighteenth pursuing effective careers as traders, teachers, rentiers and moneylenders, and of elite married women playing an active role in the management of landed estates and in their husbands’ political affairs. By complement, this book shows that an active role in estate management could flourish in widowhood, notably at Badminton, where the dowager duchess of Beaufort used leisure and resources to find great fulfilment in gardening and natural history. Why historians have been so slow to give attention to her success at the end of her life in achieving some ‘ends of life’ is a question that goes beyond ‘erasure’ within science.23In The Ends of Life, 225, Keith Thomas writes, for example, in reference to private lives and a growing concern with self-expression among roads to human fulfilment: ‘It is only recently that historians have emancipated themselves from the classical preoccupation with public affairs and begun to take these human concerns into account.’ An attempt to answer that question is suggested towards the end of this concluding chapter.
The Duchess’s Systematic Shell-Collecting
Collecting around 1700 had been undifferentiated in the manner of the duchess of Beaufort’s omnium-gatherum greenhouse, and of her florilegium of exotic flora and native Lepidoptera. By contrast, the duchess of Portland’s collections had moved to systematic order according to disciplines that went back to 1700.24For a short account of ‘Cabinets of Curiosity’, see Robert Huxley, ‘Natural History Collectors and their Collections: “Simpling Marcaronis” and Instruments of Empire’, in Enlightenment: Discovering the World in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Kim Sloan (London: British Museum Press, 2003), 80–82. (They were disassembled as a ‘Promiscuous Assemblage’ only for the auction of 1786, and despite John Lightfoot’s strenuous efforts to hold with the ‘methodical arrangement’ of the ‘Methodists’.25See Jane Wildgoose, Promiscuous Assemblage, Friendship and the Order of Things (New Haven: Yale Center for British Art, 2009). See the preface to the Catalogue of the Portland Museum of 1786. Beth Tobin provides background on the authorship of the catalogue and many new insights on how it relates to the collections before the auction. See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 209–13 and 217–29.) Robert Huxley points out: ‘Shell collecting crosses the boundary between the cabinets of curiosities of the sixteenth century and the more scholarly collections of the following three centuries. While plant collecting had obvious relevance for apothecaries and doctors, many collections of shells were made for their intrinsic beauty.’26Huxley, ‘Natural History Collectors and their Collections’, 84. He explains that, when conchology, the study of shells, became established as a discipline in the late seventeenth century, one of the most important early disciples was Hans Sloane’s friend Martin Lister (1639–1712). His major work was Historiae conchyliorum (1685–92). The plates were the work of Lister’s daughters, Susanna and Anna, who, behind the scene, quietly supported their father in the painstaking work of natural-history illustration (pl. 301). Yet, by the time Historiae conchyliorum was reissued in 1770, it carried William Huddesford’s dedication to the duchess of Portland. She was a naturalist in her own right, using Linnaean names to check against earlier shell authorities, including Lister. She possessed the original drawings, and apparently Lister’s own annotated copy, of the four volumes of Historiae conchyliorum, now at the Linnean Society, that Huddesford used to produce his facsimile edition.
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Description: Sloane's specimen of Cassis (Phalium) strigata with engraving by Lister, Anna;...
301. Sloane’s specimen of Cassis (Phalium) strigata, with Anna and Susanna Lister’s engraving prepared from the specimen for their father Martin Lister’s Historiae conchyliorum, 4 vols (1685–92), vol. IV, pl. 1014, species 78. © The Natural History Museum, London
Martin Lister’s major work Historiae conchyliorum (1685–92) was reissued by William Huddesford in 1770 and dedicated to the duchess of Portland. It contains nearly a thousand plates, all by his daughters, Susanna and Anna. Daughters, sisters and wives provided often-unacknowledged support to men in science; ‘low-style’ natural-history art was considered suitable for their ‘feminine patience’. By contrast, the duchess of Portland, as a naturalist, used Linnaean nomenclature to check shell ‘authorities’. She possessed the original drawings, and apparently Lister’s annotated copy of Historiae conchyliorum, now at the Linnean Society, which Huddesford used to produce his facsimile edition.
After 1800 the increasingly specialized collecting of seaweeds and shells on the model of Bulstrode underwent a conversion from a ‘tasteful’ study to a ‘serious, thoroughgoing science’, engaging George Montagu among others.27Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 112–13. All subsequent quotes in this paragraph are from these pages of Allen’s study. For conchology before the duchess of Portland and the Linnaean era, see S. Peter Dance, A History of Shell Collecting (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986), chapter 3; George Montagu is mentioned in chapter 6, 110–11. For a complex analysis of the subtle distinctions between scientific collections and connoisseurial collecting that were eclipsed in the nineteenth century, see Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, chapter 1. For example, Montagu’s weighty, three-volume Testacea Britannica (1803–8) is central to Beth Tobin’s summary of how the duchess’s place in conchology underwent scientific ‘erasure’ after her death.28Ibid., 256–60. His life’s work formed part of a general pattern towards specialization and disciplinary professionalization — pertaining to gardening as well as natural history. All this makes sense of drawing a line around 1800 (pl. 302).29Specialization in the garden is discussed in Mark Laird, ‘Plantings’, in A Cultural History of Gardens in the Age of Empire, 1800–1900, ed. Sonja Dümpelmann (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), vol. V in the series A Cultural History of Gardens, ed. John Dixon Hunt and Michael Leslie, 69–89. Viewing ‘British’ shells as distinct from ‘exotic’ shells reflects, for example, how, during the Napoleonic Wars, British natural history turned inwards on itself — on Britain’s fauna and flora, its geology and fossil record, and its landscapes. A universal cataloguing was replaced by specialist studies, organized by genus or by local knowledge of a region. Edward Donovan’s five-volume catalogue, Natural History of British Shells (1799–1803), which illustrated some of the duchess’s shells, is a good instance of that new localized literature.30Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 241 with illustrations from Donovan throughout the book, notably plate 10.
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Description: Sir Hans Sloane's collection of pearls with a vignette of the garden side of Montagu...
302. Jan van Rymsdyk, from Sir Hans Sloane’s collection of pearls with a vignette of the garden side of Montagu House (British Museum), 1772, watercolour on paper, 18 5⁄8 × 11 5⁄8 in. (47.3 × 29.5 cm), from Jan and Andreas van Rymsdyk’s album of original watercolours for the illustrations for their Museum Britannicum (1778). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1948,118.3). © Trustees of the British Museum
This image conveys a shift from ‘tasteful’ collecting, in which many women were engaged, to institutional scientific collections (e.g., the British Museum at Montagu House). Museums were set up largely by men and for a ‘polite’ paying public. After 1800 the increasingly specialized collecting of seaweeds and shells (as at Bulstrode) underwent a conversion to a serious science, in which George Montagu played an influential role. For example, the publication of Montagu’s Testacea Britannica (1803–8) helps to explain how the duchess’s place in conchology was erased after her death.
George Montagu’s Ornithological Dictionary, published in 1802, was a benchmark work in that shift to the indigenous or local. It set out scrupulous standards in the acceptance of scientific evidence that was soon matched by A. H. Haworth’s Lepidoptera Britannica (1803–28), the first comprehensive account of British butterflies and moths, and by J. E. Smith’s English Flora (1824–8), which achieved a new standard for works on plants.31For Adrian Hardy Haworth (1767–1833) and his Lepidoptera Britannica, see Michael A. Salmon, The Aurelian Legacy: British Butterflies and their Collectors (Colchester: Harley, 2000), 127–8. For William Lewin’s Papilios of Great Britain (1795), which, though incomplete, marked one significant advance before 1800, see also ibid., 122–3. Similarly, Dawson Turner brought out his comprehensive seaweed book, Fuci, in 1807–11, with a final volume in 1819.
The first volume of Fuci was timed to appear in April 1807 ‘for the ladies at the seaside’ — gentlewomen still pursuing shells as a tasteful study. Yet great lady collectors — Ellen Hutchins (‘of whom it may almost . . . be said, that she finds every thing’) and Mrs A. W. Griffiths (‘a trump’) — would show their worth to men.32Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 112–13. For a correction to the often-repeated assertion about Miss Hutchins, see M. E. Mitchell, ed., ‘Early Observations on the Flora of Southwest Ireland: Selected Letters of Ellen Hutchins and Dawson Turner, 1807–1814’, in National Botanic Gardens, Glasnevin, Dublin, Occasional Papers, XII (Dublin, 1999), n. 96. Similarly, back in the 1770s, Mrs Cocq, employed by the duchess of Portland at Weymouth, proved invaluable in searching for shells, butterflies and plants; on return to Bulstrode and Whitehall, the duchess assembled Mrs Cocq’s shells in cabinets, with marine life forms in trays. William Kilburn (1745–1818), having worked on Flora Londinensis from the early 1770s until 1777, created from 1788 to 1792 textiles with ‘seaweed patterns’ that evoke the collecting trays the duchess brought back from Weymouth each season (pl. 303b).33Ada K. Longfield, ‘William Kilburn (1745–1818) and his Book of Designs’, Irish Georgian Society Bulletin, XXIV/1–2 (January–June 1981); E. Charles Nelson, ‘William Kilburn’s Calico Patterns, Copyright and Curtis’s Botanical Magazine’, Curtis’s Botanical Magazine, XXV/4 (November 2008), 361–73. Thus, in ways that are amply explored in Mrs Delany and her Circle, fashion, female accomplishment, gardening and natural history went hand in hand before 1800. Collecting and cataloguing shells and plants were, above all, what bound Mrs Delany to the duchess of Portland and her circle. Their passionate pursuits ranged far and wide within the breakfast-room sphere. Both are exemplary of the highest attainments that women could achieve within circumscribed realms of personal fulfilment. Conchology was a first and lasting achievement; botany came a close second.
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Description: Bromley Hall Pattern Book, detail by Talwin, Joseph;Foster, Joseph
303a. Talwin and Foster, printed textile design (detail), p. 30, circa 1775–85, paper impression, 19 × 24 ¾ in. (48.2 × 62.8 cm), plate printed at Bromley Hall, Middlesex, England. Victoria and Albert Museum, London (E.485 [147,148]–1955)
William Kilburn (1745–1818) created no fewer than thirty-two plates for the first three fascicles of Curtis’s Flora Londinensis, including two of the prized native water plants: Butomus umbellatus and Hottonia palustris (compare pls 183 and 271b). Joseph Talwin was a subscriber to Flora Londinensis. He took advantage of his subscription to copy William Kilburn’s Butomus umbellatus from the plate completed in 1775 (303a, centre). On return to the calico trade, Kilburn produced many extraordinary textile designs (303b) reminiscent of the duchess of Portland’s collecting trays.
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Description: One of 223 designs for printed textiles by Kilburn, William
303b. One of 223 designs for printed textiles by William Kilburn, circa 1788–92, painted in watercolour on paper. Victoria and Albert Museum, London (E.894:49/1–1978)
Conchology, according to one magazine, had always been ‘peculiarly suited to ladies’, for ‘there is no cruelty in the pursuit, the subjects are so brightly clean, so ornamental to a boudoir’ (pl. 304).34Quoted in Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 113. Peter Collinson, in writing to Christoph Jakob Trew about George Knorr’s aquatints, made the distinction between scientific illustration of a single shell and shells and fossils arranged together ‘as if intended for Pictures for Ornament for Ladies Closetts’. See Jean O’Neill and Elizabeth P. McLean, Peter Collinson and the Eighteenth-century Natural History Exchange (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2008), 127. Yet these assumptions are only half true; after all, slowly boiling snails or sea organisms in a large pot of water ‘until they either crawled out or died’35Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 88. was a messy business. Furthermore, the duchess, as Peter Dance points out, made shell collecting central to natural knowledge through ‘a strong attachment to conchology’.36Dance, A History of Shell Collecting, 73. Beth Tobin has more recently marshalled evidence of the duchess’s role in ‘foundational questions’ in natural history, well beyond the scope of mere patronage:
Margaret Cavendish Bentinck was herself an accomplished naturalist as well as a specimen hunter who went out into the field to gather plants, fungi, insects, and mollusks . . . she was also actively engaged in shell classification . . . . Having mastered the principles of Linnaean taxonomy, the duchess was adept at identifying the specimens’ taxa.37Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 62–4.
Indeed, so considerable was the respect she commanded among fellow conchologists — notably Richard Pulteney and Henry Seymer — that they turned to her in grappling with the inadequacies of Linnaean shell taxonomy. With Lightfoot and Solander to aid her, systematic arrangement was crucial to her work. Had not Solander died in 1782, and the duchess in 1785, her methodical work might well have been completed in a published scientific catalogue of the Portland shell collections: her Museum.
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Description: Various types of shells by Henstenburgh, Anton
304. Anton Henstenburgh, various types of shells, circa 1704, watercolour on vellum, 14 ¾ × 10 ¾ in. (37.5 × 25.6 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (Sloane album 5279, 39). © Trustees of the British Museum
This plate gives an impression of the intrinsic beauty of shells arranged in a cabinet or closet. Peter Collinson, in writing to Christoph Jakob Trew, made the distinction between scientific illustration of a single shell, and shells and fossils arranged together ‘as if intended for Pictures for Ornament for Ladies Closetts’. In the case of Mrs Delany and the duchess of Portland, art and science were inseparable; they combined connoisseurship with Linnaean classification. The scientific value of the duchess’s collections found expression in The Universal Conchologist (see pl. 305).
Thus it is entirely appropriate to find the duchess of Portland placed first among a collection of women celebrated by Thomas Martyn for ‘superior knowledge’, ‘critical arrangement’, ‘order’ and ‘classification’, as well as for ‘elegance’ in the home (pl. 305). His introduction to the work of 1784–7 (with second issue of 1789 [1792]), The Universal Conchologist, is indispensable as an overview of shell collecting before 1800. Martyn wrote, for example (adding footnotes to explain the familial status of the collectors — a Miss Fordyce was the ‘Daughter of Dr George Fordyce, of Essex Street, Strand’, for instance):
And here the Author begs permission to mention, as a tribute of justice to the liberality of the possessors, the several collections in this kingdom to which he is indebted for some of the more beautiful subjects in these volumes.
Among these, the first praise is confessedly due to the superb collection of the Dutchess Dowager of Portland; so rich a display in the number as well as rarity and perfection of these subjects, together with every other species of marine productions, perhaps is not to be equalled.
He went on to mention the countess of Bute’s ‘perfect cabinet’, Miss Fordyce’s ‘truly capital collection’, Mrs Heron’s steps to a ‘very respectable cabinet’, Mrs Barclay’s ‘perfect acquaintance with the subject’ and Mrs Walker’s ‘attention to these objects’.38Thomas Martyn, The Universal Conchologist. Exhibiting The Figure of every known Shell accurately drawn and painted after Nature With A New Systematic Arrangement by the Author (London, 1784–7; second issue 1789), 11–12.
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Description: Checkered Mitre Mitra Tessellata rrr [ = very rare] Duchs Dowar of Portland by...
305. Thomas Martyn, The Universal Conchologist . . . (London, 1784–92), pl. 19: ‘Checkered Mitre Mitra Tessellata rrr [= very rare] Duchs Dowar of Portland’. From the collections of the Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University
This plate of a single shell belonging to the duchess of Portland confirms the distinction made by Collinson: that scientific illustration was best served by individualizing the specimen. In his introduction, Martyn states that women collectors were already observing ‘order’ and ‘classification’ as well as ‘elegance’ in the home. The duchess of Portland led the way as a naturalist and specimen hunter, though she died before Martyn completed his two-volume work in 1789. The auction after her death meant that the dispersed shells were no longer available for Martyn to consult. Hence her shells are sparsely represented in the work, despite his praise of ‘her Grace’s superior knowledge’.
Mrs Delany’s Consequential Flower Collages
The striking advances made by women in collecting and displaying shells scientifically underscores the nature and amplitude of female accomplishments in home and garden. Collecting and raising butterflies, thanks to the ‘appeal of the exquisite’ (pl. 306), had similar followers; and Lepidoptera studies, as an applied science, engaged a remarkably high number of women including the Hon. Mrs Walters, who bred rare moths in 1740s.39Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 24. Botany, botanical illustration and horticulture also fell squarely within the lure of accomplishment. In this spirit, Mary Delany’s collages illustrate how the science of botany was furthered by the circle who gathered around the duchess: first, by building upon similar ground to the duchess of Beaufort at Badminton and Chelsea (circa 1700–15): and second, by working with men at the cutting-edge of new classifying at Bulstrode and Kew (circa 1775–85). Thus the fragmentary reconstructions of this book tend towards a larger gender history for early modern English gardening: women, through accomplishments, being more than handmaidens to men and their doings. Botany, through collage, was Mrs Delany’s final road to fulfilment and her enduring memorial.
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Description: The Aurelian; or, Natural History of English Insects, pl. XI by Harris, Moses
306. Moses Harris, The Aurelian; or, Natural History of English Insects (London, 1766), pl. XI, dedicated to Lady Charlott [sic] Townshend, Baroness Ferrers, hand-coloured engraving. Houghton Library, Harvard University (f *59–1499)
The Aurelian was well sponsored by women such as Baroness Ferrers, to whom this plate was dedicated. Harris’s text refers to ‘The Painted Lady’ (centre) as laying ‘her Eggs on the Dock and Thistles about the Middle of June’. His plate displays the larval, pupal and adult stages (including both sexes and their undersides), together with ‘The Marmoress or Marbled White’ (Melanargia galathea) and their correct food plants. Harris adds a jumble of foreground objects, including broken china and a broken clay pipe, to provide depth and scale and possibly to indicate the habitat of the migrant painted lady (Vanessa cardui), which he considered to be ‘Waste Grounds’. The decisive role that ladies played in natural history sponsorship goes beyond this one ‘Painted Lady’.
As just one example, the ‘Geranium’ that inspired Delany’s ‘new way of imitating flowers’ in 1772–3 is among the cranesbills and their relatives that make up the single largest group or ‘tribe’ within her hortus siccus: thirty-six collages. One, based on a specimen grown by Sir George Howard at Stoke Place, is the ‘Geraniu:m Peltatum’, now known as Pelargonium peltatum. According to William Aiton’s Hortus Kewensis of 1789, the duchess of Beaufort at Badminton was the first to cultivate this Cape exotic, in 1701. Everhard Kick depicted it in the Badminton florilegium (1703–5, pl. 307). Thanks to botanical studies by John Edmondson, the duchess of Beaufort and Mrs Delany are seen today to stand at the pinnacle of amateur botanizing. The magnitude of their life’s work is apparent by tracking the fortunes of Pelargonium over decades to come.
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Description: Pelargonium peltatum by Kickius, Everhardus
307. Everhard Kick (Kickius), Badminton florilegium, album one (1703–5), fol. 46.1: Pelargonium peltatum, watercolour and bodycolour, heightened with gum, over graphite underdrawing, on vellum, 23 ¼ × 17 3⁄8 in. (59 × 44 cm). Photograph reproduced with the kind permission of His Grace the Duke of Beaufort
All three Pelargonium species donated to Mary Delany by Sir George Howard of Stoke Park were introduced from the Cape of Good Hope through Anglo-Dutch trade in the periods of William and Mary and Queen Anne: P. peltatum was first cultivated by the duchess of Beaufort at Badminton in 1701; P. alchemilloides was grown by Jacob Bobart in Oxford in 1693; and P. inquinans by Bishop Compton at Fulham in 1713 (pls 283a and b). Delany’s overview of ‘Geranium’ in cultivation by the early 1780s is unrivalled among representations. The ‘Scarlet Geranium’ — Delany’s first collage of 1773 (see pl. 266) — is among the largest group of her hortus siccus. The cranesbills and their relatives amount to thirty-six collages in total.
The genus Pelargonium was first distinguished and named by Charles Louis L’Héritier de Brutelle in order to accommodate those plants previously included in Geranium as having irregular flowers and only five to seven fertile stamens, the rest being reduced to anther-less filaments. As John Edmondson explains, with reference to a set of collages initiated in the 1790s under the influence of Mary Delany — the ‘Booth Grey’ collages (pl. 308b):
L’Héritier’s treatments of these species were first published in Aiton’s Hortus Kewensis of 1789. Although a manuscript of his work on this group . . . had been circulating among British botanists, it was not published as Geraniologia in L’Héritier’s lifetime and indeed it was only at the posthumous sale of his library in 1802 that printed copies first came to light. The names of South African Geraniaceae illustrated in the Booth Grey collages . . . did employ Pelargonium, which came into general use after 1789.40John Edmondson, ‘Novelty in Nomenclature: The Botanical Horizons of Mary Delany’, in Mrs Delany and her Circle, ed. Laird and Weisberg-Roberts, 195.
While the Delany and Booth Grey collages of Geranium / Pelargonium set the stage before 1800, much else followed shortly thereafter. Pierre-Joseph Redouté’s portion of illustrations for Geraniologia (1787–8) marks a new era in botanical illustration that would include, for example, an increased use of stipple engraving.41See Wilfrid Blunt, The Art of Botanical Illustration [1950], ed. William T. Stearn (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1994), chapter 14; see also James H. Green, ‘Hand-Coloring Versus Color Printing: Early-Nineteenth-Century Natural History Color-Plate Books’ in Knowing Nature: Art and Science in Philadelphia, 1740–1840, ed. Amy R. W. Meyers (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2011), 261–2. Henry C. Andrews’s Geraniums (1805) heralds a new interest in specialized genera collections.42Blunt, The Art of Botanical Illustration, ed. Stearn, 244. See also R. J. Cleerly, ‘Some Notes and Comments on the Illustrations of Henry Charles Andrews (fl. 1790s–1830s)’, Archives of Natural History, XXXVI/1 (April 2009), 165–7, and E. Charles Nelson, ‘Henry Andrews’s Dahliae mythologicae’, Newsletter of the Society of Natural History, XCIX (October 2010), 8–9, for the use of ‘Charles’ as Henry Andrews’s middle name. And this led in turn to publications highlighting hybridization within a given genus: for example, Robert Sweet’s Geraniaceæ (1820–30) and Leopold Trattinnick’s Neue Arten Von Pelargonien Deutschen Ursprunges (1825–34). The new glasshouse technology of J. C. Loudon’s generation aided in the cultivation of the genus Pelargonium. In such significant ways, the continuation of Delany’s work — first continued by the ‘Booth Grey’ circle in the 1790s — ramified after 1800, thereby adding lustre to her achievement.
By 1810–13 the second edition of Hortus Kewensis was published by W. T. Aiton in five volumes, recording a doubling of what had been grown at Kew at the end of Delany’s life.43Ray Desmond, The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew (London: Harvill Press/The Royal Botanic Gardens, 1995), 107. William Aiton’s three-volume Hortus Kewensis (1789) — along with the early volumes of William Curtis’s Botanical Magazine (from 1787) — forms the benchmark work for understanding the horticultural history of the prior century and a half of collecting exotic plants. It established a datum for some 5,600 species, including information on introduction and provenance (pl. 308a). In addition to the 2,100 British species (as calculated by Ray Desmond), there were 1,400 from continental Europe, nearly 700 from North America, and more than 700 from South Africa, including the many species of Pelargonium. The nearly one thousand species of the ‘Flora Delanica’ thus constitute a sizeable microcosm. While the scope of collecting was enlarged before 1800 as an empire across the seven seas, the universal ideal of a theatrum botanicum remained upheld over two centuries — that is, until specialization in gardening and science gained ground after 1800 with the doubling of cultivated species.44See again Laird, ‘Plantings’.
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Description: Calceolaria Fothergillii by Sowerby, James
308a. James Sowerby, Calceolaria Fothergillii, 1788, 13 × 18 ½ in. (33 × 46 cm), watercolour drawing for Daniel McKenzie’s engraving in William Aiton’s Hortus Kewensis, vol. I, 30, table 1 (1789). © The Natural History Museum, London (Bauer Unit E, shelf 4)
Calceolaria fothergillii was introduced to cultivation in 1777 by Dr John Fothergill from the Falkland Islands (as the entry in Hortus Kewensis explains). Although not depicted in the ‘Flora Delanica’ (unlike other plants from the Fothergill collection), this species was portrayed in a collage in the set attributed to Booth Grey circa 1790s. Made by a group of ‘disciples’, the ninety-eight collages were modelled on Mary Delany’s work. William Aiton’s Hortus Kewensis (1789) and William Curtis’s Botanical Magazine (from 1787) provide together a comprehensive picture of plants in cultivation in Great Britain in the period 1650–1800. The Delany and ‘Booth Grey’ collages add significantly to that picture.
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Description: Calceolaria Fothergilea by Grey, Booth
308b. Attributed to Booth Grey, ‘Calceolaria Fothergilea’, circa 1790s, watercolour collage on laid paper prepared with watercolour, 10 ½ × 7 ¼ in. (26.7 × 19.1 cm). Paul Mellon Fund, Yale Center for British Art
One American genus serves to illustrate not merely a decade of Mary Delany’s mosaic workings, but also a century of collecting. In 1774 she completed the ‘Phlox Carolina’ (Phlox carolina). This is valuable in demonstrating that the species (probably introduced to cultivation through Mark Catesby and first illustrated in 1733 in Martyn’s Historia plantarum rariorum, 1728–37) was still in cultivation in the 1770s (see pl. 127). It appears to have died out at some point thereafter before its reintroduction by John Fraser in 1810 (as claimed in the Botanical Magazine).45Marcus B. Simpson, Jr, Stephen Moran and Sallie W. Simpson, ‘Biographical Notes on John Fraser (1750–1811): Plant Nurseryman, Explorer and Royal Botanical Collector to the Czar of Russia’, Archives of Natural History, XXIV/1 (February 1997), 1–18. By 24 April 1779 she had obtained Phlox divaricata from Chelsea Physic Garden, turning it into a collage of that date. Ehret had sketched it around 1746 (pl. 309); Thomas Robins the Elder had painted it a decade or so later. Delany’s collage proves that it was being grown by William Curtis’s successor as demonstrator at Chelsea, even though no specimen of the species was delivered to the Royal Society under Philip Miller. By 11 August 1781 she was working on a specimen of ‘Phlox undulata’ at Bulstrode. This indicates how taxonomy was contending with the accommodation of new species within Linnaeus’s genera. The species as described by William Aiton in Hortus Kewensis now proves to be essentially a variant of Phlox paniculata.46Edgar T. Wherry, The Genus Phlox (Philadelphia: [Associates of the Morris Arboretum of the University of Pennsylvania], 1955), 120.
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Description: Phlox, detail by Ehret, Georg Dionysius
309. Georg Dionysius Ehret, ‘Phlox’, detail of fol. 16 of album ‘Drawings (G. D. Ehret) 1746’, watercolour over graphite, 6 × 8 ½ in. (16 × 21.5 cm). © The Natural History Museum, London
Of the species Phlox divaricata, just then newly introduced in 1746 and called ‘Lychnidea’, Ehret noted: ‘The Flowers are a little bluer, and the Tube and Buds of a deep purple. The leaves are hory on both sides but more on the under side — The Stalk is also hoary, and when observed through a Lens, almost each hare contains a glandule, of a viscous nature. a naked Ey can heartly [hardly] observe them.’ This indicates the meticulous botanical observations that lie behind G. D. Ehret’s compelling portrait. Mary Delany perfected her collage method from Ehret’s tutelage at Bulstrode. Delany’s 1779 collage of Phlox divaricata proves a continuity of cultivation as well as of observation.
Perhaps the most significant portrait, however, is Delany’s ‘Phlox suaveolens’, dated 10 June 1776. This representation of the white Phlox, and a similar but later Booth Grey collage, appear unique twin portraits (pls 310a and b). Peter Collinson is credited as the first to cultivate the species around 1766. Like P. divaricata, that species — now considered an undetermined sub-species of P. maculata — probably came from John Bartram in Philadelphia.47Ibid., 113. The fact that three of these four species depicted by Delany were growing in the duchess of Portland’s garden at Bulstrode is testament to the duchess’s collecting zeal.48Mark Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden: English Pleasure Grounds, 1720–1800 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 221. She might not have been quite the equal of Lord Bute at Luton and Joseph Banks at Kew, but her collecting was by no means trifling or unsystematic.
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Description: Phlox suaveolens by Delany, Mary Granville
310a. Mary Delany, ‘Phlox suaveolens’, 10 June 1776, collage of coloured papers, with bodycolour, watercolour and a leaf sample, 10 ½ × 6 ¼ in. (26.6 × 15.8 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1897,0505.667). © Trustees of the British Museum
Little is known about Booth Grey and the ‘album of 98 Plants’ attributed to him. The younger son of the countess of Stamford, he was a Member of Parliament, representing Leicester from 1768 to 1784. Because his older brother was married to the duchess of Portland’s daughter, Henrietta, he came into the Bulstrode circle as one among a group who created the album after the Delany model. The intimacy of the Bulstrode circle and its followers in the next generation is epitomized by these unique twin portraits of Collinson’s white Phlox, the first portrait being created at Bulstrode in June 1776.
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Description: Phlox suaveolens by Grey, Booth
310b. Attributed to Booth Grey, ‘Phlox suaveolens’, circa 1790s, collage of cut paper with watercolour on laid paper prepared with watercolour, 10 ¼ × 6 ½ in. (26 × 16.5 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (2008, 7111.1). © Trustees of the British Museum
Mary Delany wrote from Bulstrode on 9 June 1776: ‘I have made an appointment for tomorrow with a very fair lady called “Lychnidea.” If I neglect her, she will shut herself up, and I shall see her no more.’ This fair white ‘Lychnidea’ (‘Phlox suaveolens’) was ‘true to her appointment’ and the punctilious Delany duly set to work on 10 June.49Mary Delany to Mary Port, 9 June 1776, in The Autobiography and Correspondence of Mary Granville, Mrs Delany, ed. Lady Llanover, 6 vols (London: Bentley, 1861–2), V, 223. Just as the duchess of Beaufort had looked on her plants as wards in need of ‘nursing’, so Mary Delany personalized her flowers as lady companions. A third lady sustained the lineage: Elizabeth, sister of Lord Harcourt. By 1799, as Lady Elizabeth Lee — a pupil of Alexander Cozens and an accomplished limner — she had remade her flower garden at Hartwell House, Buckinghamshire.50See Kim Sloan, ‘A Noble Art’: Amateur Artists and Drawing Masters, c. 1600–1800 (London: British Museum, 2000), 148–9, 157. She cultivated ‘Lychnideas’ of ‘profusion and luxuriancy’ along with several flowers first grown by the duchess of Beaufort.51Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, chapter 10. Through detailed planting plans (reconstructed as pls 296a and b), Lady Elizabeth anticipated a formidable role for women in horticultural design in the century to come. The leading exponent would be Gertrude Jekyll. Lady Elizabeth Lee’s renewal of her garden, having just buried a husband of thirty-six years, was a gesture of hope for the future and a moment of fulfilment in widowhood.
PART II: NATURAL HISTORY SPLITS AND SPLIT SENSIBILITIES
Humanity and Science in Bird Collecting and Ornithology
There was, by contrast, a type of natural history that did not lend itself to female accomplishment: ornithology.52For background in the history of natural history, see Tim Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds: An Illustrated History of Ornithology (London: Bloomsbury, 2008); for the later history of the discipline and the German influence, see J. Haffer, ‘The Origin of Modern Ornithology in Europe’, Archives of Natural History, XXXV/1 (April 2008), 76–87. While it plays only a minor role in this book, ornithology is central to the question of shifting attitudes to the natural world in the period 1650 to 1800, and to the formation of a discipline within science, in part through bird keeping.53See T. R. Birkhead and S. van Balen, ‘Bird-keeping and the Development of Ornithological Science’, Archives of Natural History, XXXV/2 (October 2008), 281–305. The authors argue in the synopsis: ‘By ignoring the early bird-keeping literature, historians of ornithology have overlooked many significant observations’, which include those on song acquisition, territory, migration, and instinct and learning. Collecting was one thing; observing the wild was another. And dealing with birds in the garden was an entirely different matter of split sensibilities — the same person feeding the robin in a left hand while shooting the blackbird with the right index finger (see pl. 314).
Bird keeping led to many significant observations in ornithology: on song acquisition, territory, migration, instinct and learning. Yet, for many women, keeping a bird was bound up with affective relationships. For example, Mary Delany kept a pet bullfinch, Tony, as a companion, travelling by coach from London to the country, then back to London. As a pet, he was separated from his ‘tribe’, usually in field and orchard, but welcomed into an elevated circle of female companionship. If Tony was caught in London, this was by the strategy William Curtis outlined under Ligustrum vulgare in Flora Londinensis:
The berries of the Privet continue on this plant till spring advances, and in times of scarcity are eaten by different sorts of birds; but by none with so much avidity as the Bulfinch (Loxia Pyrrhula). Bird-catchers who know this, often catch them in the following manner: they take some large boughs of the Privet in berry, stick them into the ground where Bulfinches frequent, lime the top twigs, and place a call bird underneath.54Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Ligustrum vulgare, fascicle 5, no. 51, 1, 3, 300.
However trapped, Tony became a companion of taste rather than an object of virtù. Likewise, the collecting of English songbirds at Princess Augusta’s Kew did not translate into representation in art or documentation in science. And the duchess of Portland’s pet caged birds and ‘free’ birds of the avian nursery never became systematized in Delany’s sketches (pl. 311a). Although William Lewin, in the preface to The Birds of Great Britain (1789), referred to the duchess’s collections (including ‘the greatest number of species of the Eggs of the British Birds, in any cabinet extant’, pl. 311b), the catalogue of the Portland Museum features only a few discrete objects or artistic works of ornithology.55Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 25. Further work is required to interpret the relatively sparse entries on birds, and their nests and eggs, in the Catalogue of the Portland Museum (1786): see, for example, ‘Birds Eggs’ (38), ‘British Birds Nests, with their Eggs’ (63), lot 1443: ‘A very fine and complete collections of near two hundred species of British Birds eggs, all arranged and named according to the Linnaean system’ (64), and lot 2809: ‘The original drawings of Birds, by Albin, most beautifully coloured after nature, 202 in number, on vellum, 2 vols’. See lot 1429 regarding the ‘Sedge-bird, Motacilla arundinacea’ (Tab. 1), which is the basis for Acrocephalus arundinaceus the great reed warbler (John Lightfoot in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, LXXV/1, 1785, 8–15, Tab. 1; and see also lot 1662, which refers to ‘Motacilla Hirundinaceae’. Despite exotic and native birds being kept by some women (from the countess of Albemarle to Lady Wager, pl. 312a), George Edwards’s Natural History of Uncommon Birds (1743–51) attracted relatively few women subscribers.56George Edwards’s original subscribers of 1743 included only a handful of women: the countess of Hertford, Lady Heathcote, wife of Sir John Heathcote, the Hon. Lady Wager, etc. By 1751 a slightly larger group of women of middling rank had been added, along with the countess of Albemarle. The same was true of Mark Catesby’s Natural History of Carolina, Florida and the Bahama Islands (1729–47), with its strong emphasis on birds in association with plants.57See Mark Laird, ‘The Culture of Horticulture: Class, Consumption, and Gender in the English Landscape Garden’, in Bourgeois and Aristocratic Cultural Encounters in Garden Art, 1550–1850, ed. Michel Conan (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection), 247–8.
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Description: The Secretary by Delany, Mary Granville
311a. Mary Delany, The Secretary, 18 July 1773, ink on paper, 9 × 7 ¼ in. (22.9 × 18.7 cm). Private Collection
On 18 July 1773 Mrs Delany drew the exotic secretary bird in the menagerie of the earl of Mansfield at Kenwood. Although she and the duchess of Portland took an interest in ornithology as studies in natural knowledge and as elegant entertainment, bird keeping at Bulstrode was a matter of affective taste. Unlike Bulstrode’s substantial contribution to botany and conchology, there is little evidence in A Catalogue of the Portland Museum (1786) of extensive ornithological works. Scientific virtù or systematic classification was, however, given its due; for the duchess had British birds’ eggs ‘arranged and named according to the Linnaean system’. William Lewin’s illustrations of British birds and eggs benefitted from the duchess’s unrivalled cabinet of eggs. Of the Rallus crex L. (Crex crex, cf. pl. 328), Lewin wrote: ‘It lays ten or twelve eggs, on a bed of moss or dry bents.’
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Description: Egg of the oyster catcher (fig. 1), of the water rail (fig. 2), and of the land rail...
311b. William Lewin, The Birds of Great Britain, Systematically Arranged, Accurately Engraved, and Painted from Nature, 8 vols (London, 1795–1801), vol. VI (1800), pl. XLI: egg of the oyster catcher (fig. 1), of the water rail (fig. 2) and of the land rail (Crex crex, fig. 3). Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University. Photograph courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
For some reason, in contrast to the butterfly work of Eleanor Glanville and the duchess of Beaufort, or to the books on Lepidoptera that solicited female subscriptions, ornithology — featuring debates on migration versus hibernation — assumed a more masculine aura; it often required the use of a gun.58See, for example, Michael Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology: The Lives and Works of its Founding Figures (London: Christopher Helm, 2003). He documents no active involvement of women in the early modern period, and this is also apparent in Peter Bircham, History of Ornithology (London: Collins, 2007). Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 207–8, provides a good account of the shift in ornithology in the early twentieth century: ‘Feminine Emancipation brought women into the field by the thousand — and most of them had little liking for weaponry.’ To what extent this martial aspect — and women’s later disassociation with the weaponry of the discipline — is related to contemporary assumptions about gender identities remains unclear. Certainly, when it came to a butterfly, moth or snail, ‘Lady Glanville’ and the duchess of Portland could dispatch any organism to a quick death, and gun violence as such was not the preserve of men only.59Thomas, The Ends of Life, 53. Yet, as the very idea of a martial woman grew to be more rigidly denied in the course of the eighteenth century, women were also denied the role of a general overseeing the theatre of operations and exterminations in the garden: the head gardener.
George Montagu (1753–1815), a military man, embodied this aspect of ornithology, showing ‘efficiency’, immune to fashion and distractions, which David Allen describes as ‘a down-to-earth, no-nonsense approach that verged on the graceless and chilly’.60Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 84. Returning from war with the American colonies, Montagu entered the scene with new ideas and methods. As Allen put it: ‘When a long list of eager, searching questions from this unknown ornithologist arrived on the table of Gilbert White, shortly after the appearance of Selborne, the old spirit of restless, probing field inquiry, the spirit of Ray and Willoughby, was reborn in British natural history.’61Ibid., 83.
Thomas Bewick (1753–1828), by contrast, brought a complementary sensibility as an artist rather than a scientist: ‘I have, all my life, busied myself with feeding Birds.’62Ibid., 88. John Claudius Loudon upheld that sensibility, feeding ivy berries to blackbirds.63Ibid., 209. While Bewick was among the first in a nurturing line that extends to P. H. Gosse and William Morris (and the inventor of the ‘ornithotrophe’),64Ibid. It was John Freeman Milward Dovaston who popularized his ingenious gadget for feeding birds. he was also heir to a practice that women delighted in before him: Delany (as taught by Dr Delany), Boscawen and the duchess at Bulstrode, all fed by hand. In this sense, women related affectively to birds in the wild, but largely without outputs in ornithology. Their direct exposure to birds as combatants or quarry was also more limited than men (cf. Frances Boscawen throwing a ‘spud’ at a cat to protect her robin). By contrast, and from the time of Evelyn, the head gardener had been instructed to destroy the fruit-destroying bullfinch (pl. 312b), although often feeding the worm-eating robin. Such split sensibilities in gardening were compounded by science as ‘hibernation’ experiments took hold. And, in those heated debates and trials, there is little evidence of women being actively engaged.
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Description: The Goldfinch by Bewick, Thomas
312a. Thomas Bewick (1753–1828), transfer drawing in watercolours for wood engraving of ‘The Goldfinch’, in History of British Birds, vol. I (1797). Courtesy of the Natural History Society of Northumbria, Great North Museum: Hancock
William Lewin (1747–1795) wrote that the goldfinch ‘sings in cages most part of the year. Its domestic cheerfulness, and the beauty of its plumage makes it much coveted’. Of the bullfinch, he wrote: ‘These birds are troublesome visitors to our gardens and orchards . . . They have no song in the state of nature; but are taught to pipe notes of music.’ Gilbert White classified Pyrrhula pyrrhula among those that are ‘hardly to be called singing birds’. In Letter 15 to Pennant, White commented on his caged cock bullfinch turning black through its feeding on hempseed. Such empirical data thus made bird keeping of some value to the largely male-dominated science of ornithology.
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Description: The bullfinch (Pyrrhula pyrrhula), detail by Lewin, William
312b. William Lewin, The Birds of Great Britain, Systematically Arranged, Accurately Engraved, and Painted from Nature, 8 vols (London, 1795–1801), vol. III (1796), pl. 69 (detail), illustrating the bullfinch (Pyrrhula pyrrhula). Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University. Photograph courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
The keeping of songbirds as pets or companions extends from the goldfinch of the Graham family (see pl. 332a) to bullfinches kept by Princess Augusta and Mrs Delany. Delany’s Tony seems to have had a personality to match Lewin’s portrait.
A History of British Birds (1797), with wood engravings by Thomas Bewick, states: ‘Of all the various families of birds, which resort to this island for food and shelter, there is none which has occasioned so many conjectures respecting its appearance and departure as the Swallow tribe.’65Ralph Beilby, History of British Birds the Figures Engraved on Wood by T. Bewick (Newcastle, 1797), 248. For a discussion of Bewick, and the success of his A General History of Quadrupeds (1790) in relationship to Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selborne, see John Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth Century (London: HarperCollins, 1997), chapter 13, and especially 516. The findings of a Mr James Pearson were reported. After repeated deaths in what seems a rather dismal experiment, Pearson presented swallows in ‘deep moult’ to the Society for Promoting Natural History on 14 February 1786. He had kept them alive artificially over a winter, but only for a short while at best.
A History of British Birds affirmed a contrary force in nature: arriving just after the vernal equinox, and departing by the end of September, ‘they leave us, like many other birds, when this country can no longer furnish them with a supply of their proper and natural food’ (pl. 313).66Beilby, History of British Birds, 251. Migration thus gradually gained ground through the studies of virtuosi and amateurs. Hence, when the newly widowed Mary Delany wrote from Bulstrode in October 1768, she casually used the figurative expression for her relatives — the birds are ‘flown’ — while in October 1775 the Dowager Countess Gower wrote explicitly of people as ‘birds of passage’.67For Mark Catesby’s acclaimed work on migration (his ‘Of Birds of Passage’ paper in Philosophical Transactions, 1747), see Shepard Krech III, ‘Mark Catesby’s “Of Birds of Passage”’, in The Curious Mister Catesby: A ‘Truly Ingenious’ Naturalist Explores New Worlds, ed. E. Charles Nelson and David J. Elliott (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 2015). The anonymous author of an account of Blanchard’s balloon flight in 1784 likened the effect to ‘cranes or storks intent on the business of emigration’. After a century-long shift from torpor / submersion to migration, a tipping point occurred shortly after 1800.68This is very well summarized in a table in Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 154–5. The farmer and amateur naturalist Johann Andreas Naumann linked the increased activity of caged birds in autumn to migration ‘time programmes’.69See Peter Berthold, Bird Migration: A General Survey, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 11. See also Erwin Stresemann, Die Entwicklung der Ornithologie von Aristoteles bis zur Gegenwart (Berlin: Peters, 1951); as Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, trans. Hans J. and Cathleen Epstein, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), 9–12, 287–9, 306–8. He called this migratory restlessness Zugunruhe, and later science has documented, through ingenious and odd experiments, its spatial, heritable and environmental dimensions.70Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 157–71.
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Description: A History of British Birds: The Figures Engraved on Wood by T. Bewick, vol. I, p....
313. Ralph Beilby (and Thomas Bewick), A History of British Birds: The Figures Engraved on Wood by T. Bewick (Newcastle, 1797), vol. I, p. 252. From the collections of the Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University
The text to Bewick’s engraving states (with the north of England in mind): the ‘common Swallow makes its appearance with us soon after the vernal equinox, and leaves us again about the end of September’. In Letter 1 to Daines Barrington, Gilbert White listed the swallow of southern England as a third arrival among ‘summer birds of passage’ (with 13 April as typical date of arrival). In Letter 2, he listed the swallow among the singing birds that continue their song beyond midsummer (and among the few that sing as they fly). In Letter 18 (entirely dedicated to the swallow), he wrote that they ‘usually withdraw about the beginning of October’.
Debates over migration versus hibernation led to odd experiments on the swallow as the science of ornithology split from White’s natural history. These experiments are among the many ‘apparent contradictions’ that lead to the split sensibilities of the modern world.
Yet observations on hibernation introduced by Aristotle amid his ‘remarkably modern’ views on migration had a tenacious hold, and that sometimes led to doubtful experimentation.71Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 11. See Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 136–9, for a good account of Aristotle and the Holy Roman emperor Frederick II, who observed the v-formation of cranes and corrected the myth of the barnacle goose. When Gilbert White published The Natural History of Selborne in 1789, he was still hedging on the matter of wintering: did they migrate or hide?72See again Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 146–53, for the correspondence between White and Barrington/Pennant, and for Richard Mabey’s theory of why White clung tenaciously to hibernation. Shepard H. Krech III puts forward new information on torpidity among hirundines that may help explain why White ‘waffled’. See Krech, ‘Mark Catesby’s “Of Birds of Passage”’, note 67. For example, in Letter 23 to Thomas Pennant, he wrote of ‘the strong impulse towards migration, or hiding, imprinted on their minds by their great Creator’.73Gilbert White, The Natural History of Selborne [1789], ed. Paul Foster (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), Letter 23 to Thomas Pennant, 59. In Letter 33 to Pennant of 26 November 1770, however, he wrote of the appearance of summer birds of passage in Gibraltar as ‘a presumptive proof of their emigrations’. In Letter 18 he returned to ‘hiding-places’ or latebrae in the context of biological / weather relationships:
It is worth remarking that these birds are seen first about lakes and mill-ponds; and it is also very particular, that if these early visiters [sic] happen to find frost and snow, as was the case of the two dreadful springs of 1770 and 1771, they immediately withdraw for a time. A circumstance this much more in favour of hiding than migration; since it is much more probable that a bird should retire to its hybernaculum just at hand, than return for a week or two only to warmer latitudes.74Ibid., Letter 18 to Daines Barrington, 143. See also Letter 12 to Thomas Pennant, 36: ‘I acquiesce entirely in your opinion — that, though most of the swallow kind may migrate, yet that some do stay behind and hide with us during the winter’; and see Letter 12 to Daines Barrington, 128.
He also referred to the ‘Swedish naturalist’ Alexander Berger, whose calendar, published by Stillingfleet in a second edition of his Tracts in 1762, told of swallows resorting to an ‘hybernaculum’ under water, rather like ‘poultry going to roost a little before sunset’.75Ibid., Letter 12 to Thomas Pennant, 36. Most significantly, Peter Collinson and Carl Linnaeus had corresponded on this contentious issue back in the 1760s after Collinson had discounted underwater hibernation in the Philosophical Transactions in 1759–60.76See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 33–4. The information from Sir Charles Wager on seeing swallows on the rigging of ships was one convincing argument Collinson put forward in favour of migration. See also the account of John Coakley Lettsom’s dream of Collinson in a grotto in Elysium with replumaged swallows emerging from a horn of plenty, ibid., 164. On 15 September 1763 he began his letter to Linnaeus with pointed irony: ‘After reading my Dear Linnaeus’s letter of the 23rd November, 1762, How can I any longer Doubt that Swallows live under Water all Winter?’77Alan W. Armstrong, ed., ‘Forget not Mee & My Garden . . .’: Selected Letters, 1725–1768, of Peter Collinson, FRS (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2002), 248. He counselled the scientist to put it to the test: ‘Experiment First, take 5 or 6 Swallows & tie a Weight to their Leggs & sink them under Water. If they survive after Laying there in Seven Days, who will doubt their Living in the Lakes.’78Ibid., 249.
Just in case this was ‘forcing Them against Nature’, he suggested a second experiment:
Take a Large Deep Wide Tubb, put a foot Deep of Sand at the Bottome, then fill it with Water to within a foot of the Brim. Then place a thin broad Board on the Water. On this Board putt some Swallows, then Cover the Tub with a Nett. If they Immerge under Water & live, this will Establish my Dear Linnaeus’s assertion.79Ibid., 249–50.
Though he knew full well that his advice to the unreceptive Linnaeus was mere rhetoric, the Quaker Collinson did not appear to rule out such experiments as inflicting ‘unnecessary’ cruelty (in the same sense as the Quakers’ abhorrence of vivisection, horse racing, hunting and the like).80Buffon experimented by placing swallows in an icehouse to check for torpidity; other experiments included baron von Pernau’s proposal to cut off a toe from a nightingale and fieldfare to identify returning birds. See Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 162–3. Keith Thomas has pointed to the abundance of such ‘apparent contradictions’ in the late eighteenth century.81Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 153–4, 158–9, 162, 190. Gilbert White, for the sake of ornithology, continued to shoot birds like the stone-curlew with its gouty legs, or the ring ouzel with its clerical breastband; he wrote that he had to ‘get’ a cuckoo hen during ‘laying-time’ for cutting open the womb to investigate the number of eggs she carried.82White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 5 to Daines Barrington, 112. The ‘apparent contradictions’ that abounded in gardening were especially complex. Hence they require attention in the following section, with regard both to birds and other life forms (from cat to caterpillar): first in the private, then in the public sphere. How women responded to these contradictions implies yet further complexities.
Horticulture and Agriculture and the Milieu of Split Sensibilities
William Curtis, writing of Valeriana officinalis in Flora Londinensis, gives an amusing account of feline frolicking. Cats are ‘remarkably fond’ of the powerful smell of the dried root of valerian:
. . . perfuming themselves by rolling on it, and that on the fresh as well as dried roots; for I have often observed, that as the roots spread out near the surface of the ground, they find them out, and in gratifying their passion frequently destroy the plant in gardens; whenever they are insufferably mischievous in this or other respects, they may with certainty be caught in a wooden hutch trap, baited with Valerian root; we are not however wantonly to sacrifice this useful animal.83Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Valeriana officinalis, fascicle 6, no. 67, 3, 8.
Curtis was clearly caught between affection for the cat as pet and mouser and annoyance at the creature’s ability to create vermin-like havoc. Also captured is a gesture of late eighteenth-century Quaker clemency: for Curtis, wanton cruelty was indeed abhorrent.
The garden at the intersection of the wild and domesticated — and as a laboratory of empirical science in the span from John Evelyn to Gilbert White — had always been a milieu of split sensibilities.84Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 285: ‘At Blenheim, at least, the Duke of Marlborough had forbidden his servants to disturb the birds who nested in the shrubbery, though they were allowed to shoot them if they hopped over the wall into the kitchen garden.’ On the one hand, the garden encouraged, almost as much as a home with pets, new ways of drawing distinctions: the vain attempts of beekeepers to take honey without destroying the bees (‘whose souls seem . . . like the souls of men’); the efforts to capture the ‘winged choristers’ without making them subject to cruelties so that they might enjoy ‘manumission’.85Ibid., 98, 139, 190. The wild robin was tantamount to an honorary pet, and the undifferentiated (but cosseted) linnets of Princess Augusta’s Kew graduated to being personalities in the late eighteenth century; Priscilla Wakefield wrote of two linnets named after school friends, Robert and Henry. When Gilbert White alluded to the elliptical language of birds, he was drawing upon customary observation as well as his own field notes. As early as 1661 Nathanael Homes had referred to animals expressing ‘joy and sorrow by other notes and noises’.86Quoted ibid., 127. On the other hand, the garden could never escape being a theatre of war, and collateral damage was extensive. In this way, the garden’s scenes shift very dramatically between ceasefires, and this book sketches battle lines as ubiquitous, not simply confined to the fox chase or pheasant hunt. Death skulked in the garden as much as in the ‘killing fields’ of the landscape park.87For allusions to the warfare of the hunt, see, for example, Tom Williamson, Polite Landscapes: Gardens and Society in Eighteenth-century England (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), chapter 6; and Robert Williams, ‘Rural Economy and the Antique in the English Landscape Garden’, Journal of Garden History, VII/1 (January–March 1987), 73–96.
In The Natural History of Selborne, White wrote: ‘A full history of noxious insects hurtful in the field, garden, and house, suggesting all the known and likely means of destroying them, would be allowed by the public to be a most useful and important work.’88White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, 79, with note by Foster alluding to natural means ‘as we do cats against mice’. And yet he was quick to articulate in his own words the sentiment expressed in Henry Baker’s The Universe (1727): ‘Each hated toad, each crawling worm we see,/Is needful to the whole as well as he.’89Quoted in Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 169. White thus wrote in Letter 35 to Daines Barrington: ‘Earth-worms, though in appearance a small and despicable link in the chain of Nature, yet, if lost, would make a lamentable chasm.’90White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, 182. In 1772 the Revd James Granger told his rural congregation in Shiplake, Oxfordshire, that it was criminal to destroy the ‘meanest insect’ without good reason. Naturalists began, in this spirit, to look at least for more humane methods to kill them. In 1809 Lord Erskine introduced a bill against animal cruelty in general, and in 1824 the Society (later the Royal Society) for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was founded. Ever since, ‘drawing the line’ has shifted, for, while the sentiment of humanity remains unchanged, the area in which it could operate has been continually redefined.91Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 119–20, 176.
Women played a modest role in shifting these attitudes to the natural world, thereby entering the public realm, as Keith Thomas has documented: from Margaret Cavendish, duchess of Newcastle, onwards. She ‘unashamedly invaded the masculine domain by seeking fame as a writer and thinker, and incurring much mockery in the process’.92Thomas, The Ends of Life, 255; see also Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128–9, and 282–4 for the discussion of women’s engagement with natural history in the context of home and garden. Her views on passions, reason and language in beasts, and on ignorant humans as ‘petty gods in nature’, are startling for their time.93Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128. While Millenium Hall (1762) is the most publicized vision of alternative relationships, the pleas of the young Lady Kildare for the creatures of the menagerie at Goodwood were a private outcry of equal moment.
In The Culture of Sensibility (1992), G. J. Barker-Benfield provides a history that helps in interpreting Goodwood, Kew and Millenium Hall (as discussed in chapter 5). He wrote: ‘Eighteenth-century women writers put themselves “in the place” of animals more than they did in the place of peasants or African slaves. In the case of animals as well as slaves, prisoners, and peasants, sentimentalists were self-regarding, concerned first and foremost with women’s brutalization.’ As Cavendish expressed it: ‘we are Kept like Birds in Cages, to Hop up and down in our Houses, not Suffer’d to Fly abroad’.94See G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-century Britain (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 231 and 234; Cavendish is quoted frequently by Thomas in Man and the Natural World to show that she went beyond this female viewpoint, indeed rejecting the whole anthropocentric tradition. A century later, the banished Lady Luxborough identified with a trapped bird in her poem ‘The Bull-Finch in Town’ (1755). She contrasted the ‘hapless captive’ in a ‘well-gilt cage’ to birds that ‘unfettered soar’.95Quoted in Jane Brown, My Darling Heriott: Henrietta Luxborough, Poetic Gardener and Irrepressible Exile (London: Harper Press, 2006), front matter. Whether the dowager princess of Wales, receiving from William Sparrow a neat wainscot wire cage for butterflies, pictured herself as similarly caged in by public disapproval is not recorded, but may be inferred. (The surviving household archives at Windsor, however revealing on bird food, give nothing away on affective matters.) Ultimately, moreover, any kindness to animals was a luxury separated from the day-to-day realities of the travailing husbandman or grubby gardener; women did not put themselves ‘in the place’ of peasants, including weeder women. In practical gardening and husbandry, these sensibilities would continue to have only marginal implications, hence the paramount importance of gardening contexts.
In short, while the garden, modelled on an Elysium or Garden of Eden, helped to engender new ways of interacting with the natural world, it also remained locked in age-old battles where the question of ‘cruelty’ scarcely impinged (and where gardeners never progressed much from the downtrodden). Eleazar Albin in A Natural History of English Song-Birds (1737) speculated that the bullfinch was scarce because: ‘They say, in some Part of the Kingdom, a Reward is given by the Church-Wardens for every Bullfinch that’s killed’ (see pl. 312b).96Eleazar Albin, A Natural History of English Song-Birds and Such of the Foreign as are usually brought over and esteemed for the singing (London, 1737), 16. To the same end (if not in the same spirit), White jotted in his Journal matter of factly: ‘30 July 1783 This morning Will Tanner shot, off the tall meris-tree in the great mead, 17 young black-birds’ (pl. 314).97Francesca Greenoak, ed., The Journals of Gilbert White, 3 vols (London: Century, 1986–9) [vol. I: 1751–73; vol. II: 1774–83; vol. III: 1784–93], II, 471. What Evelyn had observed in the Alps was mirrored in English parishes, as parochial records show: trophies of dead birds displayed in the churchyard or nailed up in the barn. White called such displays ‘the countryman’s museum’.98White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 10 to Thomas Pennant of 4 August 1767, 31; see also Letter 15 to Pennant of 30 March 1768, 41.
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Description: The black ouzel or blackbird (Turdus merula), detail by Lewin, William
314. William Lewin, The Birds of Great Britain, Systematically Arranged, Accurately Engraved, and Painted from Nature, 8 vols (London, 1795–1801), vol. II (1796), pl. 60 (detail), illustrating the black ouzel or blackbird (Turdus merula). Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University. Photograph courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
Gilbert White battled against blackbirds — called the ‘black ouzel’ by Lewin; they were fruit-robbers in his garden. Thus, despite White’s extraordinary ornithological skill in determining the migratory status of the ring ouzel, he still occasionally shot birds for ornithology and routinely had ‘black ouzels’ shot by villagers. From the time of William Shenstone, who planted berry-bearing shrubs for blackbirds, others befriended the gardener’s foe. Shenstone also commended the elegance of the blackbird’s song, which meant that, for a quill, the black feather was ideal for private writings. A split sensibility innate to gardening is thus summed up in the identity of blackbird (Turdus merula).
Thus Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selborne, though ‘incomparable’ as ‘the best-loved and most widely-known book about natural history in the whole world’, should not be read only in ‘vertical’ terms: marking, for example, a shift towards modern attitudes to the natural world, or as the first stirrings of ecology.99Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 69. For White’s place in the history of ecology, see, for example, Donald Worster, Nature’s Economy (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1977). Paul Foster points out how White’s records (from the Garden-Kalendar onwards) ‘demonstrate White’s systematic, if sometimes halting, development’. That development, with a view to improving the quality of life for all people,100For the contrast between The Natural History of Selborne and White’s own records, see Paul G. M. Foster, Gilbert White and his Records: A Scientific Biography (London: Christopher Helm, 1988), preface, ix. Foster points out in the introduction, 4, that White’s activity is set against a backdrop: ‘the enormous gap between the rich and poor, and the sheer brutality of the period’. remained rooted in garden and field: husbandry depended on the seasons and on other ‘co-incidents’ in nature, which, if recorded, could bring stability to harvests and horticultural productions at a time when (unlike the era of Evelyn or Fairchild) births were exceeding deaths in his parish.101See White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, for the extensive footnote to Letter 5 to Thomas Pennant, 252–4. Introducing the potato to the parish improved the welfare of parishioners. Breeding a hybrid or ‘coalition’ (e.g., ring-dove × house-dove) tamed wildness for the benefit of all, just as the Goodwood moose experiment intended. In husbandry and horticulture, a ‘horizontal’ reading of The Natural History of Selborne is thus helpful; for, however much the Journals and Selborne reveal White’s extraordinary ornithological skill (determining the migratory status of the ring ouzel, etc.), they also indicate that some birds remained for him, like pests, simply the gardener’s stealthy combatant.
Thus read, nuances of habit, along with distinctions in habitat, make sense of some of the apparent contradictions and split sensibilities highlighted in Keith Thomas’s Man and the Natural World.102Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 284–6. For example, John Phibbs reminds us that English gardens ‘were known abroad for their bird-song’, yet John Byng wrote of the slaughter outside Blenheim’s kitchen garden on a visit in July 1792: ‘What shock’d me much, was to hear the firing of guns, and to see a set of Jacobins arm’d against the national guards, — the birds; — O fye! What, for a few cherries, destroy all the songsters? And here will they come to perish.’103Cited in John Phibbs, ‘The Persistence of Older Traditions in Eighteenth-century Gardening’, Garden History, XXXVII/2 (Winter 2009), 179.
The high ratio of ‘woodland edge’ in the pleasure ground’s shrubbery helped to offset shootings in field, orchard and kitchen garden: songbirds were drawn to shrubs with blossoms and fruits; mellifluous songsters drew people. The calculation of how pheasant numbers were maximized by the park’s clump-and-belt ‘woodland edge’ was a similar balancing in the ritual of slaughter.104Williamson, Polite Landscapes, 139: the 60-foot margin in which the pheasant spends most of its time is maximized in clumps and in a ‘thin linear strip . . . a belt’. This balance could be upset by the dismal season of 1773, when ‘shooting seasons’ first assumed their modern form.105See Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 274–6, for discussion of ‘warring against species’, on the one hand, and embryonic species conservation, on the other. Meanwhile, cultivating groves with fruit trees offered sanctuary to the orchard fruit robbers. Thus Shenstone discussed with his poet friend Richard Jago the idea of ‘planting hollies, pyracanthas, and other berry-bearing greens, to attract those Blackbirds’.106See again Phibbs, ‘The Persistence of Older Traditions in Eighteenth-century Gardening’, 179.
In his letter to Lady Luxborough on the subject of quills, Shenstone voiced — writing with his own goose quill — her need to find a matching quill-voice: ‘To your Ladyship I woul’d recommend the Quill of a Black-bird, a bird that has both spirit & Elegance in his Notes’ (see again pl. 314).107Cited in Brown, My Darling Heriott, 182–3. Yet, when it came to writing ‘Versification’ for a reading public, Shenstone (as his letter to Henrietta Luxborough suggests) doubtless picked up his special peacock quill. How such private voices awakened public discourse is the dawn chorus of engagement with public open space as well as public attitudes. First tried out as restricted entry to a private domain (for example, by William Shenstone and Philip Southcote, as well as by the duke of Richmond, and with mixed consequences), public access gained traction as the universal principle of the public park.108See Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, 20, for an account of Shenstone’s Sunday evening openings of The Leasowes and his attempts to prevent flower-cropping by his Edicts, and for William Chambers’s complaints of statues pelted, buildings marred by ‘graffiti’, and the trampling of flowerbeds; see also Williamson, Polite Landscapes, 68: ‘Philip Southcote was obliged to close his famous gardens at Wooburn Farm after “savages, who came as connoisseurs, scribbled a thousand brutalities in the buildings”.’
William Curtis’s ‘Public Good’ and Gilbert White’s Private Autopsia
A ‘horizontal’ reading of William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis is equally instructive; it leads to a string of ideas linked to knowledge dissemination and reception. Unlike the duchess of Portland and Mrs Delany, whose pursuits were circumscribed by rank, kinship and friendship, William Curtis brought plant collecting to a new audience: amateur naturalists as well as specialists. He took pride in ‘contributing his share to the public good’. As he wrote in the preface to Flora Londinensis:
And in order that he [the author] may obtain a more perfect knowledge of each plant . . . that he may make experiments to elucidate the nature of such as are obscure, or bring into more general use those which bid fair to be of advantage to the public; he is now cultivating each of them in a garden near the city, into which, by kind assistance of his friends, he has already introduced . . . about five hundred species, including sixty of that most valuable tribe of plants the grasses.109Curtis, Flora Londinensis, vol. 1, preface.
Opening up a new field — what he called ‘Agriculture and Rural Oeconomy’ — meant a new type of utilitarian garden: a ‘living museum’. That new garden was located in Lambeth and opened by subscription in 1779 to a paying public.110See Graham Gibberd, ‘The Location of William Curtis’s London Botanic Garden in Lambeth’, Garden History, XIII/1 (Spring 1985), 9–16. It thus differed from the one he had managed as Praefectus horti at Chelsea Physic Garden; his Flora Londinensis called for a similar exchange of knowledge beyond the community of medico-botanists. It anticipated an engagement of ‘the public’ at large.
While a ‘vertical’ reading of William Curtis’s life and work — and the parallel rise of museums, magazines and public gardens — tends to a progressive history,111See John Claudius Loudon’s use of the term ‘progressive’ (with the ‘treason to nature’ in denying progress) in the preface to the Magazine of Natural History, and Journal of Zoology, Botany, Mineralogy, Geology and Meteorology, VII (1834). a ‘horizontal’ reading within gardening shows how sensibilities in the cultural world remained as contradictory as attitudes to the natural world. For example, weeder women had to pick pleasure grounds clean of stones or weeds for a gentlewoman to read in Picturesque peace (see pl. 17). Yet the polite woman, as Amanda Vickery makes clear in Behind Closed Doors (2009), suffered her own monotonies, toils and solitudes (even within company). Self-expression in horticultural art was once again in the service of an increasingly male-dominated science. For example, the preface to Priscilla Susan Bury’s A Selection of Hexandrian Plants (1831–4), which praised the ‘enlightened’ authority of the professional botanist (Sir James Edward Smith of the Linnean Society), pathetically alluded to the ‘feeble attempts’ of the female ‘Amateur’. Despite its splendour, Hexandrian Plants was a personal failure. This proved true for so many other diffident contemporary women (from virtuosa to amateur). They were dissuaded from plunging into the public sphere before Jane Loudon redefined a woman’s place in gardening and horticultural literature, especially in widowhood.112Catherine Horwood, Gardening Women: Their Stories from 1600 to the Present (London: Virago, 2010), 187.
Back in 1828, Jane Webb’s soon-to-be husband John Claudius Loudon, founding his Magazine of Natural History, had disseminated natural learning among a wide audience to the benefit of that widening ‘public’: what he called the ‘common stock of knowledge through the medium of our pages’.113Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VII, preface. See Mark Laird, ‘John Claudius Loudon (1783–1843) and the Field’s Identity’, Studies in the History of Gardens & Designed Landscapes, 34 (3), July–September 2014, 248–53. Magazines avoided the delays of book publishing. Thus, in 1834 Loudon ‘conducted’ that Magazine monthly to increase the flow of communications. Indeed, as early as 1763 Peter Collinson had commended the Gentleman’s Magazine for communications ‘all Over England & America’ as a ‘Publick Utility’. And even earlier, Richard Bradley’s A General Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening (1721–4) was the first among journals to circulate agricultural and horticultural information aimed at a specific, but broad, audience.114For a discussion of Richard Bradley’s role, a hundred years before Loudon, in founding the first British journal covering the science of agriculture and horticulture, A General Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening (1721–4), see John Edmondson, ‘Richard Bradley (c. 1688–1732): An Annotated Bibliography, 1710–1818’, Archives of Natural History, XXIX/2 (October 2002), 177. For Collinson, who wrote that his ‘Little Essays’ in the Gentleman’s Magazine were placed anonymously or under a pseudonym ‘because I do not Love Popularity’, see O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 36. The idea of a conversation in print can also be traced back to Curtis (with Curtis’s Botanical Magazine being first in a line that leads to Loudon’s Gardener’s Magazine).115Ray Desmond, ‘Loudon and Nineteenth-century Horticultural Journalism’, in John Claudius Loudon and the Early Nineteenth Century in Great Britain, ed. Elisabeth B. MacDougall (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1980), 79–97. Yet Loudon stands apart from his forerunner in including ‘females residing in the country’ as a category of reader and potential contributor: ‘Daughters are now no longer educated for the purpose of becoming mere domestic managers, or household ornaments, but for being the rational companions of rational men.’116Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VIII (1835), preface. As becomes clear in Part III, Curtis chose to ‘erase’ the role of women, which forms part of the ‘horizontal reading’ of this chapter.
A horticulturist and landscape designer, Loudon still viewed his natural history readers as a gardening community who pored over his successful Gardener’s Magazine. In that sense, this pioneer of early Victorian green urbanism also shepherded Georgian gardening-cum-natural history to its end point. Gardener’s Magazine, enlightening the practical gardener against the elite establishment of the Horticultural Society, was launched in 1826. Its aim was to ‘promote, as well as to record, social and environmental improvements’, including the ‘conduct and conditions of gardeners’.117See Melanie Louise Simo, Loudon and the Landscape: From Country Seat to Metropolis (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988), 10, 14, 132, 236. Loudon’s target audience extended from working people to young people, including young women. He was the first to publish Ruskin’s writings in volume VII of his Magazine of Natural History (1834), when Ruskin was just fifteen. For the Gardener’s Magazine, see again Desmond, ‘Loudon and Nineteenth-century Horticultural Journalism’, 81. At 2s. an issue, however, the Gardener’s Magazine cost more than a day’s pay for semi-skilled gardeners, and the same would apply to the Magazine of Natural History. Gardening lads had to borrow issues to read an editorial arguing for fair wages, leisure for study, and decent working and living conditions (pl. 315).118For a discussion of access to books through 6,500 reading institutions in 1821, see Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 9. For the gardener at the time of Lady Elizabeth Lee’s refurbishment of the Hartwell garden (1799, see pls 296a and b), very little had changed over the course of those decades that saw profound shifts in attitudes to the natural world. Indeed, gardeners still remain woefully underpaid to this day.
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Description: The Gardener by Sandby, Paul
315. Paul Sandby, ‘The Gardener’, crayon and watercolour, from Cries of London (circa 1770). Cecil Higgins Art Gallery, Bedford
London gardeners, like the duchess of Beaufort’s William Oram, liaised between city collectors and suppliers and the family’s head gardener in the country, ‘brother’ George Adams at Badminton. A qualified journeyman, living on the premises in a hard and poorly paid post, would hire jobbing gardeners for seasonal tasks. Estate labourers were less well paid than domestic servants, and gardeners cutting grass and hay all summer long were at risk from scythe gashes on their legs and abrasions of hands and arms.
The struggles of the gardener, whether at Goodwood or Kew, were not just against moles, vermin and birds, but also against lowly, deadening jobs, from which only the enterprising nurseryman (James Gordon) or landscape gardener (‘Capability’ Brown) found escape. One correspondent traced the ill pay of contract gardeners back to nurserymen.119There is a good discussion of gardeners and pay in chapter 6, ‘Gardeners’, in Todd Longstaffe-Gowan, The London Town Garden (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001), 151–60. Yet it is clear from estate accounts how subsistence dogged the poorest paid of servants on great estates; gardeners were above the level of ‘weeder women’, but not much above the level of beasts.120Simo, Loudon and the Landscape, 154–7. For comparisons of wages against commodities, see Laird, ‘The Culture of Horticulture’, 227–8. For identifications between humans and animals, see Ritvo, The Animal Estate, 14–17, and for ‘inferior humans’ akin to beasts (savages, the American Indian, the Irish, infants, women, the poor and the mad), see Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 41–50. The only consolation for labourers was that they ‘ruled over domestic animals’ and hence were ‘not at the absolute bottom of the social scale’ (ibid., 50). By corollary, then, the drudgery of women at the bottom needs articulating as much as their accomplishments at the top. Mary Collier’s ‘The Woman’s Labour’ gave rare voice to the voiceless (see pl. 318 and Part III of this chapter); William Henry Pyne drew sympathetic portraits of lowly women such as a ‘Female Shrimper’, a ‘Rabbit Selling Woman’ and a ‘Wool Winder’.
How the audience of magazine, book and museum was enlarged as a ‘public’ goes beyond the scope of this book. (Many aspects are amply covered by John Brewer in The Pleasures of the Imagination: for example, how Elisha Kirkall, while producing ‘mezzotints’ for the Catalogus plantarum of 1730, made Old Masters available to a large audience through engravings.121Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination, 455–60.) Yet the Society of Gardeners’ Catalogus plantarum, the engagement of women of modest rank in subscribing to Twelve Months of Flowers (1730) or Twelve New Designs of English Butterflies (1742), G. D. Ehret’s Plantae et papiliones rariores (pl. 316), and the rise of the nurserymen James Gordon and James Lee, are all milestones in consumption and reception. A public conversation eventually led to the founding of public gardens and parks in the 1840s.
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Description: Plantae et papiliones rariores, tab. IV by Ehret, Georg Dionysius
316. Georg Dionysius Ehret, Plantae et papiliones rariores (London, 1748), Tab. IV. © Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Rare Book Collection, Washington, DC
Ehret’s Plantae et papiliones rariores was his first and most important engraved work — skilfully etched with careful hand colouring. It was a milestone in the control exercised by a botanical illustrator in publishing a work entirely produced by him. Hence some plates carry the inscription ‘Published by G. D. Ehret the Proprietor’. In this plate, Ehret locates specimens growing at Chelsea Physic Garden or in Peter Collinson’s garden, thus bringing a private collection to a select ‘public’ audience. The detailed elements of Martynia (top left) may be compared to his sketch and finished plate (see pls 174 and 175).
Through the ‘Commerce of Discourse’ — as well as by the give and take of ‘favours’ — private and public conversations thus slowly built a culture, at once adventurous and dynamic.122Ibid., 106: ‘Politeness was created through the convivial patterns of social exchange, what Steele called “The Commerce of Discourse”, that occurred in polite society’. In the flux, that discourse involved women as well as men, lowly folk as well as polite society. In their own discrete way, indeed, Mary Delany and the duchess of Portland can be viewed (alongside Anna Larpent and Anna Seward, or Charlotte Lennox, Angelica Kauffmann and Elizabeth Carter among ‘The Nine Living Muses’, or Elizabeth Montagu and the Bluestockings) as significant forces in the formation of English culture.123Ibid., 76–9 and passim. See also Elizabeth Eger and Lucy Peltz, Brilliant Women: 18th-century Bluestockings (London: National Portrait Gallery, 2008). Mary Eleanor Bowes, countess of Strathmore and Kinghorne (1749–1800), is another horticultural figure, whose distinctive contribution needs researching.124See Margaret Wills, Gibside and the Bowes Family (Newcastle: The Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne, 1995). As John Edmondson points out, Lady Strathmore was linked to Mrs Delany through one collage in particular: her portrait of Lobelia pubescens of 1781, based on a plant growing at Kew. In 1780 William Paterson had collected the species in South Africa for Bowes, who was building a collection of Cape plants at her home, Stanley House in Chelsea. In short, the collage documents a new import of importance. As Edmondson concluded: ‘one of the more remarkable aspects of the Delany collages is that some of them feature plants only just introduced to cultivation in England’.125Edmondson, ‘Novelty in Nomenclature’, 201.
William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis, initiated in 1775 and terminated in 1798, marks the stage a natural-history-cum-gardening literature had reached as a public conversation (and hence its paramount importance at the culmination of this book). The nurserymen Gordon and Lee had joined the ranks of a few aristocratic subscribers (e.g., Mary Eleanor Bowes, Lady Strathmore), plenty of parson-naturalists (e.g., the ‘Rev. Mr. Wood, Iver, Bucks’) and the large cohort of medico-botanists (e.g., ‘Mr. Charles Lightfoot, Surgeon, Whitby’ and ‘Mr. Timothy Lane, Apothecary, Aldersgate-street’). Perhaps the two sets ordered by Thomas White of Lambeth meant that one went to brother Gilbert in Selborne; brother Benjamin — co-seller with Curtis of the first volume of Flora Londinensis — bought a set in his own right. Perhaps the duchess of Portland, with a subscription for two sets, ordered an extra set for Mary Delany, while persuading her daughter ‘Lady Viscountess Wey-mouth’ to subscribe. Women subscribers made up a small but significant group, and those of lesser rank (e.g., a ‘Mrs. Clark of Windsor’) played their part too. The subscriber Samuel Driver is the one representative of the lower ranks of the self-made landscape gardener; and his name can be traced back to those nurserymen endorsing Philip Miller’s first publication of 1724. Thus, despite wretched pay, the journeyman gardener of skill and aptitude could begin to play a role in public exchanges. No such outlet existed for poor women in gardening. They were trapped: from labour in childbirth to labour on the land, where they were routinely paid around half that which went to their lowly husband gardeners.
In The Woman’s Domain (1990), Trevor Lummis and Jan Marsh point to the Saltram House account books for outdoor work (1789–93): a record of payment of regular gardeners and casual labourers (including ‘weeder women’), both on the basis of ‘work done’ (pl. 317). This was 6s. or 7s. a week for men and 3s. a week for women. They conclude:
The principle of paying only for work done meant that although a fully employed man could earn 7s. a week or around £18 a year, compared with the footman’s £15, the irregular supply of work reduced overall earnings, out of which outdoor labourers had to feed and clothe their families. Even if something is added for seasonal earnings of wives and children — either in the fields or as extra staff in the laundry, for example — it is clear that estate labourers were less well paid than domestic servants.126Trevor Lummis and Jan Marsh, The Woman’s Domain: Women and the English Country House (London: Viking, 1990), 82.
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Description: Gardiners by Pyne, William Henry
317. William Henry Pyne (1769–1843), ‘Gardiners’, hand-coloured aquatint from Microcosm; or, A Picturesque Delineation of the Arts, Agriculture, Manufactures &c of Great Britain (London, 1808), vol. II, pl. 97. Paul Mellon Collection, Yale Center for British Art
The artist presents these figures sympathetically in typical attire and activities but separated from some of their hardest tasks, notably scything. The portraits thus mask the reality of a typical, often arduous, twelve-hour summer workday. Despite their moral and intellectual stature, journeymen gardeners earned scarcely half as much as other tradesmen. Subsistence dogged the poorest paid of servants on great estates; and gardeners, not much above the level of beasts, had the advantage only over ‘weeder women’, who were the lowest link in the menial chain.
Moreover, with risk of scythe injury, the lot of the reaper in any ‘Elysium’ of garden or field was a painful one (pl. 318). Curtis’s entries in Flora Londinensis bring this to light: the vulnerary Stachys palustris was a salve for leg gashes in mowing; Galeopsis versicolor was a bane in reaping, ‘the rough hairs . . . proving highly injurious to the hands and arms of the reapers’.127Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Stachys palustris, fascicle 3, no. 35, 35, 125, 208. Curtis wrote that Galeopsis speciosa (fascicle 6, no. 70, 38, 115) was in corn in parts of Yorkshire, but ‘the fields about London are exempt from it’. More generally, high mortality rates among women in the ‘life-threatening agonies of early modern childbirth’128Thomas, The Ends of Life, 53. and among children in epidemics, everyday ailments for which the apothecary had discredited remedies — all these still loom large in the pages of The Natural History of Selborne and Flora Londinensis. Those at the bottom of the pile had little recourse but to pray for seasonal help from the ‘Bountiful Giver’ and better times in the next generation.
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Description: Reapers by Stubbs, George
318. George Stubbs, Reapers, 1785, oil on wood, 35 3⁄8 × 53 7⁄8 in. (89.9 × 136.8 cm). Tate Britain, London
This unsentimental yet sympathetic observation of work in the countryside is reminiscent of Stubbs’s earlier depictions of a groom and stable lad rubbing down horses (see pl. 238). It conveys something of the rewards of rural labour. Yet the formal beauty and dignity of the ideal are cleansed of sweat and leg gashes and the nesting creatures killed and injured among the blood-red poppies of the harvest. The location of the scene could be on the outskirts of the metropolis, within a few miles of Stubbs’s house at Somerset Street, London. Ozias Humphry noted that Stubbs (like Ehret walking along the Thames from Chelsea to Fulham) often walked 8 or 9 miles a day for his work.
Better times would eventually come. In 1840 the Derby Arboretum was opened — realized at last among the many millenarian, utopian and more pragmatic visions that had wilted in the bud from the time of John Evelyn to the age of John Claudius Loudon.129See Graham Parry, ‘John Evelyn as Hortulan Saint’, in Culture and Cultivation in Early Modern England: Writing and the Land, ed. Michael Leslie and Timothy Raylor (Leicester and London: Leicester University Press, 1992), especially 137 and 145: ‘The Hartlib circle generally was familiar with these millenarian expectations, and the Utopian schemes generated in that milieu owed something to the belief that man’s capacity for improvement was increasing fast.’ This was the first of England’s parks designed for public use; it was free for ordinary folk. It was created to benefit social well-being as well as science. The arboretum was a garden of the type Loudon had recommended for London as early as 1811 at a Linnean Society gathering: ‘a living museum’ of trees, but on different lines from Curtis’s Lambeth garden, which specialized in grasses.
One inspiration for Loudon — the founding of the British Museum on Sir Hans Sloane’s death in 1753 — is significant. Yet, during Loudon’s formative years, its restrictive regulations meant that a paying public gained greater value from the eclectic displays in Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum in Leicester Fields (1775–1806). Even so, at the Leverian Museum, with tickets costing half a guinea, access was for the middling ranks only — those of ‘taste’ or ‘politeness’ rather than the ‘public’ as Loudon came to understand it.130For ‘taste’ and ‘politeness’, see Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination, 88–111. Moreover, a warning was issued: ‘As Mr Lever has in his collection some very curious monkies and monsters, which might disgust the Ladies, a separate room is appropriated for their exhibition.’
Ironically, it was one lady of distinction, Sarah Stone (circa 1760–1844), who was given access to all the collections. She recorded them in a thousand or more water-colours between 1777 and 1806 — evidence that remains significant in science to this day.131See Michael Walters, ‘Birds Depicted in a Folio of Eighteenth Century Water-Colours by Sarah Stone’, Archives of Natural History, XXXI/1 (April 2004), 123–49. See also Christine E. Jackson, Sarah Stone: Natural Curiosities from the New Worlds (London: Merrell Holberton/Natural History Museum, 1998). Excluded from an increasingly male-dominated institutional science, Stone resumed the traditional role of women as painstaking natural-history artists in the manner of Martin Lister’s daughters.132See Lucia Tongiorgi Tomasi, ‘ “La femminil pazienza”: Women Painters and Natural History in the Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries’, in The Art of Natural History: Illustrated Treatises and Botanical Paintings, 1400–1850, ed. Therese O’Malley and Amy R. W. Meyers (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2008), 158–85. Yet, her contribution to illustrating shells, sponges and Gorgonian coral (Octocorallia, pl. 319) consolidates Tobin’s rehabilitation of a female culture of conchology, at the apex of which stood the duchess of Portland.
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Description: Gorgonian coral in the subclass Octocorallia by Stone, Sarah
319. Sarah Stone, Gorgonian coral in the subclass Octocorallia, 1785, (1) 80, part of a portfolio of ninety-three watercolours of items in Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum, 20 × 16 ½ in. (51 × 42 cm). © The Natural History Museum, London
From around 1777, Sarah Stone spent hours at the museum recording the mounted birds, insects, mammals, fishes, lizards, fossils, and minerals, and the shells and corals that included specimens brought back by Captain Cook. Since the collections were dispersed in 1806, her record is often the only one that survives today. The albums of watercolour drawings are a close visual approximation to the Portland Museum before its dispersal in 1786. This Gorgonian coral would have been displayed with the shells such as the spider conch and honeycomb oyster of the cabinets before the arch (pl. 320).
In Stone’s interior view of 1786, the cabinets recall the surviving drawers of Soane’s private collections. They reanimate the lost world of the duchess of Portland’s breakfast-room displays: from the foreground shells, marine organisms, minerals and fossils to birds and larger animals at the rear (pl. 320). Theatrical display thus went from private residence to metropolitan venue. Stone’s beautiful watercolours ranged from sloths to ‘monstrous’ carrots, indicating that the wonder at curiosities was still fresh, as in the days of John Evelyn and the duchess of Beaufort (pl. 321). ‘Monsters’ like the chameleon continued to attract women naturalists, just as fungi had done in the time of Ehret.133Jane Wildgoose’s remarkable evocation of the Portland Museum for the exhibition Mrs Delany and her Circle at the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (24 September 2009 to 3 January 2010), is recorded in her publication Promiscuous Assemblage . . . (New Haven: Yale Center for British Art, 2009).
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Description: Interior of Leverian Museum: View as It Appeared in the 1780s by Stone, Sarah
320. Sarah Stone, Interior of Leverian Museum: View as It Appeared in the 1780s, as copied in 1835, watercolour. British Museum, Department of Africa, Oceania and the Americas (AM2006, DRG. 54). © Trustees of the British Museum
Cabinets of shells in the foreground ‘ascend’ to those of fossils and minerals. Birds and quadrupeds of the highest stature are housed in the background. The ‘theatricality’ of display (including the proscenium arch with stage curtain), which Mary Delany and the duchess of Portland kept in the relative privacy of Delville and Bulstrode, was developing a public character — the museum. Though the Leverian Museum was accessible to a paying (‘polite’) public, the room in the museum with its ‘curious monkies and monsters’ was off limits to ladies — excepting the artist herself, Sarah Stone (circa 1760–1844).
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Description: A Radish with Intertwined Growth, and a Carrot Also Intertwined by Stone, Sarah
321. Sarah Stone, A Radish with Intertwined Growth, and a Carrot Also Intertwined, (1) 8, part of a portfolio of ninety-three watercolours of items in Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum, 14 ¼ × 10 ¼ in. (36 × 26 cm). © The Natural History Museum, London
Presumably preserved in solution in glass jars, these ‘curiosities’ recall the origins of the museum in ‘cabinets of curiosities’. Women came to play a diminished role in the new institutions, once more being relegated to patient illustrators rather than acting as patrons and amateur scientists like the duchess of Portland. Where the malformed radish and carrot fitted within the displays of shells, minerals, birds and quadrupeds is not clear from Sarah Stone’s interior view of Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum (see pl. 320).
In 1786 William Gilpin wrote to Mary Delany about Ashton Lever’s museum, an institution that she had visited five years earlier. He noted the effort to ‘array his birds to ye. best advantage, by placing ym. in white boxes round his rooms, & when you enter, you are presented with a succession of rooms, still multiplied by a mirror at ye. end, every where invested with these little white apartments’ (see again pl. 320).134William Gilpin to Mary Delany, 8 May 1786, Oxford, Bodleian MS Eng. Letters, b.27, fols 53–4. Though critical of the white ground, preferring a naturalistic backdrop, Gilpin realized that Delany’s alternative black ‘apartments’ would produce a ‘dismal’ effect. Nonetheless, through her sequential arrangement of the ‘Flora Delanica’, Gilpin felt that the black ground was a ‘taste’ far surpassing Lever. In this way, he acknowledged how Delany had created, for private viewing, a kind of museum. It would outlive the Portland Museum, then being dispersed by auction in spring 1786. When Gilpin published a lively portrait of Delany at work at Bulstrode in 1789 (in his Observations Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty), he also helped to immortalize her. But it was Horace Walpole, who, during her lifetime, praised her invention of ‘paper-mosaic’ in the fourth edition of Anecdotes of Painting in England (1786). He was among her intimate circle of visitors, still gaining access to her grace-and-favour retirement home in Windsor in the final years. Much as he had nothing to say on women gardeners in his History (within the first edition of Anecdotes, 1780), his compliments in 1786 were fulsome: ‘a lady of excellent sense and taste’ creating the ‘mosaics’ with ‘a precision and truth unparalleled’.135Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting in England, 4th edn, 4 vols (London, 1786), II, 242. As with his letters, the Anecdotes thus counter the rhetoric of the History’s ‘modern taste’, thereby unsettling the verities that he did so much to promote in print.
Back in 1785 the Revd William Gilpin had wrestled with a protracted publication. He alluded to reciprocal favours and connections to the court, echoing Thomas Knowlton’s ‘retaliation’ that depended upon connections in commerce, and upon reciprocity within instrumental and non-instrumental friendships.136It should be noted, that, while my book points to book publishing, based on subscriptions, as part of a wider exchange of knowledge, commodities and favours, it does not deal with a larger history of the ‘gift’. See Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990); Alan D. Schrift, The Logic of the Gift (New York and London: Routledge, 1997); and Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth Century France (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). For discussion of instrumental and non-instrumental or affectionate friendships, see Thomas, The Ends of Life, chapter 6: ‘Friendship and Sociability’. Gilpin was writing to Mrs Delany about his Observations Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty, which remained in manuscript for fifteen years. In January 1786 he also blamed the delay on the weather:
Naturalists tell us, that the noblest animals are the longest in gestation. If this analogy holds in books, I think I am highly politic in endeavouring to keep the attention of the public so long. At the same time, you know, madam, there is an ugly fable against me, about a mountain and a mouse. The late frosts, I am told, are what have chiefly retarded our affairs; as that weather is bad for copper-plate printing.137William Gilpin to Mary Delany, 9 November 1785 and 25 January 1786, respectively, in Autobiography and Correspondence, ed. Llanover, VI, 306, 340. Gilpin was alluding to Aesop’s ‘The Mountain in Labour’: ‘A MOUNTAIN was once greatly agitated. Loud groans and noises were heard; and crowds of people came from all parts to see what was the matter. While they were assembled in anxious expectation of some terrible calamity, out came a Mouse.’ Moral: Don’t make much ado about nothing.
The long gestation of Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selborne — almost twenty years from the first idea, seventeen years from the proposals of 1771 and fourteen years from a ‘prospectus’ of 1774 — had nothing to do with weather delays, patronage problems or cultivating a ‘public’. As Paul Foster points out, distractions resulted from the genre itself, and from the ‘over-conscientious’ wish to be ‘all-inclusive’.138See Paul Foster’s very good account, ‘Distractions, 1775–1788’, in Gilbert White and his Records, 138–46, and especially 138 and 146. Above all, extension of his garden into the landscape in the 1770s and 1780s, which had begun with the carefully recorded construction of a ha-ha in 1759–61, led to further stalling. Ultimately, then, gardening continued to exert a consuming power over White’s natural history. This is crucial to understanding his contemporaries as well as the parson-naturalist himself.
First conceived as a gardening calendar, then as an annus historico-naturalist with added ‘co-incidents’, The Natural History of Selborne was ultimately devoted to the ‘life & manners of animals [which] are the best part of Nat: history’.139Ibid., 132, 130. In capturing ‘the quotidian intricacies of the natural world’, it offers a model for understanding all webs of life (as Part III explores).140Paul Foster’s introduction to White, The Natural History of Selborne, xxii.
White’s Natural History shares one characteristic with Mary Delany’s hortus siccus: late flowering. The Natural History of Selborne was published when White was close to seventy. It corresponds, then, to the idea of the individual finding the ends of life at the end of life. Unlike the wide-ranging ‘Flora Delanica’, however, its strength came exclusively from local studies in narrow compass: ‘his own autopsia’.141White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 5 to Daines Barrington, 112. None was more significant than weather recording that allowed for synthesis in the final chapters of Selborne. How private autopsy worked to public advantage is exemplified in the emergence of an applied meteorology through Gilbert White and Luke Howard (1772–1864). The Quaker Howard was as critical to meteorology as the Quaker Curtis was to the science of ‘Rural Oeconomy’.142Quakers were ‘celebrated for producing a quite disproportionate number of botanists, plant-collectors and nurserymen’, writes Keith Thomas in Man and the Natural World, 237. And weather, as White came to know, was often what tipped the balance between plenty or famine, life or death.
Gilbert White found a way in The Natural History of Selborne, through the ‘co-incidents’ of nature, to balance blessings and brutalities among animals, while calculating in 1783 that, among 676 parish inhabitants, ‘Chances of life in men and women appear to be equal’.143For this and all statistics in the paragraph, see White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, n. 7, 252–4. This was a matter of ‘Providence’ and what William Derham, one of White’s religious mentors, had called the ‘Balance of Animals’ in his Physico-Theology of 1713. The ratio of 13 females to 13.7 males was ‘balanced’, as Derham believed, because a slight surplus over and above one man to every woman allowed for men to go to sea and war. White established his parochial ratio, by baptisms, of 515 males to 465 females for a sixty-year period (1720–79). From this, he tabulated that ‘a child, born and bred in this parish, has an equal chance to live above forty years’. The question of weighting by baptisms to burials, however, led to a different ratio: for, while more men than women were being born, more women than men were buried over the same sixty years in the parish of Selborne. How White’s ‘prognostics’, promising stability to harvests and health, was offset, in the balance sheet of ‘progress’, by what Curtis saw as detriments to wildlife, and how Evelyn’s return to purity fell short of a Garden of Eden in England are the final weightings.
On the one hand, an improving trend in the waning Little Ice Age appeared a providential blessing in the data of births exceeding deaths. On the other, random anomalies that ‘prognostications’ could not foretell — notably the volcanic summer of 1783 — left some to invoke God’s judgement (as Evelyn had done), some to find reason through science, while some again wondered if the balance scales of life and death were tipped by mere ‘Chance’. In 1783 (the year of White’s census), as most survived the stultifying air, considerable numbers died from the clouds of sulphuric-acid aerosols, resulting from the 122 megatonnes of sulphur dioxide ‘widely distributed by the meandering North Atlantic winds’.144Richard B. Stothers, ‘The Great Dry Fog of 1783’, Climate Change, XXXII (1996), 79; and see Clive Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 276. There were 11,500 anomalous deaths in Britain in August–September 1783; and, with the mass poisoning of fish and livestock, the population of Iceland was reduced by a quarter.
Luke Howard’s Cloud Meteorology Emerging from White’s Cloud of Curiosity
Despite references in Delany’s correspondence to meteors and the effects of volcanic ash, the discipline of meteorology (like ornithology) had little place in Bulstrode’s ‘philosophical cabinet’: charting the coordinates of the weather that made gardening possible and at times infuriating. Indeed, during the duchess’s lifetime few women took an interest in weather observation. Margaret Mackenzie of Delvine, Perthshire, stands out as a rare exception, ‘compiling a meticulous record of daily temperatures at her home from 1780 to 1802’.145Jan Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 61. Like ornithology, meteorology did not lend itself to female accomplishment.
While William Curtis included occasional weather observations in Flora Londinensis, he never came close to a meteorological approach to botany or gardening. For example, he wrote of the marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), which flowers from March onwards: ‘last Spring, 1775, this plant was found in Blossom in the month of February, so remarkably forward was the Spring of that year’.146Curtis, Flora Londinenis: Caltha palustris, fascicle 1, no. 7, 40, 114. (This observation points to Mary Delany’s post-dating her early London collages at ‘St. James’s’; for the double snowdrop, primrose, oxlip and cowslip, which must have flowered by March that year, were all dated ‘April 1775’). Such occasional observance falls short of White’s tracking variability from one winter to another. For example, in contrast to February 1775, White recorded January 1776 as a ‘Siberian’ month; furthermore, every such record added cumulatively to a system. The closest Curtis came to documenting the variables of weather and plant growth is represented by the entry for Sagina erecta (upright pearlwort, now Moenchia erecta, pl. 322). He commented: ‘If the season prove dry, as hath been most unusually the case this year, 1779, the stalk is generally simple; but if the ground be moist, it throws out many stalks, which first spread on the earth, and afterwards become upright.’147Ibid., Moenchia erecta, fascicle 2, no. 22, 12, 34, 136.
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Description: Sagina erecta by Curtis, William
322. William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London, 1777[1775]–98), ‘Sagina erecta’, 1779, fasc. 2, no. 23, 12, 34, 136. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
Curtis had two conditions of upright pearlwort (Moenchia erecta) illustrated. Both were affected by the weather: ‘If the season prove dry, as hath been most unusually the case this year, 1779, the stalk is generally simple; but if the ground be moist, it throws out many stalks, which first spread on the earth, and afterwards become upright.’ Delany’s ‘Sagina erecta’, dated at St James’s Place ‘25 April 1776’, was probably collected on a London heath (e.g., ‘Black-heath’, where, according to Curtis, it abounded). It shows the multiple stems of the moist season of 1776. Gilbert White went further than Curtis in recording the ‘co-incidents’ in nature: how, each season, the data of weather made up a system related to leafing trees, flowering, and the movements of birds and other animals.
By contrast, Gilbert White, responding to reports of weather in the South Seas (Banks) and in Rutland (Barker), made the data of weather central to record keeping in his Journals at Selborne.148Paul Foster provides a good account of how White’s brother-in-law, Thomas Barker of Lyndon Hall, Rutland, provided an impetus for weather recording as initiated in the Garden-Kalendar in 1751. See Foster, Gilbert White and his Records, 18–20. Around them, the ‘co-incidents’ of the natural calendar were organized on the model devised by Daines Barrington: the leafing of trees and appearance of fungi; the flowering of plants and growth of moss; the appearance and disappearance of birds and insects; and observations on fish and other animals. In the final column, miscellaneous observations follow. The most systematically pursued in the manner of science are the five meteorological columns.
Significantly, though, his descriptive terms — ‘sweet day’ being the most frequent — are well short of a scientific language and reflect the concerns of the gardener and farmer, not the meteorologist. For White, the gossamer shower set him in a delightful cloud of curiosity; yet gardening and husbandry kept his feet and mind firmly on customary ground.
Ferdinand II, grand duke of Tuscany is credited with initiating the world’s first major weather-monitoring project, which ran for thirteen years from 1654 to 1667.149See Richard Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds: How an Amateur Meteorologist Forged the Language of the Skies (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001), 128–43, for a discussion of initiatives from the grand duke to Lamarck. In 1665 Robert Hooke proposed ‘A Method for Making a History of the Weather’. He produced guidelines for the collection of data on wind force, temperature, barometric pressure and humidity. (This was the context for Evelyn’s writings on forecasts in ‘Elysium Britannicum’.) An enduring consequence was to direct the eye up to ‘the faces of the sky’ (away from the habitual downward gaze of the naturalist). It turned the firmament from the god-haunted cloudscapes of paintings and opera into a secular field of study. It was Luke Howard’s presentation in Plough Court off Lombard Street, London, of cloud taxonomy in December 1802, however — the cirrus, cumulus and stratus still used today — that marked the scientific breakthrough. He moved away from drawing upon customary similitude (pls 323a–d).
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Description: All Cloudy, no. 35 of cloud studies by Cozens, Alexander
323a. Alexander Cozens, All Cloudy, no. 35 of cloud studies, circa 1785. Tate Britain, London.
Alexander Cozens (teacher to Elizabeth Harcourt, later Lady Elizabeth Lee of Hartwell, see pls 296a and b) drew clouds in a twenty-fold classification. Gilbert White was the first in a long line of naturalist-clergymen to link weather observation and cloud observation to natural history and gardening. While he knew as a gardener and farmer of the link between the advent of rain and clouds massing like ‘rocks’ or ‘moss’, it took Luke Howard to classify such clouds under ‘cumulus’. ‘The distinct cumulo-stratus’, Howard wrote, ‘is formed in the interval between the first appearance of the fleecy cumulus and the commencement of the rain . . . Also during the approach of thunder storms.’
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Description: Sketch study of Cumulo Stratus—cumulus and cirrostratus above a silhouette...
323b. Luke Howard’s sketch study of ‘Cumulo Stratus’ — cumulus and cirrostratus above a silhouette landscape, circa 1810, blue and grey wash, with cream and white, 6 ¼ × 9 ½ in. (16 × 24 cm). Science Museum / Science & Society Picture Library, London.
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Description: Rain hitting the ground, anvil is spread out by Howard, Luke
323c. Luke Howard, watercolour of clouds entitled ‘Rain hitting the ground, anvil is spread out’, circa 1803. Science Museum / Science & Society Picture Library, London.
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Description: Study of Clouds by Palmer, Samuel
323d. Samuel Palmer, Study of Clouds, 1819, watercolour, 4 ⅝ × 7 ⅝ in. (11.8 × 19.5 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1966,0212.11.1–30). © Trustees of the British Museum
Jan Golinski’s British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment (2007) provides a cultural background for the period that culminates with Howard: first, a systematizing and normalizing of the weather that reconceived the British climate as both ‘regular’ and a manifestation of God’s providential benevolence; and, second, a reflecting on the extremes of climate and weather that made ‘enlightened intellectuals’ respectful of ‘the constraints on rationality’.150Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment, preface, xii–xiii. The gardener and naturalist were well placed to understand both ways of thinking: first, because the improving trend in the climate (the 1730s, then the late 1740s to late 1760s, see chapters 3 and 4) gave encouragement to the idea of British weather as a providential blessing in garden and field; and second, because, from the extreme winter of 1683–4 to the cold twelve months of 1740, to the extreme summer haze of 1783, those who worked the land cast their eye skywards, whether to pray for help or to look in vain at anomalous patterns of wind, clouds and thunderstorms.
Golinski also directs attention to the ‘alternative’ (subjective, psychological or Romantic) strain of weather observation that runs from the ‘Edgiock diarist’ (1703) to Richard Townley (1791). Whatever the stance of the emerging meteorologists, polite knowledge and vulgar belief remained intertwined for the gardener-naturalist. As Golinski points out, ‘the failure of systematic research to predict the weather left the field wide open to prognostication by the traditional techniques of “weather-wising” ’.151Ibid., 206. Or, as Richard Hamblyn put it, ‘The most that meteorological instruments could do — and this includes the umbrella, for which the first patent was taken out in 1786 — was to respond to conditions prevailing on earth.’152Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 110. There were, of course, umbrellas in England more than a hundred years before the patent was taken out by John Beale.
While likening clouds to ‘rocks’ runs all the way from John Evelyn to Gilbert White, there is the difference between a largely sacred or idealized and an increasingly secular or scientific viewpoint. This is well documented by Hamblyn in The Invention of Clouds (2001). For all that, White, while recording nature’s economy, remained concerned, just as much as Evelyn, with ‘the wonders of the Creation’.153White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, advertisement: ‘If the writer should at all appear to have induced any of his readers to pay a more ready attention to the wonders of the Creation, too frequently overlooked as common occurrences . . . his purpose will be fully answered.’ See Letter 17 to Thomas Pennant, 46, for an account of the toad: ‘How wonderful is the economy of Providence with regard to the limbs of so vile a reptile!’ His scientific endeavour was to ‘show, experimentally, the bounty of Providence’ in field and garden.154Foster, Gilbert White and his Records, 7. In his records, he discerned God’s handiwork. When providential balance was upset, notably in the summer haze of 1783, he worked against the ‘superstitious awe’ of country people,155White, The Natural History of Selborne, 247–8. not giving way (as Evelyn and Defoe had done after the Great Storm of 1703) to the pervading sense of a ‘Judgment of GOD on this Nation’.156Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment, 45.
Two cloud cameos convey just how different the climate of thinking was in the 1780s from the 1640s. In 1786 the ‘aironaut’ of Airopaidia described the clouds from above as ‘Pieces of Ordnance . . . discharged perpendicularly upwards into the Air’. By contrast, Evelyn, who had travelled through northern Italy in 1644, described a walk upwards through a bank of cloud in the Apennines as a kind of apotheosis:
as we ascended, we enter’d a very thick, soled, and darke body of Clowds, which look’d like rocks at a little distance, which dured us for neere a mile going up; they were dry misty Vapours hanging undissolved for a vast thicknesse, & altogether both obscuring the Sunn & Earth, so as we seemed to be rather in the Sea than the Clowdes, till we having pierc’d quite through, came into a most serene heaven, as if we had been above all human Conversation.157See John Evelyn, The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. Esmond S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955), II, 207–8.
It seemed, as Hamblyn put it, to ‘enact a powerful, almost mythic reversal’. To Evelyn, who was familiar with the effects of gunpowder,158Mark Laird, ‘ “Perpetual Spring” or Tempestuous Fall: The Greenhouse and the Great Storm of 1703 in the Life of John Evelyn and his Contemporaries’, Garden History, XXXIV/2 (Winter 2006), 153–73. likening clouds to a ‘Piece of Ordnance’ would have seemed irreverent or bizarre. But his contemporary Robert Hooke began to move analogies away from ‘heaven’ and immense oceans and mountains to sober epithets based on minute observations of nature and art: ‘Let Water’d signifie a Sky that has many high thin and small Clouds, looking almost like a water’d Tabby, called in some places a Mackeril Sky.’159Quoted in Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 133. Likewise, on the ground in the parish of Selborne, White used the term ‘mackerel sky’ (21 October 1787). Always perceptive where there was nebulosity, he still looked for an answer to his unfathomed question: ‘What becomes of those mossy clouds that often incumber the atmosphere in the day, & yet disappear in the evening. Do they melt down into dew?’160Entry for 3 October 1777. See Greenoak, ed., The Journals of Gilbert White, II, 191.
Luke Howard, the ‘self-doubting’ young Quaker chemist of thirty, ‘often sub dio in passing to and fro’, provided a first step to an answer when he began his lecture in December 1802:
If Clouds were the mere result of the condensation of vapour in the masses of atmosphere which they occupy, if their variations were produced by the movements of the atmosphere alone, then indeed might the study of them be deemed a useless pursuit of shadows, an attempt to describe forms which, being the sport of winds, must be ever varying, and therefore not to be defined. But the case is not so with clouds . . .161See Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 4–6.
PART III: THE BALANCE
The Field Networks of Flora Londinensis Reconstructed
The consequences of that lecture for art and science were significant, as art historians and cultural geographers have documented;162See Hubert Damisch, Théorie du nuage: pour une histoire de la peinture (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1972), 267–9; and see Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, chapter 11: ‘Goethe and Constable’. equally momentous in scientific and artistic fields of enquiry was the ‘envisioning’ of the meteor of 1783, as Stephen Daniels has shown (see pl. 287).163Stephen Daniels, ‘Great Balls of Fire: Envisioning the Brilliant Meteor of 1783’, in Envisioning Landscapes, Making Worlds: Geography and the Humanities, ed. Daniels et al. (London: Routledge, 2010), 155–69. Yet Howard’s taxonomy, despite a legitimate claim to ‘invention’, did not come out of the blue: Hooke and Lamarck were pioneers before him, and the drawing master Alexander Cozens devised ways of grading the sky ahead of John Constable’s systematic studies of clouds or the cloud sketches of Samuel Palmer (see pl. 323d). Just so, with eyes fixed on the ground sub dio, generations of men and women had patiently added to the sum of amateur knowledge of plants and animals from 1650 onwards. Loudon, in his Magazine of Natural History, was thus right to place White in his topographical and cultural milieu: pre-eminent among naturalist clergymen ‘abroad in the fields, investigating the habits and searching out the habitats of birds, insects, or plants . . . [an act] affording ample opportunity for frequent intercourse with his parishioners’.164Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VIII (1835), preface. See Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 18–19, and Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 281–2.
The names of more than thirty clergymen appear as subscribers to William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis. While a few had parishes in London (e.g., ‘Rev. Dr. Whitfield, Fulham’), most were scattered throughout the countryside. Apart from the ‘Rev. Dr. Brooke’ of Cambridge, ‘Rev. Mr. Davis, Fellow of Merton College, Oxford’, and ‘Rev. Mr. Harpur, British Museum’ — all clearly interconnected through institutions of learning — many were in pursuit of their own private autopsia: to ‘see for themselves’. A good few lived in far-flung locations. For example, the ‘Rev. Mr. Pierson, Coxwold’ was more than 200 miles from the capital; the Pennines separated him from the ‘Rev. Mr. Davison, Carlisle’. Whether in Southampton or Yarmouth, or in Coldenham, Suffolk, or Pembroke, Wales, such relatively isolated clergy pored over the texts and illustrations, perhaps swapping tidbits of country lore with parishioners. Curtis encouraged them to supply him with knowledge at their disposal. It was making the art of private ‘retaliation’ public through exchange of ‘favours’ in print, just as future magazines would allow:
He [the author] is nevertheless sensible how inadequate his abilities, or indeed the abilities of any one person are, to rend a work of this kind any ways compleat; he therefore respectfully solicits the assistance of those, who wish well to the improvement of English Botany and English Agriculture: any information they shall be pleased to communicate, shall with those favours he has already received from divers of his friends, be gratefully acknowledged; and to induce them the more readily to communicate, he has subjoined a catalogue of those plants which (with many others) are already drawn, and which he intends shall form the next Fasciculus.165Curtis, Flora Londinensis, vol. i, preface.
Leading among the knowledgeable was the subscriber ‘Rev. John Lightfoot, Uxbridge’ — master of the ‘philosophical cabinet’ at Bulstrode. Pulmonaria maritima (northern shorewort, now Mertensia maritima) is thus picked out by Curtis in Flora Londinensis as a native especially prized by Lightfoot (pl. 324).166Ibid., Pulmonaria maritima (Mertensia maritima), fascicle 6, no. 72, 18, 54. Cherishing the beauty of the wild was the common ground shared at Bulstrode by the duchess, her chaplain Lightfoot, her dear friend Delany, and all the artists and scientists who came under her sway (e.g., the subscriber Solander). Geographical and social propinquity were crucial. Thus, subscriber ‘Rev. James Lambert’ was listed at ‘Lady Leicester’s Hill Street, Berkley-Square’. Subscriber ‘Rev. Mr. Wood’ of Iver in Buckinghamshire lived very close to subscriber ‘Mrs. Towers, at Huntsmore Lodge, near Iver, Bucks’. Women as well as men were thus in a community, crossing paths in actuality, or virtually by correspondence.
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Description: Pulmonaria Maritima by Edwards, Sydenham Teast
324. Sydenham Edwards, engraved F. Sansom, ‘Pulmonaria Maritima’, 1798, fasc. 6, no. 72, 18, 54, in William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis (London, 1777[1775]–98). Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
Curtis wrote in his entry on the northern shorewort (Mertensia maritima): ‘Mr. Lightfoot regards it as one of the most beautiful of our British plants.’ Curtis itemized its ‘local attachments’ or habitats along the northern and western coasts of the British Isles. Since snails and slugs are ‘uncommonly fond of this plant’, he continued, the gardener does best to cultivate it in pots kept in the greenhouse. Lightfoot was among more than thirty naturalist-clergymen to subscribe to Curtis’s Flora Londinensis. He contributed to ‘parish intercourse’ — a ‘public conversation’ on botany and husbandry.
The spirit of exchange is exemplified by the entry for Antirrhinum linaria var. peloria (the peloric form of common toadflax, Linaria vulgaris):
In the year 1792, Mr. ORDOYNO, Nurseryman at Newark-upon-Trent, most obligingly sent me some roots of this plant, found growing wild by Mr. LEIGHTON, of Brocklesby, near Brigg in Lincolnshire, in some woods belonging to Mr. PELHAM; these were planted in a pot, and flowered with me sparingly in 1793: this summer, 1794, in the beginning of August, they produced great number of flowering stems, and flowers in abundance, every one of which was true to its character; but though the parts of fructification were perfect, no seed-vessels were formed; its failure in this respect I attribute to my keeping the plant in too sheltered a situation, as a plant from the same roots growing in a pot at Mr. VERE’S, Brompton Park-House, Kensington-Gore, under the management of his gardener WILLIAM ANDERSON, produced two perfect seed-vessels.167Ibid., Antirrhinum linaria var. peloria (now Linaria vulgaris peloric form), fascicle 6, no. 69, 41, 125.
Clearly one person and one thing led to another; exchanges produced a surmise, and theory was then given ‘fair trial’, as Curtis reported time and time again on discounted apothecary lore.168Curtis refers to the doctrine of signatures in the context of Saxifraga granulata (ibid., fascicle 1, no. 9, 30, 80) being ‘unphilosophically’ introduced into the Materia medica (the body of collected knowledge about the medical properties of substances used in healing). He had a no-nonsense stance: for example, on Epilobium adnatum (fascicle 2, no. 22, 23, 66, 131): ‘The farmer has no reason to complain of it; nor is it celebrated in the annals of physic’; and on Polygonum minus (fascicle 1, no. 1, 28, 77): ‘At present it does not appear that it has any thing more than its scarcity to recommend it to our notice.’ A bevy of informants bore testimony, for example, under the corn cockle, Agrostemma githago: ‘A miller informed me he never wished to see any of it among the corn he ground, as it had a very great tendency to clog his mill-stones.’169Ibid., Agrostemma githago, fascicle 3, no. 35, 27, 92, 209. Under bindweed (Calystegia sepium, see pl. 17), Curtis alluded to Mr Church, a surgeon (presumably the subscriber ‘John Church, Surgeon, Islington’), who observed moths.
There is no more compelling example than his coverage of the grasses of his Lambeth garden — grasses that made up a meadow and its aftermath. For example, the entry for Alopecurus pratensis, meadow foxtail grass, which begins with published information from Professors Schreber, Gmelin and Kalm, and from Mr Stillingfleet, is a manifesto on meadow culture and hay making more than physic: so vigorous is this grass, it may be ‘cut three times in a year’; ‘sweetish and agreeable’, it is everything that ‘good fodder-grass ought to be’; and, unlike other grasses, it is untouched by a moth called by Linnaeus Phalena graminis. Curtis’s account of how to sow and manage the meadow shows a meticulous balancing of nature and art — the way of the garden and field as ‘improvement’.170Ibid., Alopecurus pratensis, fascicle 5, no. 50, 5, 17, 296.
Yet, through agricultural improvement, as Curtis noted, that balance could tip to the prejudice of wildlife. Remarkable in this light is his entry on Aira aquatica (water whorlgrass, Catabrosa aquatica):
In a country like ours, where cultivation has made a considerable progress, the water plants are confined to a small space compared to what they occupied in a state of nature; the drainage of bogs and lakes has rendered many large tracts in several parts of the kingdom, capable of producing corn and grass adapted to the use of cattle, which were formerly inaccessible to man or beast. We ought not however to look on this or any other plant as made in vain, because we do not immediately see the uses they are applied to: several sorts of water-fowl which abound in uninhabited countries are expert gatherers of the seeds of the aquatic grasses; and no less than five different species of Musci or Flies were produced from a few handfuls of the seeds of this grass, which when I gathered it, were doubtless in their Pupa or Chrysalis state: How little do we know of natures productions!171Ibid., Aira aquatica (now Catabrosa aquatica), fascicle 1, no. 10, 5, 12, 55.
Curtis used terms as various as ‘Habitat’ in the wild and ‘shrubbery’ in the garden;172See ibid., Rumex acutus (now Rumex sanguineus), fascicle 3, no. 31, 21, 62, 181: ‘Camberwell Grove is at present a good Habitat for it.’ This meant a place where it grows abundantly rather than a ‘particular place of growth’, such as wet or shaded places. ‘Shrubbery’ was used sparingly, as in Hedera helix, fascicle 1, no. 8, 16, 43. he had a fluid understanding of nature and culture: garden escapes, ‘doubtful natives’, plants suited to water and rock that could be brought into cultivation; ‘encroaching’ plants. Indeed, like White, by studying plants in nature, he found how yellow lady’s bedstraw (Galium verum) was a species that could keep a lawn green in drought. Thus, from the herbarizing expeditions of the seventeenth-century apothecary to the forays around Bulstrode of G. D. Ehret, Mary Delany and the duchess of Portland — those congenial strolls in pursuit of wild plants, especially water plants — the span of field study is apparent in all its emerging fields. Both Curtis and White represent, in this sense, merely a refinement of those habits of closely reading nature by walking nature.173See, for example, Curtis’s entry for Centunculus minimus (now Anagallis minima): ‘The first time of my discovering the Centunculus minimus was this summer, when herbarizing in company with Mr. DYER’. It was on Ashford Common. Ibid., fascicle 3, no. 31, 11, 32, 185.
The expatiation of this chapter mirrors, then, the perambulations of the field naturalist and brings the perambulator to Aftermath. This is understood as the meadow mown and resurgent through ‘aftermath grazing’,174See the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds website for discussion of ‘aftermath grazing’ as a way to bring back floristic diversity into hay meadows: www.rspb.org.uk. and, above all, through the actions of the aerating earthworm. Human networks, then as now, were functioning within what has come to be known as ‘the web of life’. Gilbert White’s Selborne is a pioneering account of such webs, linking the worm to soil, manure, fertility, erosion, humans, snails and grass.175See, for example, Fritjof Capra, The Web of Life: A New Scientific Understanding of Living Systems (New York: Anchor, 1996).
Mown Down or Clinging to Life: Worm, Snail, Mouse and Corncrake
An entire letter in Selborne is dedicated to the telling instance of the worm. This brings us back to the aims set out in the Introduction: finding, in the brown soil that ‘Capability’ Brown depended upon, the common ground of White’s gardening and natural history; and, establishing the networks that connect the meadow or wheat-field to the urban populace, yoking thereby the plight of the bird or quadruped to human destinies.
White had an intricate understanding of the earthworm, well beyond that of John Evelyn. Yet the virtuoso Evelyn had already observed the soil attentively with a view to gardening, and his contemporary, Margaret Cavendish, duchess of Newcastle, had asked an astoundingly subversive question: ‘For what man knows . . . whether worms do not know more of the nature of the earth and how plants are produced? Or bees of the several sorts of juices of flowers than men?’176Quoted in Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128.
In the ‘Elysium Britannicum’, Evelyn drew a ‘Shover to breake worme cods dry on Carpet’ (see pl. 45a). He was amazed at the worm’s ‘obstinat adhesion’ in ‘coition’ (copulation), and he rhapsodized a little: ‘but what we most admire is how they corrode the very {entrails of a} flint as we have often found, without do being able to discover where it gott in’.177Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fols 55 and 236v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 87, 309. By complement (though, of course, fully unaware of Evelyn’s manuscript observations), and anticipating a ‘new field of study in natural history’, Gilbert White sketched out all the attributes of a creature ‘much addicted to venery, and consequently very prolific’:
For, to say nothing of half the birds, and some quadrupeds which are almost entirely supported by them, worms seem to be the great promoters of vegetation, which would proceed but lamely without them, by boring, perforating, and loosening the soil, and rendering it pervious to rains and the fibres of plants, by drawing straws and stalks of leaves and twigs into it; and, most of all, by throwing up such infinite numbers of lumps of earth called wormcasts, which, being their excrement, is a fine manure for grain and grass. Worms probably provide new soil for hills and slopes where the rain washes the earth away; and they affect slopes, probably to avoid being flooded. Gardeners and farmers express their detestation of worms; the former because they render the walks unsightly, and make them much work: and the latter because, as they think, worms eat their green corn. But these men would find that the earth without worms would soon become cold, hard-bound, and void of fermentation; and consequently steril; and besides, in favour of worms, it should be hinted that green corn, plants, and flowers, are not so much injured by them as by many species . . . in their larva, or grub-state; and by unnoticed myriads of small shell-less snails, called slugs, which silently and imperceptibly make amazing havoc in the field and garden.178White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 35 to Daines Barrington, 182–3.
This was an arresting vision of what the field of ecology would document, the first step being to correct the ignorance of gardeners and farmers (pls 325a and b). But it was also a shift of feeling that helped widen the gulf between human needs on the one hand and human sensibilities on the other. ‘In the later eighteenth century we see the general emergence of this romantic point de vue spectaculaire, delighting in the world’s diversity and reluctant to judge it by human standards’, wrote Keith Thomas.179Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 69. For all that, ancestral hostilities endured. If Evelyn alluded emblematically to Ferrarius’s account of the metamorphosis of the ‘Idle Gardner into Limax’, he also pointed out empirically that the sluggish creature of the genus Limax was industrious with its ‘rews of teeth’.180Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol, 236v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 309: ‘We have dissected them & found their rews of teeth, which we reserve in papers to shew, & you may sometimes heare them crackle as they feede.’ See Michael C. Houck and M. J. Cody, Wild in the City: A Guide to Portland’s Natural Areas (Portland, OR: Oregon Historical Society Press, 2000), 123. More than 27,000 ‘teeth’ are documented today in the radula of slugs like the banana slug, Ariolimax columbianus: ‘The organ acts like a file and allows the slug to rasp away at its food much as sandpaper removes paint from the surface. These “teeth” are worn away and constantly replaced.’ Hence the snail was ‘worthily chased out of our Gardens’ (pls 325a and 326). If White lacked gut repugnance for slug and snail, he knew they remained enemy number one: ‘Farmer Young, of Norton farm . . . says that this spring (1777) about four acres of his wheat in one field was entirely destroyed by slugs.’181See White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 35 to Daines Barrington, 260, n. 18. The field required a new field of study, as White pointed out, yet, in myriad instances of human–animal encounter, gardeners were caught in a trap.
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Description: Florilegium, fol. 68, detail by Marshal, Alexander
325a. Alexander Marshal, detail from fol. 68 (RL 24335) of his florilegium, 1650s–1682, watercolour on paper, approx. 18 ⅛ × 13 ⅛ in. (approx. 46 × 33.3 cm). Royal Library, Windsor Castle. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2013
The snail (probably Cernuella virgata in the family Helicidae — the ‘vineyard snail’ endemic to Western Europe) and the cockchafer (Melolontha melolontha) were among the banes of a gardening and farming life. In June 1770 Gilbert White recorded how the chafers had stripped the oaks bare of foliage. Adults are active fliers from dusk onwards. They feed on leaves after dark and rest on trees during the day in deciduous woodlands. White began to educate farmers and gardeners by pointing out that the earthworm should not be detested so much as the ‘unnoticed myriads of small shell-less snails, called slugs, which silently and imperceptibly make amazing havoc in the field and garden’.
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Description: Florilegium, fol. 68, detail by Marshal, Alexander
325b. Alexander Marshal, detail from fol. 68 (RL 24335) of his florilegium, 1650s–1682, watercolour on paper, approx. 18 ⅛ × 13 ⅛ in. (approx. 46 × 33.3 cm). Royal Library, Windsor Castle. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2013
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Description: Snails, detail by Daniell, William
326. Snails, detail from aquatint, designed and engraved by William Daniell, Interesting Selections from Animated Nature (London, 1809). Houghton Library, Harvard University (f Typ 805.09.3161)
This image nicely animates the strategic choices in cultivation that William Curtis outlined: keeping Mertensia maritima in pots in a greenhouse rather than planting it in a flower border where snails and slugs would eat it. From the time of John Evelyn (who wrote of chasing snails ‘out of our Gardens’) to Gilbert White’s journals, the genus Limax and snails in the family Helicidae were enemies for gardener and farmer alike. Yet Curtis was aware of how agricultural improvement could tip the balance to the prejudice of wildlife, notably the loss of wetlands with impacts on waterfowl and insects.
‘Kill two birds with one stone’ goes the saying, and this played out for the gardener-naturalist in various ways beyond avian bounties. For example, it seems that the duchess of Portland conveniently augmented her shell collection by having the havoc-causing English snails robbed of a home.182For a good account of the duchess collecting land and freshwater shells at Bulstrode, see Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 76. Whether Helix lucorum, illustrated by her gardener-cum-illustrator, J. Agnew, caused the havoc of the garden snail, H. aspersa, is unclear. Whatever sensibility affected individuals, the advancement of one creature was predicated on the end of the other: the ploughman could not avoid nests being upturned, as Robert Burns’s poem ‘To a Mouse’ (1785) makes clear. Gilbert White’s touching account of animal ‘sagacity’ in his Natural History reflects the actuality that gardeners faced, often heartlessly, each season. In pulling off the lining of his Selborne hotbed, he found jumping out ‘a large white-bellied field-mouse with three or four young clinging to her teats by their mouths and feet’ (pl. 327). He commented further: ‘It was amazing that the desultory and rapid motion of this dam should not oblige her litter to quit their hold, especially when it appeared that they were so young as to be both naked and blind!’183White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 14 to Daines Barrington, 131. White’s recognition of this ‘tender attachment’ in nature was balanced by his observing the ‘rage of affection’ (of perverted nature) as mother creatures devoured their young when disturbed. It left a niggling question (for ‘abler philosophers than myself’) and a quandary for any gardener or reaper with a tender heart.
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Description: The Long-Tailed Field Mouse by Bewick, Thomas
327. Thomas Bewick, ‘The Long-Tailed Field-Mouse’, p. 425 of A General History of Quadrupeds (London, 1791). From the collections of the Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University
This was a book published with a new subscription base and under the producers’ control: ‘Printed By and For S. Hodgson, R. Beilby, & T. Bewick, Newcastle: Sold by Them, By G.G.J. & J. Robinson, and C. Dilly, London’. The authors state of this mouse: ‘It is found only in the fields, woods, and gardens; feeds on nuts, corn, and acorns . . . Mr. Pennant mentions a species, found in Hampshire, only two inches and a half long from nose to tail . . . It appears in great numbers in harvest time among the sheaves and ricks of corn.’ One such nursing field mouse was frightened out of her nest — the ‘wonderful procreant cradle’ — when Gilbert White turned his hotbed at Selborne, Hampshire.
Andrew Marvell’s ‘Upon Appleton House’ (written in 1651) sets the reaper in the field of corn, unwittingly mowing down the corncrake (called a ‘rail’, pl. 328). Mowing is thus likened to warfare as part of the subjugation of nature, the consequences of which bode ill:
With whistling scythe and elbow strong,
These massacre the grass along:
While one, unknowing, carves the rail,
Whose yet unfeathered quills her fail.
The edge all bloody from its breast
He draws and does his stroke detest;
Fearing the flesh untimely mowed
To him a fate as black forbode.184Quoted in Henry Power, ‘Virgil’s Georgics and the Poetic Landscape of the English Civil War’, in Interlacing Words and Things: Bridging the Nature–Culture Opposition in Gardens and Landscapes, ed. Stephen Bann (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2012), 51 onwards.
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Description: Corncake (Crex crex) by Stone, Sarah
328. Sarah Stone, Corncrake (Crex crex), 11 ¼ × 9 ¾ in. (28.5 × 24.5 cm), in an album of 175 sheets on 168 mounts of watercolours. © The Natural History Museum, London ([3] 143)
In Letter 1 to Daines Barrington, Gilbert White listed the corncrake among the ‘Summer Birds of Passage’ around Selborne. Arriving from Africa towards the end of April, it laid its eggs in the dense cover of meadows. William Lewin’s The Birds of Great Britain (vol. VIII, 1800) states that the ten or twelve eggs (see pl. 311b) hatched in a two- to three-week period. The average two broods of summer were at risk during haymaking. Early hay cutting — like the ‘massacre’ that Marvell described — has led to a drastic decline in most of Britain today. Its haunting song from dusk into the night (White’s ‘loud harsh note, crex crex’) is close to the silence of extinction in the English countryside.
The Meadow as Metaphor: Cut Down in Childhood, Resurgent in Widowhood
The enamelled meadows and the flower-studded cornfields, celebrated by poets down the ages, could make a pretty picture before haymaking. Topographical artists, from Thomas Robins to the anonymous painter of Dixton Manor, found the Picturesque in haymaking and hay stooks (pl. 329). Letters provide a verbal corollary. William Shenstone wrote to Lady Luxborough: ‘Why don’t your Ladyship throw all your Haystacks into ye Form of Pyramids, and chuse out places where they may look agreeably?’185Marjorie Williams, The Letters of William Shenstone (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1939), 285. In turn, natural-history illustration, whether in Flora Londinensis or A General History of Quadrupeds, came to dignify the lovely blood-red poppy and delicate corn-eating field mouse as much as the wheat that fed humanity (see pls 327 and 331).
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Description: Topographical view of Dixton Manor, Gloucestershire, the manor belonging to James...
329. Anonymous, detail of topographical view of Dixton Manor, Gloucestershire, the manor belonging to James Higford, circa 1725–35, oil on canvas, 44 ½ × 113 in. (113 × 287 cm). Art Gallery and Museum, Cheltenham. Photography courtesy of the Bridgeman Art Library
The pretty patterns of haystacks and a charming artistic flourish of dancers belie the rough conditions of mowing and the menacing dangers for the many life-forms, including the nesting corncrakes. Horace Walpole’s letters alternate between sweet idylls and wretched actualities: on the one hand, he alluded to ‘a most delicious meadow’ and ‘hay-making’ in its ‘picturesque’ moment; on the other, he frequently mentioned wet hay. In that wet-hay season of 1763, he lamented his Turkish sheep savaged by dogs in a field.
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Description: Papaver Rhoeas, detail by Curtis, William
331. William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London: 1777[1775]–98), detail of ‘Papaver Rhoeas’, 1781, fasc. 3, no. 36, 32, 105, 215. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
Curtis wrote of the corn poppy (Papaver rhoeas): ‘A Syrup made from an infusion of the flowers is used by the Apothecary, more for the sake of the beautiful colour it imports to the medicine, than from its possessing any active principle; the Gardener is carefull to cultivate its numerous varieties, while the Farmer is no less anxious to root it from his fields.’ Thus apothecary and husbandry lore was brought into a new synthesis. Like the corncrake, the corn poppy has lost out to modern farming, but has retained its allure as a cultivar in contemporary meadow gardens, as Curtis would have approved.
Furthermore, as Keith Thomas rightly points out in The Ends of Life (2009), the distinctive satisfactions of the agricultural labourer counted among the rewards of labour (see pl. 318): ‘the variety of tasks, the pleasures of the natural world, the rhythm of the changing seasons, the sense of visible achievement involved in rearing animals and bringing crops to harvest’.186Thomas, The Ends of Life, 98–9. The thresher-poet Stephen Duck wrote of the ‘throng / Of prattling females’ at haymaking, while James Hurdis celebrated women weeding a field of young wheat as the ‘gossiping banditti’. To Arthur Young, haymaking appeared something that English women engaged in ‘for pleasure’.
Yet the five descriptions of sweating (twice ‘briny sweat’) in Stephen Duck’s 283-line poem ‘The Thresher’s Labour’ account for the ‘Toils of each revolving Year’. The labours of ‘Sisyphus’, and the ‘Dust, and suffocating Smoke’ of the threshing room, are all far removed from pastoral pleasures. Mary Collier’s ‘The Woman’s Labour’ (published in 1739 in answer to Duck’s mockery of idle women’s chatter) adds a female voice: ‘The Harvest ended, Respite none we find; / The hardest of our Toil is still behind.’187Mary Collier, The Woman’s Labour: An Epistle to Mr Stephen Duck (London, 1739), 12.
Whether labouring lives were pictured through Georgic or Picturesque conventions (pl. 330) or with a thresher’s understanding, mown meadows were the place where blood was spilt and nests or ‘procreant cradles’ smashed. Just as the Grim Reaper lurked in embroidered meadows, so nature furnished many instances of rapacious violence and Time marked out a passage for every life form (pls 332a and b). Even though White admired the cuckoo’s providential cunning in picking out the ‘congenerous nursing-mothers’, he was puzzled by the lack of ‘maternal affection’. It made the bird of spring groves a nest robber by nature, ‘hardened against her young ones’.188White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 4 to Daines Barrington, 110.
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Description: Mowers and haymakers; studies of men and women mowing, drinking, making haycocks,...
330. William Henry Pyne (1769–1843), Mowers and haymakers; studies of men and women mowing, drinking, making haycocks, etc., pen and grey ink with grey wash on paper, 8 ¼ × 11 in. (21 × 27.9 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1869, 0710.275) © Trustees of the British Museum
Pyne’s scenes convey the rewards of labour as though viewed through a Georgic or Picturesque lens. William Shenstone wrote to Lady Luxborough of ‘Haystacks’ in the agreeable ‘Form of Pyramids’, and such literary and painterly views helped promote the Picturesque qualities of what was the hard drudgery of scythe, rake and fork. William Curtis referred to meadow weeds in Flora Londinensis, for example marsh woundwort (Stachys palustris) used as a salve for leg gashes.
 
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Description: The Graham Children by Hogarth, William
332a. William Hogarth, The Graham Children, 1742, oil on canvas, 63 1⁄8 × 71 ¼ in. (160.5 × 181 cm). © The National Gallery, London (NG4756) / Art Resource, NY
The frontispiece emblems to George Edwards’s book relate to classical traditions, exploration of the New World, and knowledge-preservation through drawing (against the march of Time — the Grim Reaper with scythe). Many ‘Birds of Passage’ faced an ‘Avian Grim Reaper’: gardener or farmer, hunter or trapper. Passerines sometimes ended up dead specimens for the easel or silk embroidery (see pl. 200). The clock on the mantelpiece in Hogarth’s painting is decorated with the figure of Cupid holding the scythe. This emblem relates to the Graham child below who had recently died in infancy.
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Description: A Natural History of Uncommon Birds..., frontispiece by Edwards, George
332b. George Edwards (1694–1773), frontispiece to A Natural History of Uncommon Birds . . . (London, 1743), etching, hand-coloured. From the collections of the Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University
Wielding his scythe, the Reaper made no distinction among creatures, as Princess Augusta well knew when she was hunted down by opprobrium and illness in her final years. In this, the habitats of town and country were the same. The figure of Cupid holding a scythe and standing beside an hourglass in William Hogarth’s The Graham Children of 1742 (pl. 332a), and the figure of Time with scythe in George Edwards’s frontispiece to A Natural History of Uncommon Birds of 1743 (pl. 332b) reminded the viewer of the mown down, even a child of the king’s apothecary. Frances Boscawen’s two sons perished young (at age twenty and thirty), leaving her with only a ‘sad alloy of happiness’. While the duchess of Portland, unlike the duchess of Beaufort, held on to her own home and possessions until death (controlling more than half the ‘maternal’ estate), forfeiture took hold in the auction of 1786.189See Pat Rogers, ‘Bentinck, Margaret Cavendish [Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley], Duchess of Portland (1715–1786)’, in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); online edition: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/40752 [accessed 1 October 2013]. She wrote of the auction: ‘The aim was to recoup the family fortunes, drained by the electioneering expenses of her elder son and the high living of the younger.’ Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, speculates on the stipulation in the duchess’s will that the collections be sold. Her objects of virtù, including the Portland Vase, were dispersed, and no museum was founded in her name. A fall from grace remained the lot of many noble women, including Her Grace. No wonder Margaret Cavendish, duchess of Newcastle, expressed it this bluntly more than a century before: ‘Shall only men live by fame, and women die in oblivion?’190Quoted in Thomas, The Ends of Life, 255.
Sometimes, of course, a profligate nobleman precipitated that fall for himself or heirs. The 4th duke of Portland would sell Bulstrode to help pay off £520,000 in debts left by the duchess’s son, the 3rd duke (d. 1809), whose seat was at Welbeck and who had a lesser stake in the Bulstrode estate.191See David Wilkinson, The Duke of Portland: Politics and Party in the Age of George III (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 61–2. See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 220–21, for discussion of debts and bankruptcy. Yet this book gives ample proof of a room for manoeuvre that genteel women enjoyed. As with the duchess at Bulstrode, control could be on the female side. For example, John Evelyn’s gardening at Sayes Court was dependent on his wife’s family’s crown lease; and, in the case of Peter Collinson, his wife Mary Collinson (née Russell) had ownership of an inheritance, Ridgeway House, Mill Hill. This meant that home and garden never belonged to Collinson, despite the fame of his gardening there.192See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 146–7. After Collinson was widowed in 1753, he had to come to an accommodation with his inheriting son, Michael Collinson, to stay on at Ridgeway House for the remainder of his life (some fifteen years). With a few individuals — notably the wealthy gardening countess of Strathmore — a prenuptial arrangement on behalf of a woman survived a challenge in law.193Susan Staves, Married Women’s Separate Property in England, 1660–1833 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), chapter 2, ‘Dower and the Rule of No Dower of a Trust’, 53–4. So equally, in the case of Anne Robinson, who took over managing the Saltram household and children on the death of her sister Theresa (née Robinson, Parker, 1745–1775), advantages lay in avoiding nuptials altogether: ‘by remaining single Anne achieved many of the benefits of matrimony without its disadvantages’.194Lummis and Marsh, The Woman’s Domain, 76. Nevertheless, for many aristocratic women, loss of home and garden was a stark inevitability, part of a system to facilitate the transmission of property from male to male. This helps to explain how easy it was for women to vanish in the telling and re-telling of history.195See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 249.
Widowhood as loss of home was softened by the ‘dower’ (a share of the dead man’s estate) and by ‘quarantine’. As Sir William Blackstone spelled out in his Commentaries on the Laws of England (published between 1765 and 1769), a widow:
. . . shall remain in her husband’s capital mansion-house for forty days after his death, during which time her dower shall be assigned. These forty days are called the widow’s quarantine . . . The particular lands, to be held in dower, must be assigned by the heir of the husband, or his guardian . . . and the widow is immediate tenant to the heir, by a kind of subinfeudation . . .196Sir William Blackstone et al., Commentaries on the Laws of England [1765–9] (London, 1827), book 2, 96.
Susan Staves has written on the complexities of dower: common law rights in terms of space and time over a third of real estate as opposed to chattel property, dower rights that were eroded between 1660 and 1833, whether for better or worse, or the same.197Staves, Married Women’s Separate Property, 27–37. The complex cases of the duchess of Beaufort, who held on at Badminton for nine years after the duke’s death, and the duchess of Portland, who, with husband deceased, still controlled much of the Bulstrode estate until her death, point to a need for further research. Despite the constraints of dower and quarantine — or so it seems — royal and aristocratic women took advantage of the freedoms that came with widowhood. ‘Staged with decorum’, wrote Amanda Vickery, ‘widowhood was a dignified condition in Georgian England, and if combined with prosperity could be a period of unique independence and self-expression.’198See Amanda Vickery, Behind Closed Doors: At Home in Georgian England (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 218–22, for a nuanced account of widowhood as the ‘female condition most visible to history’ and of the ‘considerable comforts of a rich widowhood’. See also Devoney Looser, Women Writers and Old Age in Great Britain, 1750–1850 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008).
The duchess of Beaufort accomplished her most significant work after losing her husband at the age of seventy. The duchess of Portland picked up pace in her fifties after the death of the duke in 1762. When joined by the widowed Mary Delany in 1768, the dowager duchess completed, by age seventy, the collections of the Portland Museum. Mrs Delany was widowed twice. Her splendid court dress, probably worn at the prince of Wales’s ball in 1741, is the product of the first widowhood (pl. 333 and see pl. 239); the collages are the remarkable output of the second. The collages were undertaken from the age of seventy-three to eighty-two. Even though the princess of Wales was only fifty-two at her death in 1772, her great project at Kew was also the offspring of bereavement in her thirties and forties. With beloved (or sometimes unlovely) husbands mown down, widows had to contend with what Marvell called the ‘empty Face of things’. Yet, like the meadow after mowing, this stubbly emptiness was also a fresh canvas, an aftermath or tabula rasa:
This Scene again withdrawing brings
A new and empty Face of things;
A levell’d space, as smooth and plain,
As Clothss for Lilly stretcht to stain.
The World when first created sure
Was such a Table rase and pure.199Quoted in Power, ‘Virgil’s Georgics’, 58.
The duchess of Beaufort, who found renewal after bouts of melancholy, resurrected herself in her seventies, as Mary Delany would do after her winter of loss. Fresh shoots appeared in the clods of earth, made fertile again by the boring and perforating earthworm.
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Description: Front petticoat panel, detail by Delany, Mary Granville
333. Mary Pendarves (Delany), detail of front petticoat panel, 1740–41, silk embroidery on satin, 41 3⁄8 × 69 ¼ in. (105 × 176 cm). Private Collection
Designed by Mary, this embroidery of flowers strewn across a black ground was an accomplishment of a long first widowhood (1725–43). It summons up meadow imagery of the goddess ‘Flora’ (in Edmund Spenser’s poetry or in Botticelli’s Primavera). It rivals the distinguished collages that were the crowning glory of her second widowhood, and which added botany to horticultural accuracy. Amid the garden cultivars — rose and narcissus — Mary inserted the ‘wild’: a native thistle entwined with field bindweed; a ‘garden escape’ borage; and an improved variety of the naturalized larkspur of farmers’ fields. In Flora Londinensis, Curtis represented the spectrum from wild to domesticated, referring to ‘doubtful natives’, ‘weeds’ and ‘encroaching’ invasives. This inclusiveness contrasts with Curtis’s exclusion of women’s accomplishments as a form of natural knowledge.
Achieving renown by her late widowhood (yet without public recognition in print), the duchess of Beaufort then vanished as a virtuosa until the twentieth century. She does not appear in John Evelyn’s work dedicated to recovered purity: ‘Elysium Britannicum’.200Jennifer Munroe argues in her essay ‘ “My innocent diversion of gardening”: Mary Somerset’s Plants’, Renaissance Studies, XXV/1 (February 2011), 111–23, that the split between manuscript and print knowledge, between the amateur and the professional, helps to account for the lack of recognition of women’s contribution to early science. Being chased out of Badminton by her grandson, with hefty support from the women of the household, she had her records scattered. Her reputation remained selectively cherished, with Peter Collinson listing her as the only woman among ‘The Most Celebrated Botanists Liveing in my Time Since 1709 to 1768’. Yet her great herbarium, subsumed within the Sloane Herbarium, received a first proper recognition only in 1958.201See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 154 and 167–8. In 1815 an issue of Curtis’s Botanical Magazine still described her as ‘an early encourager of the science of Botany’, but Dandy remarked in 1958 on published references to Badminton being ‘so few and so slight’. See J. E. Dandy, ed., The Sloane Herbarium (London: Natural History Museum, 1958), 209. The dispersal of the duchess of Portland’s collections doubtless contributed to her being undervalued until recent times.202Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 265–7.
Historicism (remaking the past) and Modernism (rejecting the past) also helped erase traces of the culture of flowers.203See Claudia Lazzaro, The Italian Renaissance Garden (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990), epilogue: ‘The Garden in Time’, 270–86, for a good account of how a culture of flowers was erased: ‘In the historicizing gardens of the first decades of the twentieth century, the Italian garden was similarly interpreted as architectonic and formal, primarily through the use of box, shaped into massive, precisely trimmed, and architectural patterns, hedges, and topiary’ (268). Early modern histories of the garden, from Evelyn to Walpole, found no place for women’s design, albeit Horace Walpole stoutly championed female accomplishment.204Horace Walpole, writing about ‘Ladies and Gentlemen Distinguished by Their Artistic Talents’ in Anecdotes of Painting, is discussed by Kim Sloan, ‘Mrs Delany’s Paintings and Drawings’, in Mrs Delany and her Circle, ed. Laird and Weisberg-Roberts, 110. Early Modernist histories of the landscape garden — Christopher Tunnard’s, for example — simply cut women out, for Modernism was contending, somewhat legitimately, with the problematic horticultural legacy of amateur gardeners.205Christopher Tunnard, Gardens in the Modern Landscape (London: Architectural Press, 1938). Horticulture was the work of the great Gertrude Jekyll among others, whose career path was facilitated by the work of Jane Loudon beforehand, and by Loudon’s many forerunners in the eighteenth century.
While this book documents these few major scientific-artistic pioneers, Catherine Horwood’s Gardening Women (2010) ranges broadly in the sphere of horticultural knowhow: from Thomasin Turnstall in the 1620s to Lady Anne Monson in the 1770s, whose botanical knowledge was rated by Clas Alströmer above that of the duchess of Portland; and from the mid-eighteenth-century intellectual writer Catherine Talbot to Sarah Archer, Countess Amherst of Arracan (who introduced Clematis montana to Britain in 1831).206Horwood, Gardening Women. The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004) has put right the gender imbalance that is still present in the literature of garden history.207The entry ‘Somerset, Mary, Duchess of Beaufort (bap. 1630, d. 1715)’ by P. E. Kell (Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; online edition: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/40544 [accessed 1 October 2013]) is representative of a corrected imbalance since J. E. Dandy wrote in 1958: ‘D.N.B. gives her no separate entry’. By comparison, Jenny Uglow’s A Little History of British Gardening (London: Pimlico, 2005), which has more on women gardeners than Miles Hadfield in his A History of British Gardening (London: John Murray, 1979), still gives only one paragraph to the duchess of Beaufort in a chapter of thirteen pages devoted to General Fairfax, Andrew Marvell, Ralph Austen, John Evelyn, Thomas Hanmer and John Rea. Other imbalances are being addressed elsewhere.208In the context of Mary Delany and Margaret Bentinck, see, for example, Lisa L. Moore, Sister Acts: The Erotics of Lesbian Landscapes (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2011).
Accomplished Gardener-Naturalists as Sisters of the Spade209My term ‘Sisters of the Spade’ is invented but derives its meaning from Adam’s symbol, the spade, and the Collinson/Custis correspondence, see E. G. Swem, Brothers of the Spade: Correspondence of Peter Collinson, of London, and of John Custis, of Williamsburg, Virginia, 1734–1746 (Barre, Mass.: Barre Gazette, 1957).
Evelyn wrote in the opening of chapter I of Elysium Britannicum: ‘Adam instructed his Posteritie how to handle the Spade so dexterously, that in processe of tyme, men began, with the indulgence of heaven, to recover that by Arte and Industrie.’210Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 8; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 29. He continued in chapter II: ‘There are so many Accomplishments requisite to the perfection of an excellent Gardiner.’ The first of these was: ‘That He be of an ingenious a{n}d docile spirit, diligent and patient’. In short, the ‘Gardiner’ had to be an ‘absolute philosopher!’211Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 10–10v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 33–4.
It might have surprised Evelyn to know that, within the century of his death, a diligent ‘lady of singular ingenuity’212The epitaph for Mary Delany, written by Bishop Hurd, is in St James’s Church, Piccadilly, on the north wall. — Mrs Delany, the past mistress of every accomplishment of home and garden — worked with the duchess of Portland in a distaff state of ‘absolute philosophy’. One result was the ‘Flora Delanica’, which outlived the dissolution of the duchess’s natural history collections (see pls 335 and 339a and b). Indeed, from Alexander Marshal’s florilegium to Mary Delany’s hortus siccus, albums proved — better still than a greenhouse collection that attempted Ver perpetuum — a kind of immortality for the creator. It was the ‘imperishable fame’ that Homer and Cicero had aspired to, and much more than the plain obituary, which became standard for deceased Englishmen from 1731 onwards.213Thomas, The Ends of Life, 235–45. Within the covers of Marshal’s florilegium, perpetuity was even granted to the ‘cursed devourers’, the caterpillars, and to the snake in the grass (pl. 334).
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Description: Seville orange, purple crocuses, grass snake and goat moth caterpillar, detail by...
334. Alexander Marshal, fol. 3 (RL 24270) of his florilegium (detail), 1650s–1682; watercolour on paper, approx. 18 1⁄8 × 13 1⁄8 in. (approx. 46 × 33.3 cm). Royal Library, Windsor Castle. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2013
Alexander Marshal’s album depicts plants and animals coexisting in a garden of mythical associations. In the real landscape, grass snakes prefer watery habitats or water meadows. It is unclear whether Marshal’s specimen was found in a garden where orange trees grew (his own Lambeth garden). While the orangery, as much as the florilegium, evoked a world of perpetual spring, this harmless snake was a reminder of the lapsed condition: gardeners struggling to put right infestations and depredations from birds and bugs such as the goat moth larva (Cossus cossus, lower left).
The publishing of Marshal’s Florilegium in 2008 is now balanced by the 2009 and 2014 publications on Delany and the duchess of Portland. ‘Imperishable fame’ has been restored in place of ‘oblivion’.
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Description: Convolvulus arvensis by Delany, Mary Granville
335. Mary Delany, ‘Convolvulus arvensis’, 1778?, collage of coloured papers, with bodycolour and watercolour, 10 ½ × 7 ¼ in. (26.6 × 18.5 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1897,0505.228). © Trustees of the British Museum
Knowledge preservation forms an important part of the ‘Flora Delanica’. It outlived the duchess of Portland’s ‘museum’, and it has found a new audience in recent decades. Delany’s collage ‘Convolvulus arvensis’ is annotated: ‘The first day I went out’. It was composed in St. James’s Place, London, probably in the month of August 1778, and perhaps after some indisposition. She wrote to her nephew in July 1778: ‘I have for some weeks past been a sort of rambler in a little compass; trying my wings for a longer flight, if my strength will allow me.’ This exquisite work of a ‘sister of the spade’ parallels that of her ‘brother’ gardener — naturalist William Curtis (pl. 336)
Here no exile was in the offing. Unlike the garden, the prelapsarian and antediluvian condition was re-made. Whatever art and industry went into gardening, and however indulgent the heavens, the gardener could not overcome the lapsed status quo: creation groaning in travail; harsh winters instead of a perennial equinox; torrents and droughts in place of gentle dews; weeds and thistles without end. By dint of her art, Mary Delany found recourse in the ups and downs of her life through employing her pious vision and consummate diligence to elevate the thistle and field convolvulus (pl. 335 and compare pl. 160a). Yet the age-old view of the husbandman contending with fumitory (Fumaria officinalis), burdocks (Arctium spp.) and tares (Lolium temulentum) persisted beyond Shakespeare’s time:
. . . with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow’rs, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.214Cordelia, speaking of Lear’s crown of weeds, in King Lear, IV, iv, lines 3–6.
Writing of lesser bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis) in Flora Londinensis, for example, William Curtis warned against the deception implicit in its representation: ‘Beautiful as this plant appears to the eye, experience proves it to have a most pernicious tendency in agriculture’ (pl. 336). He put its control to the test by experimentation in his garden. In the same vein, he noted that the ‘Husbandman’ had a ‘rooted enmity’ of docks: they try to extirpate them with the ‘dock iron’ or spade. For all this, Curtis, like Delany, found a way to celebrate the weed in devotional prose and beguiling imagery.
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Description: Convolvulus arvensis by Curtis, William
336. William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (1777[1775]–1798), Convolvulus arvensis, 1778, fasc. 2, no. 20, 13, 39, 119. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
William Curtis, aware of this plant’s ‘pernicious tendency in agriculture’, established, by experimental gardening, how only eradication by the spade destroyed it; simple cutting down was ineffective. It was especially destructive in cornfields, Curtis observed, adding that it was seldom ‘prejudicial to meadows, or pastures’. Hence it could be allowed in sward, where — as the plate shows — it proved, in Curtis’s own words, exceedingly ‘beautiful to the eye’.
Curtis’s account of insects dining on a fungus delicacy (Phallus impudicus, pl. 337) links the duchess of Portland’s breakfast-room science (see pl. 252) to Gilbert White’s religious / scientific vision of nature at large. In September 1780 Curtis had witnessed Providence through the Phallus:
. . . the Flies allured by the effluvia from the pileus, do not settle on it, to deposit their eggs, as on the Stapelia fœtida or putrid meat, but merely to feed on it, and which they appear to do most deliciously; scarcely ever suffering a drop of the liquid to fall on the ground, whence this species would soon become extinct, had not provident nature supplied it with a root which like the Potatoe throws out numerous offsetts.215Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Phallus impudicus, fascicle 3, no. 33, 72, 218, 199.
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Description: Phallus impudicus by Curtis, William
337. William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London: 1777[1775]–1798), Phallus impudicus, 1780, fasc. 3, no. 33, 72, 218, 199. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
William Curtis gave an account of this fungus, measuring the stages of growth shown in an unsigned plate that resembles Ehret’s studies a few decades before (see pl. 252). In five hours, it acquired its full height after a ‘break through the outer skin (half past eight o’clock)’. This he called ‘an instance of the quickness of vegetation scarce credible, and perhaps not to be equalled by any other plant’. He revered what ‘providential nature’ offered to flies supping on the ‘effluvia from the pileus [cap]’.
It was Curtis’s ability, as Quaker, as one-time demonstrator of botany, and as friend of both ‘Nature’s Oeconomy’ and ‘Rural Oeconomy’ to unify what would be divided in the nineteenth century. A miscellany of facts makes up the cumulative impact of the work: the return of the cuckoo coincides with the flowering of ragged robin (Lychnis flos-cuculi); the apothecary infuses his tinctures with corn poppies (more for the ‘beautiful colour’ than for any ‘active principle’, see again pl. 331); and the northern purple saxifrage (Saxifraga oppositifolia, pls 338a and b) has come to be cultivated in pots at Covent Garden for late winter flowering.216Ibid., Ligustrum vulgare, fascicle 5, no. 51, 1, 3, 300; ibid., Lychnis flos-cuculi, fascicle 1, no. 2, 33, 91; ibid., Saxifraga oppositifolia, fascicle 6, no. 68, 27, 83.
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Description: Saxifraga Oppositifolia by Edwards, Sydenham Teast
338a. Sydenham Edwards, ‘Saxifraga Oppositifolia’, 1794, from William Curtis, Flora Londinensis (London, 1777[1775]–98), fasc. 6, no. 68, 27, 83. Courtesy of The LuEsther T. Mertz Library, The New York Botanical Garden
Sydenham Edwards (1769?–1819) was especially active in fascicle 6 of Curtis’s Flora Londinensis. He remained an inseparable companion to Curtis on botanical expeditions until the latter’s death in 1799. Curtis wrote that this saxifrage, which Lightfoot found on most Scottish mountains, ‘revolts at all tender treatment’. It was sold in pots in London in a commercialized floral marketplace. Flora Londinensis derives its cumulative power from Curtis’s ability as apothecary, botanist, entomologist and husbandman to link a devotional and poetic view of nature to a scientific and utilitarian one. Significantly, though, Curtis omitted any reference to the role that women like the duchess of Beaufort and the duchess of Portland played in herbal and horticultural pursuits.
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Description: Saxifraga oppositifolia, detail by Kickius, Everhardus
338b. Everhard Kick (Kickius), Badminton florilegium, album one (1703–5), fol. 54.2: detail of what has been tentatively identified as Saxifraga oppositifolia, watercolour and bodycolour, heightened with gum, over graphite underdrawing, on vellum, 23 ¼ × 17 3⁄8 in. (59 × 44 cm). Photograph reproduced with the kind permission of His Grace the Duke of Beaufort
In praise of lady’s smock (Cardamine pratensis) and following his habitual way of ‘joining botany to polite literature’, Curtis quoted Love’s Labour’s Lost:
When daisies py’d and violets blue,
And cuckow-buds of yellow hue
And LADIES-SMOCKS all silver white
Do paint the meadows with delight217Love’s Labour’s Lost, V, II, lines 883–6:
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight
It is not just the improved meadow, then, that is alive in Flora Londinensis. The literary meadow of Mary Delany’s dress, sketches, gardens and letters finds resonance in these pages (see again pls 333 and 166). So equally, with his strong personal links to the duchess of Portland, and with the blessing of her double subscription, William Curtis produced a work that surely bears her imprint (after the imprimatur of Curtis’s ‘MÆCENAS of the Present Age’, Lord Bute).218Dedication to vol. I of Flora Londinensis (1777). In short, with botanical descriptions in Latin and English, the work seems a unique bridge between the medico-botanists and the clergymen of middling rank, like Gilbert White and John Lightfoot, and the genteel men and women of high birth, like the duchess of Portland, whose concerns were with estate affairs and female accomplishments.
And yet, despite the presence of women in the subscription list, all knowledge in the work is attributed to men. Apart from generous acknowledgement of the scientific authors (from Ray to Linnaeus), credit was given to male subscribers who provided casual information. For example, under Spergula saginoides (heath pearlwort, now Sagina subulata) Curtis wrote: ‘Dr. GOODENOUGH discovered it plentifully on Bagshot Heath . . . MR. LIGHTFOOT shewed it me several years ago on Uxbridge Moor’.219Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Spergula saginoides (now Sagina subulata), fascicle 4, no. 40, 35, 89, 139. Making only occasional reference to plants used to beautify women’s skin or help menstruation,220See also, for example, the entry on nipplewort for ‘sore nipples’, ibid., Lapsana communis, fascicle 1, no. 10, 59, 166, 56. Quoting Peter Jonas Bergius’s Materia medica on Saponaria officinalis (fascicle 2, no. 17, 29, 82) Curtis wrote in Flora Londinensis: ‘In baths and lotions, it has been made use of to cleanse and beautify the skin: Internally the decoction of the whole herb is sudorific, and promotes the menses.’ Curtis omitted female accomplishments entirely (herbal lore, domestic husbandry, horticultural literature and botanical art, pls 339a and b). The ordinary husbandman and the lowliest snail were given more attention than the dowager Maecenas of her age, who was, after all, Lightfoot’s guiding light.221Aside from the evidence of the subscription, no reference to the duchess of Portland has been found in Curtis’s entries on plants.
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Description: Parnassia palustris by Delany, Mary Granville
339a. Mary Delany, ‘Parnassia palustris’ (detail), 1776, collage of coloured papers, with bodycolour and watercolour, 12 3⁄8 × 8 7⁄8 in. (31.3 × 22.6 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1897,0505.650). © Trustees of the British Museum
Mary Delany’s portraits of English native plants were inspired by Ehret’s more than 150 drawings for the duchess’s ‘English herbal’. Unlike the ‘Flora Delanica’ (kept intact), Ehret’s Bulstrode works were dispersed. A Catalogue of the Portland Museum (1786) records the dispersal: lot 2863, no. 402, was Ehret’s portrait of Parnassia palustris; lot 2909, no. 616, was his Nymphaea alba. Tracking down Ehret’s scattered ‘English herbal’ might help to rehabilitate the significance of the ‘Bulstrode school’. Although scientists and artists (Huddesford, Bolton, Lewin and Martyn) celebrated the duchess as the ‘most generous enco[u]rager of Natural History now alive in Great Britain’ (1760s–1780s), the memory of her patronage was fading fast when Curtis’s Flora Londinensis was completed in 1798.
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Description: Nymphæa alba by Delany, Mary Granville
339b. Mary Delany, ‘Nymphæa alba’ (detail), 1776, collage of coloured papers, with bodycolour and watercolour, 12 7⁄8 × 8 ¾ in. (32.7 × 22.1 cm). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings (1897,0505.607). © Trustees of the British Museum
Was the Quaker Curtis, so forward-looking, simply blinkered in this respect? Or did he consciously choose to omit female authorities for calculated reasons, since female herbal lore was in abeyance? Ann Shteir points to the striking absence of Sarah Abbot’s name from her husband’s Flora Bedfordiensis (1798), suggesting that it was possibly a ‘strategic choice on both their parts’ to win over the Linnean Society: ‘Charles Abbott was alert to the sexual politics of institutional botany in his day. Perhaps he worried that his attention to women readers would make his work appear less serious to institutional arbiters of the field.’222Shteir, Cultivating Women, 55.
That climate of publishing is reflected in Bute’s niche work, Botanical Tables (1785), which followed the twenty-six volumes of John Hill’s Vegetable System (1759–75) that Bute had initially sponsored.223See Maureen H. Lazarus and Heather S. Pardoe, ‘Bute’s Botanical Tables: Dictated by Nature’, Archives of Natural History, XXXVI/2 (2009), 285–94; See also George S. Rousseau, The Notorious Sir John Hill: The Man Destroyed by Ambition in the Era of Celebrity (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh Press, and Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012), 271–9 and appendix B, which discounts Bute’s sustained patronage of all twenty-six volumes of Hill’s Vegetable System. The fact that women played a defining and intimate role in Bute’s life (from the dowager princess of Wales to the countess of Bute herself) was acknowledged by his dedication: ‘composed solely for the amusement of the Fair Sex’. Seven of the twelve sets went to women. In addition to Queen Charlotte and Catherine II, empress of Russia, four of the recipients had family or court connections: Lady Elizabeth Mackenzie (his sister-in-law), Lady Anne Ruthven (his sister), Lady Jane Macartney (his daughter) and Jane Barrington (wife of the Revd Shute Barrington, chaplain-in-ordinary to George III). The seventh set of volumes went to the duchess of Portland, passing immediately on her death in 1785 to her daughter Elizabeth, Lady Weymouth of Longleat (subscriber to Flora Londinensis), who had been taught by Ehret.224The duchess of Portland’s copy is now in the Oak Spring Garden Library, Upperville, VA, having passed through Crewe Hall, Cheshire. If the duchess stands out as the one distinguished naturalist among the seven, Jane Macartney and Jane Barrington were both married to men of significance in gardening and botany.225For Shute Barrington, see Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, 376; for Lord Macartney, see Laird, ‘Plantings’, 70.
Despite Lord Bute’s laudable recognition of that lofty circle of highborn women, the tone of his introduction, aimed at gentlewomen at large, appears patronizing:
Here are no offensive operations, no noxious vapours, but on the contrary, exquisite odours . . . I have long thought this delightful part of nature was peculiarly suited to the attention of the Fair Sex — the blooming flower claims the next place to them in elegance and beauty . . . A few minutes might certainly be employed on such a subject, without encroaching on any dedicated to pleasure. Some unusual words may at first disgust; this will, however, be in great measure diminished by means of a glossary, explaining every term whether of Latin or English origin.226John Stuart, 3rd earl of Bute, Botanical Tables (self-published as twelve sets, 1785), ‘Volume I — British Plants, Tables. General Plan’, 6. I am grateful to Tony Willis at Oak Spring Garden Library for checking this.
Little would change in the next generations despite the emergence of a ‘voice’ for women that Shteir documents (though mostly as a contribution to the ‘diffusion of knowledge rather than to its creation’).227Shteir, Cultivating Women, chapters 3, 4 and 5, and especially p. 61. As Alison Martin has commented, a distinctive literary genre was beginning to appear by 1800: botanical publications by British women.228See Alison E. Martin, ‘Society, Creativity and Science: Mrs Delany and the Art of Botany’, review essay in Eighteenth-century Life, XXXV/2 (Spring 2011), 102–7. See also Sam George, Botany, Sexuality and Women’s Writing, 1760–1830: From Modest Shoot to Forward Plant (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007). The Quaker writer Priscilla Wakefield brought out her Epistolary Introduction to Botany; in a Series of Familiar Letters in 1796; and Maria Jacson’s Botanical Dialogues between Hortensis and her Four Children was published in 1797.
In the nineteenth century women would emerge as significant writers on gardening and horticulture, as Catherine Horwood recounts in some detail. Yet, when the disciplines of science separated themselves from the domestic sphere and female book patronage, women lost significant ground: first, as ‘wise women’s’ herbal lore was supplanted by men, notably when John Hill published the Useful Family Herbal in 1754 (and books of herbal medicine, touting wild valerian for stress, honey for asthma and herbs to restore the menses);229See Rousseau, The Notorious Sir John Hill, 243–5. and second, as the campaign to ‘defeminize botany’ took hold in Regency and early Victorian England, notably when John Lindley gave his inaugural lecture as professor of botany in London in 1829.230Joseph Banks’s acknowledgement, in his early botanical formation, of the influence of a woman collecting ‘simples’ near Eton stands out as a late instance of the power of a female knowledge that was soon to vanish. This is cited by Shteir, Cultivating Women, ‘The Herbal Tradition’, 37–9; for Lindley, see chapter 6: ‘Defeminizing the Budding Science of Botany, 1830–1860’, 149–69. Women wrote little on natural history; female membership of naturalist societies was limited and contentious; and, with the exception of the Botanical Society of London between 1836 and 1856 (and the Botanical Society of Scotland from 1836), women were denied election to learned botanical or horticultural institutions until more recent times.231See Horwood, Gardening Women, 35, and 42–7 for discussion of women and the Royal Horticultural Society. David. E. Allen’s index to The Naturalist in Britain includes some significant women collectors, notably Mary Anning (collecting fossils in Lyme Regis) and Mary Wyatt, who produced an album of pressed seaweeds, Algae Danmonienses, under the supervision of Mrs A. W. Griffiths. Yet, apart from Isabella Gifford’s The Marine Biologist of 1840 and Margaret Gatty’s British Seaweeds of 1863 (and a sentimental literature of flowers), an equivalent literature to that of Jane Loudon or Gertrude Jekyll is lacking. For women and scientific societies in the nineteenth century and for Anna Thynne as heir to Bulstrode’s breakfast-room science, see Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 150–52 and 118.
Balance Sheet: From Evelyn’s Perpetual Spring to White’s Silent Summer
Nor did the garden mend the world, as Evelyn intended: ‘with the indulgence of heaven, to recover that [purity] by Arte and Industrie’. Although gardening was increasingly influenced by ideas of the ‘wild’ and the ‘natural’, its sphere of operation still remained a theatre of war as well as a haven of peace. It was managed by the commanding general, the head gardener; and by 1900 his array of armaments included insecticides, ‘London purple’ and ‘Paris green’.232See Susan W. Lanman, ‘Colour in the Garden: “Malignant Magenta” ’, Garden History, XXVIII/2 (Winter 2000), 209–21. By 2000 climate change was making control of garden and field as perilous as it had been in the waning years of the Little Ice Age.
As things stand now, while climate change looms large, and while the 2010 eruption in Iceland is intimation of a long-overdue eruption sequence (producing a nature-induced climatic downturn affecting flower- and food-growers), ‘colony collapse disorder’ among bees counts as a threat to human livelihood worldwide.233Reflections on ‘colony collapse disorder’ are to be found in Markus Imhoof’s extraordinary documentary, More Than Honey (2012). As always, the balance of nature and culture is in the tipping scales.
Evelyn had been well aware of how domestic husbandry (all foodstuffs including honey — traditionally within the female domain) depended on many things, including his diligent wife. She looked after the meal planning at Sayes Court.234See Mark Laird, ‘Sayes Court Revisited’, in John Evelyn and his Milieu, ed. Frances Harris and Michael Hunters (London: The British Library, 2003), 136. For a broad discussion of women’s role in domestic husbandry, see Horwood, Gardening Women, 141–50. She had to be in touch with the gardener, who depended on pure air and soil, the technology of the greenhouse, and a good arsenal against vermin and infestation by the smallest organisms.235Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 238–9; see also Elizabeth Hyde, Cultivated Power: Flowers, Culture and Politics in the Reign of Louis XIV (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), chapter 1, and especially 19–20. The useful and the beautiful required protecting from insects, which were both a miraculo in nodo and a force to reckon with (pl. 340): ‘The Grass-hopper are an armed insect a tout piece, they goe forth in . . . companies, & follow their generall, especially a sort of Locusts by which whole Countries as well as Gardens have bin devoured.’236Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 236; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 308. Without invoking biblical authority (divine ‘judgments’), those interested in natural history had documented in the course of the eighteenth century how, given certain weather conditions, the locust could be blown into London. Insects and weather could join forces to administer a coup de grâce.
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Description: Blue and yellow macaws, southern hawker, wasp, unidentified bird, caterpillar and...
340. Detail from Alexander Marshal, fol. 141 (RL 24408) of his florilegium, 1650s–1682, watercolour on paper, approx. 18 1⁄8 × 13 1⁄8 in. (approx. 46 × 33.3 cm). Royal Library, Windsor Castle. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2013
On folio 141 the British southern hawker dragonfly was depicted in odd juxtaposition with two skin-and-bone greyhounds, a boiled crayfish, two macaws and a wasp — companions of curious collecting. This detail highlights the two flying insects of the folio. Marshal drew the dragonfly (Aeshna cyanea) from a live specimen (for the blue eyes fade when it dies). The social wasp nearby is either a Vespula or Dolichovespula. One hundred years after Marshal’s death in 1682, both insect types would have flown over Selborne’s ponds and meadows, wasps causing havoc amid the ripening fruit of fields and orchards.
As this book illustrates, the vagaries of climate and the outbursts of volcanic activity always stood ready to put gardening beyond human control (a tenuous control at the best of times, thanks to snails and slugs). Tender shrubs and a pet tortoise were taken out by the winter of 1683–4; venerable trees fell in a great storm in 1703; Magnolia grandiflora succumbed to the winter of 1739–40; droughts marred the lawns of the landscape garden in 1762 and 1765; and in January 1768, as thrush and pheasant froze and starved, Mediterranean plants were burnt frigid; honeysuckles, always prone to infestation (‘blights’ or ‘Animalculaæ’, as William Curtis described them),237Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Lonicera periclymenum, fascicle 1, no. 1, 15, 42. turned quite ‘loathsome’ with an ‘aphid coating’ in the volcanic summer of 1783.238Charles Nelson, in a personal communication of October 2012, noted that the coating was, initially, the excretions of aphids (‘honeydew’), which, collecting dust, might then have been covered with microscopic fungi.
If scaled up by several hundred times, the relatively trivial eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in April 2010, precipitating the greatest air travel disruption since the Second World War, helps the imagination to grasp the magnitude of Laki and the environmental crisis of early modern Europe in 1783–4. (The heatwave of 2003, meanwhile, left an unforgettable impression of the summer conditions of 1783 and the consequences for mortality.)239Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World, 269, 291.
Over the past 1,200 years, there have been four episodes of Icelandic volcanism that exceeded any of the largest worldwide eruptions of the past hundred years. Thus projections of risk today are quantifiable, yet still confounding in complexity, like White’s attempt at ‘prognostics’.240See Richard Mabey, Gilbert White: A Biography of the Author of The Natural History of Selborne (London: Century, 1986), 109, quoting Daines Barrington’s suggestion to White: ‘it may also be proper to take notice of the common prognostics of the weather from animals, plants, or hygroscopes, and compare them afterwards with the table of the weather, from which it may be perceived how far such prognostics can be relied upon’. See Daines Barrington, The Naturalist’s Journal (London, 1767), preface, first published anonymously. Indeed, were any one of three ‘catastrophe scenarios’ to occur nowadays (as projected by a volcanologist),241Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World, chapter 14: explosive eruption near a major city; volcanogenic pollution crisis; and ‘super-eruption’ scenario. globalized husbandry and localized gardening would be profoundly disrupted. Flight, initiated by 1783, is essential to the intricate web of global food, seed and bulb distribution today: ‘A future Laki-style episode would, therefore, almost certainly have major repercussions for aviation’,242Ibid., 330. and for all the predictable and unimaginable things that depend upon the art and science of flying borrowed from birds.
Gilbert White, who wrote that the ‘weather of a district is undoubtedly part of its natural history’,243White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 61 to Daines Barrington, 237. Paul Foster comments in his note how these were ‘originally written as four letters; at a late editorial stage a long letter on winter weather was subdivided into three and the total became six’. furnished chapter and verse on such biological / meteorological relationships. He is thus a fitting commentator for the conclusion of this book. Notable are the six letters that round off his Natural History of Selborne. For example, Letter 63 to Daines Barrington on the deep freeze of December 1784 — when ‘the air was full of icy spiculae’ and trees coated with rime — is loaded with information, including two engaging throwaway paragraphs. ‘I forgot to mention’ begins one paragraph about men getting frostbitten; the other contains charming feral data, casually summoned up, for they are not present in the Journals: ‘I must not omit to tell you that, during those two Siberian days [10 and 11 December], my parlour-cat was so electric, that had a person stroked her, and been properly insulated, the shock might have been given to a whole circle of people.’
How White constructed his letters from the raw data of the journal entries is one of the accomplishments of The Natural History of Selborne.244Paul Foster’s discussion of White’s construction is covered in Note for the Reader. See, for example, the ‘unexpected reverse of comparative local cold’ with the consequences for his evergreens — as compared to those in nearby Newton; or the thermometer tip-off that led them to put roots and fruits in ‘cellar, and warm closets’. Compare these entries in White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 63 to Barrington, 244–5, with Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 66–7: ‘Thomas Hoar shook the snow carefully off from the evergreens . . . Bread, cheese, meat, potatoes, apples all frozen, where not secured in cellars under ground’. Yet the Journals offer a compelling counterpoint through the wealth of unprocessed, or partially processed, observation. Raising questions that remain to be answered today,245White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster. In Letter 9 to Daines Barrington (ibid., 123), White expounded a ‘presumptive argument’: that nightingales do not reach the west of England because of the migratory route over the narrower reaches of the Channel. In Letter 2 (ibid., 105), he logged the nightingale’s song as mid-April to the end of June, but in Letter 10 (ibid., 124–5), he reported that his neighbour with a ‘nice ear’ failed to record the key of the nightingale’s rapid notes. In more recent research (reported in The Independent, 29 June 2010), a ‘data logger’ attached to a male nightingale ‘OAD’ confirmed its south-eastern English sojourn, its African winter destination (Guinea-Bissau), but also the very short season in the UK: mid-April to late July. White appears to have believed, within his observations, that certain things might always remain the mysteries of the Creator; hence he wrote on the lack of maternal affection in the cuckoo in Letter 4 to Daines Barrington, 110: ‘the methods of Providence are not subjected to any mode or rule, but astonish us in new lights’. Gilbert White logged in these Journals innumerable revelatory entries on human agency and nature, and on the war within nature, perhaps best symbolized by the ‘Ichneumon’ that the duchess of Beaufort had unwittingly ‘sponsored’ in the Albin plate.246See, for example, his entry for 5 September 1784, in Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 53: ‘I saw lately a small Ichneumon-fly attack a spider much larger than itself on a grass-walk. When the spider made any resistance the Ichneumon apply’d her tail to him, & stung him with great vehemence, so that he soon became dead, & motionless. The Ich: then running backward drew her prey very nimbly over the walk into the standing grass. This spider would be deposited in some hole where the Ich: would lay some eggs; & as soon as the eggs were hatch’d, the carcase would afford ready food for the maggots. Perhaps some eggs might be injected into the body of the spider in the act of stinging. Some Ich: deposit their eggs in the aureliae of butterflies, & moths.’
In The Natural History of Selborne, pondering why pesky wasps would multiply in one hot summer but not in all hot summers, White leaves the reader — indeed generations of readers encountering wasps over the 220-odd years of Selborne’s life in print — with an assurance of balance restored:
The great pests of a garden are wasps, which destroy all the finer fruits just as they are coming into perfection. In 1781 we had none; in 1783 there were myriads; which would have devoured all the produce of my garden, had not we set the boys to take the nests, and caught thousands with hazel-twigs tipped with birdlime: we have since employed the boys to take and destroy the large breeding wasps in the spring. Such expedients have a great effect on these marauders, and will keep them under. Though wasps do not abound but in hot summers, yet they do not prevail in every hot summer, as I have instanced in the two years above-mentioned.247White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 64 to Daines Barrington, 246.
By contrast, the journal entries for 1785, two summers later, are more unsettling and point to a war without end. In July 1785, as the duchess of Portland was dying at Bulstrode, hostilities commenced at Selborne. Into autumn, the insurgents were still inflicting harm:
Sunday, 3 July 1785: The boys brought me a wasps nest full of maggots.
Saturday, 9 July 1785: Boys bring a second wasps-nest. Boys bring a third wasps nest.
Saturday, 10 September 1785: Boys bring the 26:th wasp’s nest.
Thursday, 15 September 1785: Wasps damage the grapes.248Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 93–104.
The Garden-Kalendar / journal entries, spanning four decades, are meticulously suspended in equilibrium between hard-won visions of blessing and brutality. In May 1761 Gilbert and his brother Thomas had investigated the abundant colony of field crickets, Gryllus campestris, in the short Lythe above Selborne. The spade was his instrument of enquiry (only collaterally an instrument of death). He had written of the ‘chearful shrill cry all the summer months’ and of their ‘remarkably shy, & cautious’ nature.249Ibid., 1, 104. In the summer of 1763, when the Battie girls visited Selborne, enjoying electric frolics and dancing after midnight, the ‘Turkish Tent’ was erected in the short Lythe, home of the crickets (pl. 341). The trilling of those June nights must have contributed to the sense that Catherine Battie had: life could not and would never be sweeter. Thirty years later, and after the publication of The Natural History of Selborne, a single entry in the Journal points to something gone horribly wrong:
Sunday, 29 May 1791: The race of field-crickets, which burrowed in the short Lythe, & used to make such an agreeable shrilling noise the summer long, seems to be extinct. The boys, I believe, found the method of probing their holes with the stalks of grasses, & so fetched them out, & destroyed them.250Ibid., III, 365.
The year 1791 would have a silent summer.251For the current status of the field cricket, see http://www.nhm.ac.uk/nature-online/species-of-theday/biodiversity/endangered-species/gryllus-campestris/index.html (accessed 7 September 2013). See also Norman Maclean, ed., Silent Summer: The State of Wildlife in Britain (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 534–5. Relevant is the discussion of the southern hawker (Aeshna cyanea) spreading northwards, apparently due to rising temperatures (478–9), and the resilience of English wasps (Vespula vulgaris, 548) in contrast to the drastic decline in bumblebees (415–29). This decline is linked to the ‘loss of -97% of all species-rich grasslands (hay meadows, calcareous grasslands) in the last 60 years’ (415).
~
Description: North East Selborne from the Short Lythe, detail by Grimm, Samuel Hieronymus
341. Samuel Hieronymous Grimm, North East Selborne from the Short Lythe (detail), in the album of drawings prepared for The Natural History of Selborne in 1776, India ink and watercolour. Houghton Library, Harvard University (MS Eng 731.11)
Crickets were chirping as Grimm completed this view in summer 1776. Gilbert White noted how the days became ‘sweet’, then ‘sultry’. On 3 August, after a spell over 70ºF (21.1ºC), the hay was ‘all finished-off in most delicate condition’. Grimm depicted the figures raking mown grass in the meadow of the middle ground; they are viewed by polite society standing near a tent reminiscent of Painshill’s ‘Turkish Tent’. This lovely overview of Picturesque foreground, middle ground and background encompasses all that animates the common ground of Gilbert White’s A Natural History of Selborne, including the unstoppable wasp that was never far away.
 
1     Horace Walpole, The History of the Modern Taste in Gardening [1780] (New York: Ursus Press, 1995, based on 1782 edition), 43. »
2     John Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum; or, The Royal Gardens in Three Books’, British Library, Add. MS 78342, fols 37, 86v, 172v and 231v; see John Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum; or The Royal Gardens, ed. John E. Ingram (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 64, 129, 225 and 301. See Mark Laird, ‘Lilac and Nightingale: A Heritage of Scent and Sound at Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill’, in Sound and Scent in the Garden, ed. Dede Fairchild Ruggles (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections) [forthcoming]. »
3     Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum; quoted by Frances Harris in ‘The Manuscripts of the “Elysium Britannicum” ’, ibid., 15. »
4     Walpole, The History of the Modern Taste in Gardening, John Dixon Hunt’s introduction, 14. »
5     Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum, quoted in Harris, ‘The Manuscripts of the “Elysium Britannicum” ’, 14. »
6     Douglas Chambers, ‘ “Excuse these Impertinences”: Evelyn in his Letterbooks’, in John Evelyn and his Milieu, ed. Frances Harris and Michael Hunter (London: The British Library, 2003), 21–36 and especially 33. Chambers calls the writings in progress ‘dialectic’ responses to other ‘hypertexts’. »
7     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 8v; see Ingram, ed., Elysium Britannicum, 31. »
8     For an index to the plants illustrated in Flora Londinensis, see Allan Stevenson’s compilation, Catalogue of Botanical Books in the Collection of Rachel McMasters Miller Hunt, vol. II, part 2: Printed Books, 1701–1800 (Pittsburgh, PA: Hunt Botanical Library, 1961), 389–412. The title of the work is Flora Londinensis; or, Plates and Descriptions of such Plants as Grow Wild in the Environs of London, etc. Although the date of publication of the first volume is 1777, Curtis began work on it in 1775. The second volume is dated 1798. As Stevenson explains: ‘The work was published in six fascicles to be found in two volumes, and each fascicle was issued in twelve “Nos.”, six plates at a time with accompanying text. The plates themselves were numbered in three different ways, as indicated in the list below: a) the numbers assigned to them in each fascicle index, showing relative positions according to the Linnaean system; b) the numbers assigned in each volume index, these also being according to the Linnaean system; and c) the numbers engraved on some of them, which correspond to no others.’ This sequence of three (or sometimes only two) numbers is given with the fascicle number and the ‘Nos.’ numbers. For example, the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) is in fascicle 1, no. 11, and a) is 48 while b) is 132 and c) is missing (see pl. 299). »
9     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Menyanthes trifoliata, fascicle 4, no. 40, a) 17, b) 50, c) 240. Much of the discussion involves bringing ‘neglected British Plants’ into cultivation. »
10     The celebration of the ‘weed’ grows out of eighteenth-century sensibilities. For example, see Keith Thomas, Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England, 1500–1800 (London: Allen Lane, 1983), 272–3. Curtis gave a good definition of the weed under Bistort (Polygonum bistorta), fascicle 1, no. 2, 22, 71: ‘WHEN a Plant not intended to be cultivated, in any respect prevents the growth of one which is the object of Cultivation, such a plant, however beautiful, may with propriety be called a Weed.’ But an ideological cult of the ‘native’ (including some plants previously thought of only as ‘weeds’) came much later, as is discussed in Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Nature and Ideology: Natural Garden Design in the Twentieth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1997). »
11     Curtis included plants such as Datura stramonium (fascicle 6, no. 61, 17, 55) that had become naturalized, admitting them as ‘doubtful natives’. »
12     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Butomus umbellatus, fascicle 1, no. 1, 29, 79; Oxalis acetosella, fascicle 2, no. 19, 31, 89, 111; Adonis annua, fascicle 2, no. 23, 37, 106, 135; dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), fascicle 1, no. 3, 58, 165. »
13     Ibid., Anagallis arvensis, fascicle 1, no. 1, 12, 36. »
14     See David Elliston Allen, The Naturalist in Britain: A Social History [1976], 2nd edn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 25. »
15     Ibid., 40. »
16     Ibid. »
17     The most recent and comprehensive account of the cabinet of curiosities is Arthur MacGregor’s Curiosity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007). See also Oliver Impey and Arthur MacGregor, eds, The Origins of Museums: The Cabinets of Curiosities in 16th-and 17th-century Europe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). See also Erik de Jong, Nature and Art: Dutch Garden and Landscape Architecture, 1650–1740 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 135–8, for a good discussion of the early botanic garden as ‘museum’. »
18     See, for example, an extensive literature extending from Gustave Loisel, Histoire des ménageries de l’antiquité à nos jours (Paris, 1912), to Wilfrid Blunt, The Ark in the Park: The Zoo in the Nineteenth Century (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1976), to R. J. Hoage and William A. Deiss, eds, New Worlds, New Animals: From Menagerie to Zoological Park in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), and Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier, Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West (London: Reaktion, 2002). There is a good discussion of ‘exotic captives’ in the age of empire in chapter 5 of Harriet Ritvo’s The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 205–42. »
19     The Center for the History of Collecting at the Frick Art Reference Library, New York, established in 2007, represents the increasing interest in the field of collecting history. The Journal of the History of Collections, currently under the editorship of Arthur MacGregor and Kate Heard, was established as an Oxford University Press publication in 1989. For recent scholarship, see again MacGregor, Curiosity and Enlightenment»
20     Ann B. Shteir, Cultivating Women, Cultivating Science: Flora’s Daughters and Botany in England, 1760–1860 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996); Mark Laird and Alicia Weisberg-Roberts, eds, Mrs Delany and her Circle (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009)»
21     Beth Fowkes Tobin, ‘The Duchess’s Shells: Natural History Collecting, Gender and Scientific Practice’, in Material Women, 1750–1950: Consuming Desires and Collecting Practices, ed. Maureen Daly Goggin and Beth Fowkes Tobin (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), 244–63. See also Beth Fowkes Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells: Natural History Collecting in the Age of Cook’s Voyages (New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2014), 249 and chapter 7 in general. »
22     Keith Thomas, The Ends of Life: Roads to Fulfilment in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 21, and more generally 20–24 and 104–7. »
23     In The Ends of Life, 225, Keith Thomas writes, for example, in reference to private lives and a growing concern with self-expression among roads to human fulfilment: ‘It is only recently that historians have emancipated themselves from the classical preoccupation with public affairs and begun to take these human concerns into account.’ »
24     For a short account of ‘Cabinets of Curiosity’, see Robert Huxley, ‘Natural History Collectors and their Collections: “Simpling Marcaronis” and Instruments of Empire’, in Enlightenment: Discovering the World in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Kim Sloan (London: British Museum Press, 2003), 80–82. »
25     See Jane Wildgoose, Promiscuous Assemblage, Friendship and the Order of Things (New Haven: Yale Center for British Art, 2009). See the preface to the Catalogue of the Portland Museum of 1786. Beth Tobin provides background on the authorship of the catalogue and many new insights on how it relates to the collections before the auction. See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 209–13 and 217–29. »
26     Huxley, ‘Natural History Collectors and their Collections’, 84. »
27     Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 112–13. All subsequent quotes in this paragraph are from these pages of Allen’s study. For conchology before the duchess of Portland and the Linnaean era, see S. Peter Dance, A History of Shell Collecting (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986), chapter 3; George Montagu is mentioned in chapter 6, 110–11. For a complex analysis of the subtle distinctions between scientific collections and connoisseurial collecting that were eclipsed in the nineteenth century, see Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, chapter 1. »
28     Ibid., 256–60. »
29     Specialization in the garden is discussed in Mark Laird, ‘Plantings’, in A Cultural History of Gardens in the Age of Empire, 1800–1900, ed. Sonja Dümpelmann (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), vol. V in the series A Cultural History of Gardens, ed. John Dixon Hunt and Michael Leslie, 69–89. »
30     Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 241 with illustrations from Donovan throughout the book, notably plate 10. »
31     For Adrian Hardy Haworth (1767–1833) and his Lepidoptera Britannica, see Michael A. Salmon, The Aurelian Legacy: British Butterflies and their Collectors (Colchester: Harley, 2000), 127–8. For William Lewin’s Papilios of Great Britain (1795), which, though incomplete, marked one significant advance before 1800, see also ibid., 122–3. »
32     Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 112–13. For a correction to the often-repeated assertion about Miss Hutchins, see M. E. Mitchell, ed., ‘Early Observations on the Flora of Southwest Ireland: Selected Letters of Ellen Hutchins and Dawson Turner, 1807–1814’, in National Botanic Gardens, Glasnevin, Dublin, Occasional Papers, XII (Dublin, 1999), n. 96. »
33     Ada K. Longfield, ‘William Kilburn (1745–1818) and his Book of Designs’, Irish Georgian Society Bulletin, XXIV/1–2 (January–June 1981); E. Charles Nelson, ‘William Kilburn’s Calico Patterns, Copyright and Curtis’s Botanical Magazine’, Curtis’s Botanical Magazine, XXV/4 (November 2008), 361–73. »
34     Quoted in Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 113. Peter Collinson, in writing to Christoph Jakob Trew about George Knorr’s aquatints, made the distinction between scientific illustration of a single shell and shells and fossils arranged together ‘as if intended for Pictures for Ornament for Ladies Closetts’. See Jean O’Neill and Elizabeth P. McLean, Peter Collinson and the Eighteenth-century Natural History Exchange (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2008), 127. »
35     Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 88. »
36     Dance, A History of Shell Collecting, 73. »
37     Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 62–4. »
38     Thomas Martyn, The Universal Conchologist. Exhibiting The Figure of every known Shell accurately drawn and painted after Nature With A New Systematic Arrangement by the Author (London, 1784–7; second issue 1789), 11–12. »
39     Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 24. »
40     John Edmondson, ‘Novelty in Nomenclature: The Botanical Horizons of Mary Delany’, in Mrs Delany and her Circle, ed. Laird and Weisberg-Roberts, 195. »
41     See Wilfrid Blunt, The Art of Botanical Illustration [1950], ed. William T. Stearn (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1994), chapter 14; see also James H. Green, ‘Hand-Coloring Versus Color Printing: Early-Nineteenth-Century Natural History Color-Plate Books’ in Knowing Nature: Art and Science in Philadelphia, 1740–1840, ed. Amy R. W. Meyers (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2011), 261–2. »
42     Blunt, The Art of Botanical Illustration, ed. Stearn, 244. See also R. J. Cleerly, ‘Some Notes and Comments on the Illustrations of Henry Charles Andrews (fl. 1790s–1830s)’, Archives of Natural History, XXXVI/1 (April 2009), 165–7, and E. Charles Nelson, ‘Henry Andrews’s Dahliae mythologicae’, Newsletter of the Society of Natural History, XCIX (October 2010), 8–9, for the use of ‘Charles’ as Henry Andrews’s middle name. »
43     Ray Desmond, The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew (London: Harvill Press/The Royal Botanic Gardens, 1995), 107. »
44     See again Laird, ‘Plantings’. »
45     Marcus B. Simpson, Jr, Stephen Moran and Sallie W. Simpson, ‘Biographical Notes on John Fraser (1750–1811): Plant Nurseryman, Explorer and Royal Botanical Collector to the Czar of Russia’, Archives of Natural History, XXIV/1 (February 1997), 1–18. »
46     Edgar T. Wherry, The Genus Phlox (Philadelphia: [Associates of the Morris Arboretum of the University of Pennsylvania], 1955), 120. »
47     Ibid., 113. »
48     Mark Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden: English Pleasure Grounds, 1720–1800 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 221. »
49     Mary Delany to Mary Port, 9 June 1776, in The Autobiography and Correspondence of Mary Granville, Mrs Delany, ed. Lady Llanover, 6 vols (London: Bentley, 1861–2), V, 223. »
50     See Kim Sloan, ‘A Noble Art’: Amateur Artists and Drawing Masters, c. 1600–1800 (London: British Museum, 2000), 148–9, 157. »
51     Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, chapter 10. »
52     For background in the history of natural history, see Tim Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds: An Illustrated History of Ornithology (London: Bloomsbury, 2008); for the later history of the discipline and the German influence, see J. Haffer, ‘The Origin of Modern Ornithology in Europe’, Archives of Natural History, XXXV/1 (April 2008), 76–87. »
53     See T. R. Birkhead and S. van Balen, ‘Bird-keeping and the Development of Ornithological Science’, Archives of Natural History, XXXV/2 (October 2008), 281–305. The authors argue in the synopsis: ‘By ignoring the early bird-keeping literature, historians of ornithology have overlooked many significant observations’, which include those on song acquisition, territory, migration, and instinct and learning. »
54     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Ligustrum vulgare, fascicle 5, no. 51, 1, 3, 300. »
55     Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 25. Further work is required to interpret the relatively sparse entries on birds, and their nests and eggs, in the Catalogue of the Portland Museum (1786): see, for example, ‘Birds Eggs’ (38), ‘British Birds Nests, with their Eggs’ (63), lot 1443: ‘A very fine and complete collections of near two hundred species of British Birds eggs, all arranged and named according to the Linnaean system’ (64), and lot 2809: ‘The original drawings of Birds, by Albin, most beautifully coloured after nature, 202 in number, on vellum, 2 vols’. See lot 1429 regarding the ‘Sedge-bird, Motacilla arundinacea’ (Tab. 1), which is the basis for Acrocephalus arundinaceus the great reed warbler (John Lightfoot in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, LXXV/1, 1785, 8–15, Tab. 1; and see also lot 1662, which refers to ‘Motacilla Hirundinaceae’. »
56     George Edwards’s original subscribers of 1743 included only a handful of women: the countess of Hertford, Lady Heathcote, wife of Sir John Heathcote, the Hon. Lady Wager, etc. By 1751 a slightly larger group of women of middling rank had been added, along with the countess of Albemarle. »
57     See Mark Laird, ‘The Culture of Horticulture: Class, Consumption, and Gender in the English Landscape Garden’, in Bourgeois and Aristocratic Cultural Encounters in Garden Art, 1550–1850, ed. Michel Conan (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection), 247–8. »
58     See, for example, Michael Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology: The Lives and Works of its Founding Figures (London: Christopher Helm, 2003). He documents no active involvement of women in the early modern period, and this is also apparent in Peter Bircham, History of Ornithology (London: Collins, 2007). Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 207–8, provides a good account of the shift in ornithology in the early twentieth century: ‘Feminine Emancipation brought women into the field by the thousand — and most of them had little liking for weaponry.’ »
59     Thomas, The Ends of Life, 53. »
60     Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 84. »
61     Ibid., 83. »
62     Ibid., 88. »
63     Ibid., 209. »
64     Ibid. It was John Freeman Milward Dovaston who popularized his ingenious gadget for feeding birds. »
65     Ralph Beilby, History of British Birds the Figures Engraved on Wood by T. Bewick (Newcastle, 1797), 248. For a discussion of Bewick, and the success of his A General History of Quadrupeds (1790) in relationship to Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selborne, see John Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth Century (London: HarperCollins, 1997), chapter 13, and especially 516. »
66     Beilby, History of British Birds, 251. »
67     For Mark Catesby’s acclaimed work on migration (his ‘Of Birds of Passage’ paper in Philosophical Transactions, 1747), see Shepard Krech III, ‘Mark Catesby’s “Of Birds of Passage”’, in The Curious Mister Catesby: A ‘Truly Ingenious’ Naturalist Explores New Worlds, ed. E. Charles Nelson and David J. Elliott (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 2015). »
68     This is very well summarized in a table in Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 154–5. »
69     See Peter Berthold, Bird Migration: A General Survey, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 11. See also Erwin Stresemann, Die Entwicklung der Ornithologie von Aristoteles bis zur Gegenwart (Berlin: Peters, 1951); as Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, trans. Hans J. and Cathleen Epstein, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), 9–12, 287–9, 306–8. »
70     Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 157–71. »
71     Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 11. See Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 136–9, for a good account of Aristotle and the Holy Roman emperor Frederick II, who observed the v-formation of cranes and corrected the myth of the barnacle goose. »
72     See again Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 146–53, for the correspondence between White and Barrington/Pennant, and for Richard Mabey’s theory of why White clung tenaciously to hibernation. Shepard H. Krech III puts forward new information on torpidity among hirundines that may help explain why White ‘waffled’. See Krech, ‘Mark Catesby’s “Of Birds of Passage”’, note 67. »
73     Gilbert White, The Natural History of Selborne [1789], ed. Paul Foster (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), Letter 23 to Thomas Pennant, 59. In Letter 33 to Pennant of 26 November 1770, however, he wrote of the appearance of summer birds of passage in Gibraltar as ‘a presumptive proof of their emigrations’. »
74     Ibid., Letter 18 to Daines Barrington, 143. See also Letter 12 to Thomas Pennant, 36: ‘I acquiesce entirely in your opinion — that, though most of the swallow kind may migrate, yet that some do stay behind and hide with us during the winter’; and see Letter 12 to Daines Barrington, 128. »
75     Ibid., Letter 12 to Thomas Pennant, 36. »
76     See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 33–4. The information from Sir Charles Wager on seeing swallows on the rigging of ships was one convincing argument Collinson put forward in favour of migration. See also the account of John Coakley Lettsom’s dream of Collinson in a grotto in Elysium with replumaged swallows emerging from a horn of plenty, ibid., 164. »
77     Alan W. Armstrong, ed., ‘Forget not Mee & My Garden . . .’: Selected Letters, 1725–1768, of Peter Collinson, FRS (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2002), 248. »
78     Ibid., 249. »
79     Ibid., 249–50. »
80     Buffon experimented by placing swallows in an icehouse to check for torpidity; other experiments included baron von Pernau’s proposal to cut off a toe from a nightingale and fieldfare to identify returning birds. See Birkhead, The Wisdom of Birds, 162–3. »
81     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 153–4, 158–9, 162, 190. »
82     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 5 to Daines Barrington, 112. »
83     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Valeriana officinalis, fascicle 6, no. 67, 3, 8. »
84     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 285: ‘At Blenheim, at least, the Duke of Marlborough had forbidden his servants to disturb the birds who nested in the shrubbery, though they were allowed to shoot them if they hopped over the wall into the kitchen garden.’ »
85     Ibid., 98, 139, 190. »
86     Quoted ibid., 127. »
87     For allusions to the warfare of the hunt, see, for example, Tom Williamson, Polite Landscapes: Gardens and Society in Eighteenth-century England (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), chapter 6; and Robert Williams, ‘Rural Economy and the Antique in the English Landscape Garden’, Journal of Garden History, VII/1 (January–March 1987), 73–96. »
88     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, 79, with note by Foster alluding to natural means ‘as we do cats against mice’. »
89     Quoted in Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 169. »
90     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, 182. »
91     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 119–20, 176. »
92     Thomas, The Ends of Life, 255; see also Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128–9, and 282–4 for the discussion of women’s engagement with natural history in the context of home and garden. »
93     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128. »
94     See G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-century Britain (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 231 and 234; Cavendish is quoted frequently by Thomas in Man and the Natural World to show that she went beyond this female viewpoint, indeed rejecting the whole anthropocentric tradition. »
95     Quoted in Jane Brown, My Darling Heriott: Henrietta Luxborough, Poetic Gardener and Irrepressible Exile (London: Harper Press, 2006), front matter. »
96     Eleazar Albin, A Natural History of English Song-Birds and Such of the Foreign as are usually brought over and esteemed for the singing (London, 1737), 16. »
97     Francesca Greenoak, ed., The Journals of Gilbert White, 3 vols (London: Century, 1986–9) [vol. I: 1751–73; vol. II: 1774–83; vol. III: 1784–93], II, 471. »
98     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 10 to Thomas Pennant of 4 August 1767, 31; see also Letter 15 to Pennant of 30 March 1768, 41. »
99     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 69. For White’s place in the history of ecology, see, for example, Donald Worster, Nature’s Economy (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1977). »
100     For the contrast between The Natural History of Selborne and White’s own records, see Paul G. M. Foster, Gilbert White and his Records: A Scientific Biography (London: Christopher Helm, 1988), preface, ix. Foster points out in the introduction, 4, that White’s activity is set against a backdrop: ‘the enormous gap between the rich and poor, and the sheer brutality of the period’. »
101     See White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, for the extensive footnote to Letter 5 to Thomas Pennant, 252–4. »
102     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 284–6. »
103     Cited in John Phibbs, ‘The Persistence of Older Traditions in Eighteenth-century Gardening’, Garden History, XXXVII/2 (Winter 2009), 179. »
104     Williamson, Polite Landscapes, 139: the 60-foot margin in which the pheasant spends most of its time is maximized in clumps and in a ‘thin linear strip . . . a belt’. »
105     See Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 274–6, for discussion of ‘warring against species’, on the one hand, and embryonic species conservation, on the other. »
106     See again Phibbs, ‘The Persistence of Older Traditions in Eighteenth-century Gardening’, 179. »
107     Cited in Brown, My Darling Heriott, 182–3. »
108     See Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, 20, for an account of Shenstone’s Sunday evening openings of The Leasowes and his attempts to prevent flower-cropping by his Edicts, and for William Chambers’s complaints of statues pelted, buildings marred by ‘graffiti’, and the trampling of flowerbeds; see also Williamson, Polite Landscapes, 68: ‘Philip Southcote was obliged to close his famous gardens at Wooburn Farm after “savages, who came as connoisseurs, scribbled a thousand brutalities in the buildings”.’ »
109     Curtis, Flora Londinensis, vol. 1, preface. »
110     See Graham Gibberd, ‘The Location of William Curtis’s London Botanic Garden in Lambeth’, Garden History, XIII/1 (Spring 1985), 9–16. »
111     See John Claudius Loudon’s use of the term ‘progressive’ (with the ‘treason to nature’ in denying progress) in the preface to the Magazine of Natural History, and Journal of Zoology, Botany, Mineralogy, Geology and Meteorology, VII (1834). »
112     Catherine Horwood, Gardening Women: Their Stories from 1600 to the Present (London: Virago, 2010), 187. »
113     Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VII, preface. See Mark Laird, ‘John Claudius Loudon (1783–1843) and the Field’s Identity’, Studies in the History of Gardens & Designed Landscapes, 34 (3), July–September 2014, 248–53. »
114     For a discussion of Richard Bradley’s role, a hundred years before Loudon, in founding the first British journal covering the science of agriculture and horticulture, A General Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening (1721–4), see John Edmondson, ‘Richard Bradley (c. 1688–1732): An Annotated Bibliography, 1710–1818’, Archives of Natural History, XXIX/2 (October 2002), 177. For Collinson, who wrote that his ‘Little Essays’ in the Gentleman’s Magazine were placed anonymously or under a pseudonym ‘because I do not Love Popularity’, see O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 36. »
115     Ray Desmond, ‘Loudon and Nineteenth-century Horticultural Journalism’, in John Claudius Loudon and the Early Nineteenth Century in Great Britain, ed. Elisabeth B. MacDougall (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1980), 79–97. »
116     Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VIII (1835), preface. »
117     See Melanie Louise Simo, Loudon and the Landscape: From Country Seat to Metropolis (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988), 10, 14, 132, 236. Loudon’s target audience extended from working people to young people, including young women. He was the first to publish Ruskin’s writings in volume VII of his Magazine of Natural History (1834), when Ruskin was just fifteen. For the Gardener’s Magazine, see again Desmond, ‘Loudon and Nineteenth-century Horticultural Journalism’, 81. »
118     For a discussion of access to books through 6,500 reading institutions in 1821, see Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 9. »
119     There is a good discussion of gardeners and pay in chapter 6, ‘Gardeners’, in Todd Longstaffe-Gowan, The London Town Garden (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001), 151–60. »
120     Simo, Loudon and the Landscape, 154–7. For comparisons of wages against commodities, see Laird, ‘The Culture of Horticulture’, 227–8. For identifications between humans and animals, see Ritvo, The Animal Estate, 14–17, and for ‘inferior humans’ akin to beasts (savages, the American Indian, the Irish, infants, women, the poor and the mad), see Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 41–50. The only consolation for labourers was that they ‘ruled over domestic animals’ and hence were ‘not at the absolute bottom of the social scale’ (ibid., 50). »
121     Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination, 455–60. »
122     Ibid., 106: ‘Politeness was created through the convivial patterns of social exchange, what Steele called “The Commerce of Discourse”, that occurred in polite society’. »
123     Ibid., 76–9 and passim. See also Elizabeth Eger and Lucy Peltz, Brilliant Women: 18th-century Bluestockings (London: National Portrait Gallery, 2008). »
124     See Margaret Wills, Gibside and the Bowes Family (Newcastle: The Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne, 1995). »
125     Edmondson, ‘Novelty in Nomenclature’, 201. »
126     Trevor Lummis and Jan Marsh, The Woman’s Domain: Women and the English Country House (London: Viking, 1990), 82. »
127     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Stachys palustris, fascicle 3, no. 35, 35, 125, 208. Curtis wrote that Galeopsis speciosa (fascicle 6, no. 70, 38, 115) was in corn in parts of Yorkshire, but ‘the fields about London are exempt from it’. »
128     Thomas, The Ends of Life, 53. »
129     See Graham Parry, ‘John Evelyn as Hortulan Saint’, in Culture and Cultivation in Early Modern England: Writing and the Land, ed. Michael Leslie and Timothy Raylor (Leicester and London: Leicester University Press, 1992), especially 137 and 145: ‘The Hartlib circle generally was familiar with these millenarian expectations, and the Utopian schemes generated in that milieu owed something to the belief that man’s capacity for improvement was increasing fast.’ »
130     For ‘taste’ and ‘politeness’, see Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination, 88–111. »
131     See Michael Walters, ‘Birds Depicted in a Folio of Eighteenth Century Water-Colours by Sarah Stone’, Archives of Natural History, XXXI/1 (April 2004), 123–49. See also Christine E. Jackson, Sarah Stone: Natural Curiosities from the New Worlds (London: Merrell Holberton/Natural History Museum, 1998). »
132     See Lucia Tongiorgi Tomasi, ‘ “La femminil pazienza”: Women Painters and Natural History in the Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries’, in The Art of Natural History: Illustrated Treatises and Botanical Paintings, 1400–1850, ed. Therese O’Malley and Amy R. W. Meyers (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2008), 158–85. »
133     Jane Wildgoose’s remarkable evocation of the Portland Museum for the exhibition Mrs Delany and her Circle at the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (24 September 2009 to 3 January 2010), is recorded in her publication Promiscuous Assemblage . . . (New Haven: Yale Center for British Art, 2009). »
134     William Gilpin to Mary Delany, 8 May 1786, Oxford, Bodleian MS Eng. Letters, b.27, fols 53–4. »
135     Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting in England, 4th edn, 4 vols (London, 1786), II, 242. »
136     It should be noted, that, while my book points to book publishing, based on subscriptions, as part of a wider exchange of knowledge, commodities and favours, it does not deal with a larger history of the ‘gift’. See Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990); Alan D. Schrift, The Logic of the Gift (New York and London: Routledge, 1997); and Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth Century France (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). For discussion of instrumental and non-instrumental or affectionate friendships, see Thomas, The Ends of Life, chapter 6: ‘Friendship and Sociability’. »
137     William Gilpin to Mary Delany, 9 November 1785 and 25 January 1786, respectively, in Autobiography and Correspondence, ed. Llanover, VI, 306, 340. Gilpin was alluding to Aesop’s ‘The Mountain in Labour’: ‘A MOUNTAIN was once greatly agitated. Loud groans and noises were heard; and crowds of people came from all parts to see what was the matter. While they were assembled in anxious expectation of some terrible calamity, out came a Mouse.’ Moral: Don’t make much ado about nothing. »
138     See Paul Foster’s very good account, ‘Distractions, 1775–1788’, in Gilbert White and his Records, 138–46, and especially 138 and 146. »
139     Ibid., 132, 130. »
140     Paul Foster’s introduction to White, The Natural History of Selborne, xxii. »
141     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 5 to Daines Barrington, 112. »
142     Quakers were ‘celebrated for producing a quite disproportionate number of botanists, plant-collectors and nurserymen’, writes Keith Thomas in Man and the Natural World, 237. »
143     For this and all statistics in the paragraph, see White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, n. 7, 252–4. »
144     Richard B. Stothers, ‘The Great Dry Fog of 1783’, Climate Change, XXXII (1996), 79; and see Clive Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 276. »
145     Jan Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 61. »
146     Curtis, Flora Londinenis: Caltha palustris, fascicle 1, no. 7, 40, 114. »
147     Ibid., Moenchia erecta, fascicle 2, no. 22, 12, 34, 136. »
148     Paul Foster provides a good account of how White’s brother-in-law, Thomas Barker of Lyndon Hall, Rutland, provided an impetus for weather recording as initiated in the Garden-Kalendar in 1751. See Foster, Gilbert White and his Records, 18–20. »
149     See Richard Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds: How an Amateur Meteorologist Forged the Language of the Skies (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001), 128–43, for a discussion of initiatives from the grand duke to Lamarck. »
150     Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment, preface, xii–xiii. »
151     Ibid., 206. »
152     Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 110. There were, of course, umbrellas in England more than a hundred years before the patent was taken out by John Beale. »
153     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, advertisement: ‘If the writer should at all appear to have induced any of his readers to pay a more ready attention to the wonders of the Creation, too frequently overlooked as common occurrences . . . his purpose will be fully answered.’ See Letter 17 to Thomas Pennant, 46, for an account of the toad: ‘How wonderful is the economy of Providence with regard to the limbs of so vile a reptile!’ »
154     Foster, Gilbert White and his Records, 7. »
155     White, The Natural History of Selborne, 247–8. »
156     Golinski, British Weather and the Climate of Enlightenment, 45. »
157     See John Evelyn, The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. Esmond S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955), II, 207–8. »
158     Mark Laird, ‘ “Perpetual Spring” or Tempestuous Fall: The Greenhouse and the Great Storm of 1703 in the Life of John Evelyn and his Contemporaries’, Garden History, XXXIV/2 (Winter 2006), 153–73. »
159     Quoted in Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 133. »
160     Entry for 3 October 1777. See Greenoak, ed., The Journals of Gilbert White, II, 191. »
161     See Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, 4–6. »
162     See Hubert Damisch, Théorie du nuage: pour une histoire de la peinture (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1972), 267–9; and see Hamblyn, The Invention of Clouds, chapter 11: ‘Goethe and Constable’. »
163     Stephen Daniels, ‘Great Balls of Fire: Envisioning the Brilliant Meteor of 1783’, in Envisioning Landscapes, Making Worlds: Geography and the Humanities, ed. Daniels et al. (London: Routledge, 2010), 155–69. »
164     Loudon, Magazine of Natural History, VIII (1835), preface. See Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 18–19, and Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 281–2. »
165     Curtis, Flora Londinensis, vol. i, preface. »
166     Ibid., Pulmonaria maritima (Mertensia maritima), fascicle 6, no. 72, 18, 54. »
167     Ibid., Antirrhinum linaria var. peloria (now Linaria vulgaris peloric form), fascicle 6, no. 69, 41, 125. »
168     Curtis refers to the doctrine of signatures in the context of Saxifraga granulata (ibid., fascicle 1, no. 9, 30, 80) being ‘unphilosophically’ introduced into the Materia medica (the body of collected knowledge about the medical properties of substances used in healing). He had a no-nonsense stance: for example, on Epilobium adnatum (fascicle 2, no. 22, 23, 66, 131): ‘The farmer has no reason to complain of it; nor is it celebrated in the annals of physic’; and on Polygonum minus (fascicle 1, no. 1, 28, 77): ‘At present it does not appear that it has any thing more than its scarcity to recommend it to our notice.’ »
169     Ibid., Agrostemma githago, fascicle 3, no. 35, 27, 92, 209. »
170     Ibid., Alopecurus pratensis, fascicle 5, no. 50, 5, 17, 296. »
171     Ibid., Aira aquatica (now Catabrosa aquatica), fascicle 1, no. 10, 5, 12, 55. »
172     See ibid., Rumex acutus (now Rumex sanguineus), fascicle 3, no. 31, 21, 62, 181: ‘Camberwell Grove is at present a good Habitat for it.’ This meant a place where it grows abundantly rather than a ‘particular place of growth’, such as wet or shaded places. ‘Shrubbery’ was used sparingly, as in Hedera helix, fascicle 1, no. 8, 16, 43. »
173     See, for example, Curtis’s entry for Centunculus minimus (now Anagallis minima): ‘The first time of my discovering the Centunculus minimus was this summer, when herbarizing in company with Mr. DYER’. It was on Ashford Common. Ibid., fascicle 3, no. 31, 11, 32, 185. »
174     See the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds website for discussion of ‘aftermath grazing’ as a way to bring back floristic diversity into hay meadows: www.rspb.org.uk»
175     See, for example, Fritjof Capra, The Web of Life: A New Scientific Understanding of Living Systems (New York: Anchor, 1996). »
176     Quoted in Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 128. »
177     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fols 55 and 236v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 87, 309. »
178     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 35 to Daines Barrington, 182–3. »
179     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 69. »
180     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol, 236v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 309: ‘We have dissected them & found their rews of teeth, which we reserve in papers to shew, & you may sometimes heare them crackle as they feede.’ See Michael C. Houck and M. J. Cody, Wild in the City: A Guide to Portland’s Natural Areas (Portland, OR: Oregon Historical Society Press, 2000), 123. More than 27,000 ‘teeth’ are documented today in the radula of slugs like the banana slug, Ariolimax columbianus: ‘The organ acts like a file and allows the slug to rasp away at its food much as sandpaper removes paint from the surface. These “teeth” are worn away and constantly replaced.’ »
181     See White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 35 to Daines Barrington, 260, n. 18. »
182     For a good account of the duchess collecting land and freshwater shells at Bulstrode, see Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 76. Whether Helix lucorum, illustrated by her gardener-cum-illustrator, J. Agnew, caused the havoc of the garden snail, H. aspersa, is unclear. »
183     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 14 to Daines Barrington, 131. »
184     Quoted in Henry Power, ‘Virgil’s Georgics and the Poetic Landscape of the English Civil War’, in Interlacing Words and Things: Bridging the Nature–Culture Opposition in Gardens and Landscapes, ed. Stephen Bann (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2012), 51 onwards. »
185     Marjorie Williams, The Letters of William Shenstone (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1939), 285. »
186     Thomas, The Ends of Life, 98–9. »
187     Mary Collier, The Woman’s Labour: An Epistle to Mr Stephen Duck (London, 1739), 12. »
188     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 4 to Daines Barrington, 110. »
189     See Pat Rogers, ‘Bentinck, Margaret Cavendish [Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley], Duchess of Portland (1715–1786)’, in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); online edition: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/40752 [accessed 1 October 2013]. She wrote of the auction: ‘The aim was to recoup the family fortunes, drained by the electioneering expenses of her elder son and the high living of the younger.’ Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, speculates on the stipulation in the duchess’s will that the collections be sold. »
190     Quoted in Thomas, The Ends of Life, 255. »
191     See David Wilkinson, The Duke of Portland: Politics and Party in the Age of George III (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 61–2. See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 220–21, for discussion of debts and bankruptcy. »
192     See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 146–7. After Collinson was widowed in 1753, he had to come to an accommodation with his inheriting son, Michael Collinson, to stay on at Ridgeway House for the remainder of his life (some fifteen years). »
193     Susan Staves, Married Women’s Separate Property in England, 1660–1833 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), chapter 2, ‘Dower and the Rule of No Dower of a Trust’, 53–4. »
194     Lummis and Marsh, The Woman’s Domain, 76. »
195     See Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 249. »
196     Sir William Blackstone et al., Commentaries on the Laws of England [1765–9] (London, 1827), book 2, 96. »
197     Staves, Married Women’s Separate Property, 27–37. »
198     See Amanda Vickery, Behind Closed Doors: At Home in Georgian England (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 218–22, for a nuanced account of widowhood as the ‘female condition most visible to history’ and of the ‘considerable comforts of a rich widowhood’. See also Devoney Looser, Women Writers and Old Age in Great Britain, 1750–1850 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008). »
199     Quoted in Power, ‘Virgil’s Georgics’, 58. »
200     Jennifer Munroe argues in her essay ‘ “My innocent diversion of gardening”: Mary Somerset’s Plants’, Renaissance Studies, XXV/1 (February 2011), 111–23, that the split between manuscript and print knowledge, between the amateur and the professional, helps to account for the lack of recognition of women’s contribution to early science. »
201     See O’Neill and McLean, Peter Collinson, 154 and 167–8. In 1815 an issue of Curtis’s Botanical Magazine still described her as ‘an early encourager of the science of Botany’, but Dandy remarked in 1958 on published references to Badminton being ‘so few and so slight’. See J. E. Dandy, ed., The Sloane Herbarium (London: Natural History Museum, 1958), 209. »
202     Tobin, The Duchess’s Shells, 265–7. »
203     See Claudia Lazzaro, The Italian Renaissance Garden (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990), epilogue: ‘The Garden in Time’, 270–86, for a good account of how a culture of flowers was erased: ‘In the historicizing gardens of the first decades of the twentieth century, the Italian garden was similarly interpreted as architectonic and formal, primarily through the use of box, shaped into massive, precisely trimmed, and architectural patterns, hedges, and topiary’ (268). »
204     Horace Walpole, writing about ‘Ladies and Gentlemen Distinguished by Their Artistic Talents’ in Anecdotes of Painting, is discussed by Kim Sloan, ‘Mrs Delany’s Paintings and Drawings’, in Mrs Delany and her Circle, ed. Laird and Weisberg-Roberts, 110»
205     Christopher Tunnard, Gardens in the Modern Landscape (London: Architectural Press, 1938). »
206     Horwood, Gardening Women»
207     The entry ‘Somerset, Mary, Duchess of Beaufort (bap. 1630, d. 1715)’ by P. E. Kell (Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; online edition: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/40544 [accessed 1 October 2013]) is representative of a corrected imbalance since J. E. Dandy wrote in 1958: ‘D.N.B. gives her no separate entry’. By comparison, Jenny Uglow’s A Little History of British Gardening (London: Pimlico, 2005), which has more on women gardeners than Miles Hadfield in his A History of British Gardening (London: John Murray, 1979), still gives only one paragraph to the duchess of Beaufort in a chapter of thirteen pages devoted to General Fairfax, Andrew Marvell, Ralph Austen, John Evelyn, Thomas Hanmer and John Rea. »
208     In the context of Mary Delany and Margaret Bentinck, see, for example, Lisa L. Moore, Sister Acts: The Erotics of Lesbian Landscapes (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2011). »
209     My term ‘Sisters of the Spade’ is invented but derives its meaning from Adam’s symbol, the spade, and the Collinson/Custis correspondence, see E. G. Swem, Brothers of the Spade: Correspondence of Peter Collinson, of London, and of John Custis, of Williamsburg, Virginia, 1734–1746 (Barre, Mass.: Barre Gazette, 1957). »
210     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 8; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 29. »
211     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 10–10v; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 33–4. »
212     The epitaph for Mary Delany, written by Bishop Hurd, is in St James’s Church, Piccadilly, on the north wall. »
213     Thomas, The Ends of Life, 235–45. »
214     Cordelia, speaking of Lear’s crown of weeds, in King Lear, IV, iv, lines 3–6. »
215     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Phallus impudicus, fascicle 3, no. 33, 72, 218, 199. »
216     Ibid., Ligustrum vulgare, fascicle 5, no. 51, 1, 3, 300; ibid., Lychnis flos-cuculi, fascicle 1, no. 2, 33, 91; ibid., Saxifraga oppositifolia, fascicle 6, no. 68, 27, 83. »
217     Love’s Labour’s Lost, V, II, lines 883–6:
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight »
218     Dedication to vol. I of Flora Londinensis (1777). »
219     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Spergula saginoides (now Sagina subulata), fascicle 4, no. 40, 35, 89, 139. »
220     See also, for example, the entry on nipplewort for ‘sore nipples’, ibid., Lapsana communis, fascicle 1, no. 10, 59, 166, 56. Quoting Peter Jonas Bergius’s Materia medica on Saponaria officinalis (fascicle 2, no. 17, 29, 82) Curtis wrote in Flora Londinensis: ‘In baths and lotions, it has been made use of to cleanse and beautify the skin: Internally the decoction of the whole herb is sudorific, and promotes the menses.’ »
221     Aside from the evidence of the subscription, no reference to the duchess of Portland has been found in Curtis’s entries on plants. »
222     Shteir, Cultivating Women, 55. »
223     See Maureen H. Lazarus and Heather S. Pardoe, ‘Bute’s Botanical Tables: Dictated by Nature’, Archives of Natural History, XXXVI/2 (2009), 285–94; See also George S. Rousseau, The Notorious Sir John Hill: The Man Destroyed by Ambition in the Era of Celebrity (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh Press, and Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012), 271–9 and appendix B, which discounts Bute’s sustained patronage of all twenty-six volumes of Hill’s Vegetable System»
224     The duchess of Portland’s copy is now in the Oak Spring Garden Library, Upperville, VA, having passed through Crewe Hall, Cheshire. »
225     For Shute Barrington, see Laird, The Flowering of the Landscape Garden, 376; for Lord Macartney, see Laird, ‘Plantings’, 70. »
226     John Stuart, 3rd earl of Bute, Botanical Tables (self-published as twelve sets, 1785), ‘Volume I — British Plants, Tables. General Plan’, 6. I am grateful to Tony Willis at Oak Spring Garden Library for checking this. »
227     Shteir, Cultivating Women, chapters 3, 4 and 5, and especially p. 61. »
228     See Alison E. Martin, ‘Society, Creativity and Science: Mrs Delany and the Art of Botany’, review essay in Eighteenth-century Life, XXXV/2 (Spring 2011), 102–7. See also Sam George, Botany, Sexuality and Women’s Writing, 1760–1830: From Modest Shoot to Forward Plant (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007). »
229     See Rousseau, The Notorious Sir John Hill, 243–5. »
230     Joseph Banks’s acknowledgement, in his early botanical formation, of the influence of a woman collecting ‘simples’ near Eton stands out as a late instance of the power of a female knowledge that was soon to vanish. This is cited by Shteir, Cultivating Women, ‘The Herbal Tradition’, 37–9; for Lindley, see chapter 6: ‘Defeminizing the Budding Science of Botany, 1830–1860’, 149–69. »
231     See Horwood, Gardening Women, 35, and 42–7 for discussion of women and the Royal Horticultural Society. David. E. Allen’s index to The Naturalist in Britain includes some significant women collectors, notably Mary Anning (collecting fossils in Lyme Regis) and Mary Wyatt, who produced an album of pressed seaweeds, Algae Danmonienses, under the supervision of Mrs A. W. Griffiths. Yet, apart from Isabella Gifford’s The Marine Biologist of 1840 and Margaret Gatty’s British Seaweeds of 1863 (and a sentimental literature of flowers), an equivalent literature to that of Jane Loudon or Gertrude Jekyll is lacking. For women and scientific societies in the nineteenth century and for Anna Thynne as heir to Bulstrode’s breakfast-room science, see Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 150–52 and 118. »
232     See Susan W. Lanman, ‘Colour in the Garden: “Malignant Magenta” ’, Garden History, XXVIII/2 (Winter 2000), 209–21. »
233     Reflections on ‘colony collapse disorder’ are to be found in Markus Imhoof’s extraordinary documentary, More Than Honey (2012). »
234     See Mark Laird, ‘Sayes Court Revisited’, in John Evelyn and his Milieu, ed. Frances Harris and Michael Hunters (London: The British Library, 2003), 136. For a broad discussion of women’s role in domestic husbandry, see Horwood, Gardening Women, 141–50. »
235     Thomas, Man and the Natural World, 238–9; see also Elizabeth Hyde, Cultivated Power: Flowers, Culture and Politics in the Reign of Louis XIV (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), chapter 1, and especially 19–20. »
236     Evelyn, ‘Elysium Britannicum’, fol. 236; see also Evelyn, Elysium Britannicum, ed. Ingram, 308. »
237     Curtis, Flora Londinensis: Lonicera periclymenum, fascicle 1, no. 1, 15, 42. »
238     Charles Nelson, in a personal communication of October 2012, noted that the coating was, initially, the excretions of aphids (‘honeydew’), which, collecting dust, might then have been covered with microscopic fungi. »
239     Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World, 269, 291. »
240     See Richard Mabey, Gilbert White: A Biography of the Author of The Natural History of Selborne (London: Century, 1986), 109, quoting Daines Barrington’s suggestion to White: ‘it may also be proper to take notice of the common prognostics of the weather from animals, plants, or hygroscopes, and compare them afterwards with the table of the weather, from which it may be perceived how far such prognostics can be relied upon’. See Daines Barrington, The Naturalist’s Journal (London, 1767), preface, first published anonymously. »
241     Oppenheimer, Eruptions that Shook the World, chapter 14: explosive eruption near a major city; volcanogenic pollution crisis; and ‘super-eruption’ scenario. »
242     Ibid., 330. »
243     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 61 to Daines Barrington, 237. Paul Foster comments in his note how these were ‘originally written as four letters; at a late editorial stage a long letter on winter weather was subdivided into three and the total became six’. »
244     Paul Foster’s discussion of White’s construction is covered in Note for the Reader. See, for example, the ‘unexpected reverse of comparative local cold’ with the consequences for his evergreens — as compared to those in nearby Newton; or the thermometer tip-off that led them to put roots and fruits in ‘cellar, and warm closets’. Compare these entries in White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 63 to Barrington, 244–5, with Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 66–7: ‘Thomas Hoar shook the snow carefully off from the evergreens . . . Bread, cheese, meat, potatoes, apples all frozen, where not secured in cellars under ground’. »
245     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster. In Letter 9 to Daines Barrington (ibid., 123), White expounded a ‘presumptive argument’: that nightingales do not reach the west of England because of the migratory route over the narrower reaches of the Channel. In Letter 2 (ibid., 105), he logged the nightingale’s song as mid-April to the end of June, but in Letter 10 (ibid., 124–5), he reported that his neighbour with a ‘nice ear’ failed to record the key of the nightingale’s rapid notes. In more recent research (reported in The Independent, 29 June 2010), a ‘data logger’ attached to a male nightingale ‘OAD’ confirmed its south-eastern English sojourn, its African winter destination (Guinea-Bissau), but also the very short season in the UK: mid-April to late July. White appears to have believed, within his observations, that certain things might always remain the mysteries of the Creator; hence he wrote on the lack of maternal affection in the cuckoo in Letter 4 to Daines Barrington, 110: ‘the methods of Providence are not subjected to any mode or rule, but astonish us in new lights’. »
246     See, for example, his entry for 5 September 1784, in Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 53: ‘I saw lately a small Ichneumon-fly attack a spider much larger than itself on a grass-walk. When the spider made any resistance the Ichneumon apply’d her tail to him, & stung him with great vehemence, so that he soon became dead, & motionless. The Ich: then running backward drew her prey very nimbly over the walk into the standing grass. This spider would be deposited in some hole where the Ich: would lay some eggs; & as soon as the eggs were hatch’d, the carcase would afford ready food for the maggots. Perhaps some eggs might be injected into the body of the spider in the act of stinging. Some Ich: deposit their eggs in the aureliae of butterflies, & moths.’ »
247     White, The Natural History of Selborne, ed. Foster, Letter 64 to Daines Barrington, 246. »
248     Greenoak, ed., Journals of Gilbert White, III, 93–104. »
249     Ibid., 1, 104. »
250     Ibid., III, 365. »
251     For the current status of the field cricket, see http://www.nhm.ac.uk/nature-online/species-of-theday/biodiversity/endangered-species/gryllus-campestris/index.html (accessed 7 September 2013). See also Norman Maclean, ed., Silent Summer: The State of Wildlife in Britain (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 534–5. Relevant is the discussion of the southern hawker (Aeshna cyanea) spreading northwards, apparently due to rising temperatures (478–9), and the resilience of English wasps (Vespula vulgaris, 548) in contrast to the drastic decline in bumblebees (415–29). This decline is linked to the ‘loss of -97% of all species-rich grasslands (hay meadows, calcareous grasslands) in the last 60 years’ (415). »
7. Aftermath: Natural History and Gardening Just Before and Well Beyond 1800
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