The Lost Dahlia | Page 5

Copenhagen, the
charger who carried the Duke at Waterloo, formed so great an object of
attraction to the visiters of Strathfield-saye.* Then came the house
itself and then I returned home. Well! this was one beautiful and
fruitless drive. The ruins of Reading Abbey formed another as fruitless,
and still more beautiful.
* Copenhagen--(I had the honour of naming one of Mr. Cooper's
dahlias after him--a sort of bay dahlia, if I may be permitted the
expression)--Copenhagen was a most interesting horse. He died last
year at the age of twenty- seven. He was therefore in his prime on the
day of Waterloo, when the duke (then and still a man of iron) rode him
for seventeen hours and a half, without dismounting. When his Grace
got off, he patted him, and the horse kicked, to the great delight of his

brave rider, as it proved that he was not beaten by that tremendous
day's work. After his return, this paddock was assigned to him, in
which he passed the rest of his life in the most perfect comfort that can
be imagined; fed twice a-day, (latterly upon oats broken for him,) with
a comfortable stable to retire to, and a rich pasture in which to range.
The late amiable duchess used regularly to feed him with bread, and
this kindness had given him the habit, (especially after her death,) of
approaching every lady with the most confiding familiarity. He had
been a fine animal, of middle size and a chestnut colour, but latterly he
exhibited an interesting specimen of natural decay, in a state as nearly
that of nature as can well be found in a civilised country. He had lost an
eye from age, and had become lean and feeble, and, in the manner in
which he approached even a casual visiter, there was something of the
demand of sympathy, the appeal to human kindness, which one has so
often observed from a very old dog towards his master. Poor
Copenhagen, who, when alive, furnished so many reliques from his
mane and tail to enthusiastic young ladies, who had his hair set in
brooches and rings, was, after being interred with military honours, dug
up by some miscreant, (never, I believe, discovered,) and one of his
hoofs cut off, it is to be presumed, for a memorial, although one that
would hardly go in the compass of a ring. A very fine portrait of
Copenhagen has been executed by my young friend Edmund H a veil, a
youth of seventeen, whose genius as an animal painter, will certainly
place him second only to Landseer.
Whether in the "palmy state" of the faith of Rome, the pillared aisles of
the Abbey church might have vied in grandeur with the avenue at
Strathfield-saye, I can hardly say; but certainly, as they stand, the
venerable arched gateway, the rock-like masses of wall, the crumbling
cloisters, and the exquisite finish of the surbases of the columns and
other fragments, fresh as if chiselled yesterday, which are re-appearing
in the excavations now making, there is an interest which leaves the
grandeur of life, palaces and their pageantry, parks and their
adornments, all grandeur except the indestructible grandeur of nature,
at an immeasurable distance. The place was a history. Centuries passed
before us as we thought of the magnificent monastery, the third in size
and splendour in England, with its area of thirty acres between the

walls--and gazed upon it now!
And yet, even now, how beautiful! Trees of every growth mingling
with those grey ruins, creepers wreathing their fantastic garlands
around the mouldering arches, gorgeous flowers flourishing in the
midst of that decay! I almost forgot my search for the dear Phoebus, as
I rambled with my friend Mr. Malone, the gardener, a man who would
in any station be remarkable for acuteness and acquirement, amongst
the august remains of the venerable abbey, with the history of which he
was as conversant as with his own immediate profession. There was no
speaking of smaller objects in the presence of the mighty past!
Gradually chilled by so much unsuccess, the ardour of my pursuit
began to abate. I began to admit the merits of other dahlias of divers
colours, and actually caught myself committing the inconstancy of
considering which of the four Princes of Orange I should bespeak for
next year. Time, in short, was beginning to play his part as the great
comforter of human afflictions, and the poor Phoebus seemed as likely
to be forgotten as a last year's bonnet, or a last week's newspaper--when,
happening to walk with my father to look at a field of his, a pretty bit of
upland pasture about a mile off, I was struck, in one corner where the
manure for dressing had been deposited, and a