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Title: Famous pets of famous people
Author: Lewis, Eleanor
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes
Hyphenation has been standardised.
The spellings of Durer and Dürer are being left unchanged.
The spellings of Etretat and Etretât are being left unchanged.
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In this text version, text in italics is delimited by _underscores_.
[Illustration: MAUD HOWE.]
FAMOUS PETS
_OF FAMOUS PEOPLE_
BY
ELEANOR LEWIS
[Illustration: “MOUCHE”, VICTOR HUGO’S CAT.]
_ILLUSTRATED_
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
WASHINGTON STREET OPPOSITE BROMFIELD
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY
D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
PRESS OF
Rockwell and Churchill
BOSTON
TO
Maud Howe Elliott
WHOSE DEVOTION TO HER OWN PETS CONSTITUTES HER
THE FRIEND OF EVERY OTHER, THIS BOOK
IS APPRECIATIVELY INSCRIBED
BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS.
I.
SOME SCOTCH CELEBRITIES 15
II.
A SELECT COMPANY 37
III.
PETS IN LITERARY LIFE 53
IV.
“THE UPPER TEN” 75
V.
A NOTABLE CANINE TRIO 119
VI.
PETS IN ARTIST LIFE 135
VII.
PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE 173
VIII.
AN ODD SET 189
IX.
MILITARY PETS 209
X.
ANIMALS AT SCHOOL 231
XI.
A MENAGERIE IN STONE 247
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Miss Maud Howe and her dog Sambo _Frontis._
Statue of Sir Walter Scott, in Edinburgh 17
Sir Walter Scott and his bull-terrier, Camp 21
Rab 25
“Baby Rab” 26
“Pity the sorrows of us homeless dogs” 27
Dr. John Brown, Dr. Peddie, and Dandie 28
Drinking-fountain monument to Greyfriars’ Bobby, Edinburgh 29
Greyfriars’ Bobby 31
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe at home 38
Mrs. Stowe’s dog Punch 40
Mrs. Stowe’s dog Missy 41
Mrs. Phelps’s dog Daniel Deronda 42
Mrs. Jane Welsh Carlyle and Nero 45
Lord Byron and his dog Lyon 56
Sir Horace Walpole and Patapan 59
Charles Dickens’s pet raven, Grip 62
Bushie, the favorite dog of Charlotte Cushman 66
Mouche, Victor Hugo’s cat 68
General Muff, Miss Mary L. Booth’s cat 69
Nelly, the dog of Edmund Yates 71
Frederick the Great and his sister Wilhelmina 78
Prince Bismarck and his dogs 81
Queen Elizabeth in her peacock gown 86
Mary, Queen of Scots, at the age of ten 87
Lady Margaret Lenox, mother of Lord Darnley 88
Children of Charles I. with spaniels 90
Children of Charles I.; Prince Charles and his mastiff 91
James Stuart, Duke of Richmond, son of Esme Stuart 95
Princess Elizabeth, eldest daughter of James I.,
and her pets 98
Princess Mary, daughter of Charles I. 101
Charles II. and pet spaniel, at Dawney Court, Bucks,
seat of the Duchess of Cleveland 104
Princess Amelia and her dog 105
Princess Augusta, daughter of George III.}
Princess Amelia, daughter of George III. } 107
A favorite at Marlborough House 109
Pet spaniel of Louis XVI., companion of his daughter
“Madame Royale,” in prison 111
Pet Italian greyhound of Marie Louise 112
Carlo Alberto and his favorite horse 113
Victor Emmanuel and his dog 115
Prince Henry, eldest son of James I. 120
Prince Rupert with his white dog Boy 127
Puritan caricature of the death of Prince Rupert’s
white hound Boy 131
Miss Bowles 136
“Friends now, Pussy!” 137
The painter Hogarth and his dog Trump 139
Portrait of Albrecht Dürer at thirteen 141
Hare drawn by the boy Albrecht Dürer 142
Two Venetian ladies and their pets 143
Section of dome 145
Ducks 146
Fragment 147
Hens and chickens 147
Two of Gottfried Mind’s cats 148
The Cavalier’s pets 149
The dustman’s dog 151
Countess, the sleeping bloodhound 151
The critics 152
Paul Pry, a member of the Humane Society 153
An old monarch 155
Wasp, Rosa Bonheur’s pet terrier 157
The horse fair 158
The lion at home 159
Glen and his master at Etretât 160
Glen 161
Mr. Chase and Kat-te 162
Lilla, Cruikshank’s little dog 163
Lady Tankerville, who hid her kittens in the head of
Story’s statue of Peabody 165
Entrance and window of the sculptor Ezekiel’s studio in Rome 168
Bimbo, one of the sculptor Story’s pets 169
Cat-headed Egyptian goddess, Bast or Bubastis 174
Bas-relief of Whittington and his cat 175
Cardinal Richelieu, front face and sides 179
The two-legged cat that belonged to Dr. Hill of Princeton
College 183
Sally 193
Cowper’s tame hares 199
Helix Desertorum 204
Bobby, the dog who would be a soldier 211
The deer that marched ahead 220
The Welsh Fusileers’ goat 221
Old Abe 223
Love leading the orchestra 232
The elephants of Germanicus 232
The cat showman 233
Pinta and his mule Marco 234
Help, the railway dog of England 235
Prof. Bonnetty’s troupe 237
The Brighton Cats 239
A cat with a conscience 241
“Tell me thy secret, Beppo” 242
Sculpture of greyhounds in the Vatican 248
Sculpture of thieving monkey in the Vatican 249
Stag in alabaster in the Vatican 250
Pliny’s doves; a mosaic in the Capitol at Rome 251
Patrician or plebeian? 253
The chimera; Etruscan sculpture in the Bargello at Florence 254
_I._
_SOME SCOTCH CELEBRITIES._
FAMOUS PETS.
I.
SOME SCOTCH CELEBRITIES.
Beautiful Edinburgh, her gray warmed into gold by the summer sunshine,
lies half-asleep at the foot of her Castle Rock, and dreams, through
the peaceful present, of her stormy, impetuous past. Each grain of dust
there is historic. The traveler’s every footstep wakes some memory
of old days. Over castle and palace, broad way and narrow close,
over Canongate, Grassmarket, Arthur’s Seat, over hills that environ
and streams that link, a magician has cast his spell--so intimately
blending past and present, that we cannot look upon the one without
remembering the other.
To-day in sculptured marble, as erstwhile in life, the weaver of the
spell yet guards his time-worn city, like the good genius of its
fate. Passionless, mute, he sits brooding--the bustle of existence
all around him--while the hound at his side gazes up at him, in rest
unbroken as his own. The Scott monument--that is what rises before
us; and the broad-browed, deep-eyed enchanter within, that--as every
schoolboy knows--is the great Sir Walter Scott, the good, well-loving,
dearly-loved Sir Walter.
“What has he not done for every one of us?” writes the historian
of Rab. “Who else ever, except Shakespeare, so diverted mankind,
entertained and entertains a world so liberally, so wholesomely?” Who,
indeed? And, in truth, we owe him far more than mere diversion, however
liberal and wholesome; and may count it not least among his gifts to
the world that, from the height of his fame, he set it example of a
wise, distinguishing regard for animals.
“He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast”--
might stand for the motto of his life. From babyhood to old age the
power of loving enriched him, and won from “all things, great or
small,” a warm response.
The most conversible, attachable, and hence, dearest, among his humble
friends were, naturally, horses and dogs. He liked, however, almost
everything that breathes; and poultry, cattle, sheep, or pigs, cats
and birds--all shared, to greater or less degree, in his good-will. An
old gray badger lived, hermit-like, in a hole near Abbotsford for many
years under his protection. A hen and a pig formed ardent attachments
to him; and a pair of little donkeys would trot like puppies at his
heels whenever they got the chance.
Carlyle tells the story of a Blenheim cocker in Edinburgh, the most
timid and reserved of its race, which shrank from all attention save
that of its mistress, until one day on the street it made a sudden
spring towards a tall, halting stranger, and fawned upon him in an
ecstasy of delight. This was, of course, our own Sir Walter, whose
great heart, like a magnet, drew to it all other hearts, whether bold
or shy.
[Illustration: STATUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN EDINBURGH.]
His horses all fed from his hand, and preferred his attendance to that
of the grooms; while, until lameness obliged him, in later years,
to give up walking, he would never ride on Sunday, believing that “all
domestic animals have a full right to their Sabbath of rest.” If his
four-footed dependants were ill, he nursed and prescribed for them.
When little Spice, an asthmatic terrier, was following the carriage, he
would carry it over the brooks, that it might not get wet. In fine, he
was always what too few are--“a gentleman, even to his dogs.”
Pets were so numerous at Abbotsford that their record must be brief.
The long list of pet horses opens in his childhood with a Shetland
pony called Marion--a dwarfish creature that fed from his hand, and
ran in and out of the house like a dog. The pair were close friends,
and passed hours together exploring the hills. In his twentieth year,
or thereabouts, Lenore is mentioned as doing him good service, but ere
long was succeeded by Captain, coal-black and full of mettle. Next came
Lieutenant, and then Brown Adam, a special favorite, who would let none
but his master ride him, and who, when saddled and bridled, would trot
out of the stable by himself to the mounting-stone, and wait there
for Sir Walter. Daisy, next in order, was “all over white, without
a speck, and with such a mane as Rubens delighted to paint.” His
temper, unfortunately, was less perfect than his mane, and eventually
Sir Walter sold him. Daisy was succeeded by the original of Dandie
Dinmont’s “Dumple,” in the shape of a sober cob named Sybil Grey; and
the list closes with a staid old horse known indifferently as Donce
Davie and the Covenanter.
In 1803, the canine favorite was Camp, a fine bull-terrier, “very
handsome, very intelligent, and naturally very fierce, but gentle as a
lamb among the children.” It is this dog that appears in the painting
by Raeburn. He had considerable intellect in his way, and understood
much that was said to him. Once he bit the family baker, and was
severely punished for it--his offense being at the same time explained
to him, says Scott. After this, “to the last moment of his life, he
never heard the least allusion to the story, in whatever voice or tone
it was mentioned, without getting up and retiring into the darkest
corner of the room, with great appearance of distress. Then if you
said, ‘The baker was well paid,’ or, ‘The baker was not hurt after
all,’ Camp came forth from his hiding-place, capered, and barked, and
rejoiced.”
He lost none of his brightness, although strength began to fail him in
1808, so that he could no longer accompany Sir Walter on his rides.
But still when as evening drew on, the servant would say, “Camp, the
shirra’s comin’ hame by the ford,” or “by the hill,” Camp would patter
stiffly to the front door or back, as the direction might imply, and
there await the master whom he could no longer follow. He died the
ensuing year, in January, and was buried in the garden of Scott’s
Edinburgh house, where even yet the place is pointed out. The whole
family stood in tears around the grave, while Sir Walter himself,
with sad face, smoothed the turf above his old companion. He had been
invited to dine from home that night, but excused himself on account
of the death of a dear old friend; and none wondered when they learned
that the friend was Camp.
Contemporary with Camp were the two greyhounds, Percy and Douglas, who,
though far less dear, were much petted. It is on record that despite
Lady Scott’s fear of robbers, a window was always left open for these
dogs to pass in and out. They lie buried at Abbotsford with other of
their doggish kin. Percy, in particular, is honored by a stone of
antique appearance, and this inscription, befitting some valiant knight:
“Cy git le preux Percie.”
[Illustration: SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS BULL-TERRIER, CAMP.
(_From the painting by Raeburn._)]
Poor Camp went over to the majority of dogs in January; in July, Sir
Walter wrote to a friend that he had filled the vacant place with a
shaggy terrier-puppy of high pedigree, and named it Wallace--its donor
being a descendant of that famous Scotchman. Somewhat later the family
was enlarged by a smooth-haired kintail terrier called Ourisque, which,
if attending the master on his rides, would sometimes pretend fatigue,
and whine to be taken up on horseback, where it would sit upright,
without any support, in great state.
But of all Sir Walter’s pets, the most famous was Maida, a gift in 1816
from his Highland friend Glengarry. He describes it with enthusiasm,
as “The noblest dog ever seen on the Border since Johnny Armstrong’s
time, ... between the wolf and deer greyhound, about six feet from
the tip of the nose to the tail, and high and strong in proportion.”
Captain Thomas Brown, who knew Maida well, says, “So uncommon was
his appearance, that he used to attract great crowds in Edinburgh to
look at him whenever he appeared on the streets. He was a remarkably
high-spirited and beautiful dog, with black ears, cheeks, back and
sides, ... the tip of his tail white, ... his hair rough and shaggy;
... that on the ridge of his neck, he used to raise like a lion’s mane,
when excited to anger.”
Maida was uniformly gentle except--aristocrat that he was!--to the
poorly-dressed and to artists. His detestation of the latter may be
explained by the number of times he had been obliged to pose for
them;--the mere sight of a brush and palette was at last enough to make
him run. His bark was deep and hollow; and sometimes, says Sir Walter,
“he amused himself with howling in a very tiresome way. When he was
very fond of his friends he used to grin, tucking up his whole lips
and showing all his teeth, but it was only when he was particularly
disposed to recommend himself.”
Once he got hung by the leg, in trying to jump a park paling, and began
to howl. But seeing his friends approach, “he stopped crying, and
waved his tail by the way of signal, it was supposed, for assistance.”
Luckily he was not much hurt, and most grateful for his rescue.
The pleasant Irish authoress, Miss Edgeworth, was also fond of animals;
and Scott’s correspondence with this lady is full of allusions to their
mutual canine friends. In April, 1822, he tells her that Maida can
no longer follow him far from the house, and adds: “I have sometimes
thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives; and I am
quite satisfied that it is in compassion to the human race; for if we
suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve
years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?”
We can well imagine his grief when finally (October, 1824) Maida passed
away painlessly, in his straw. They buried him at Abbotsford gate
where he had so long kept watch and ward, with his own marble likeness
for monument,--and for epitaph--
“Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,
Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master’s door.”
He still lives, however, in the story of Woodstock, as Bevis, the
gallant hound of Alice Lee.
Nimrod and Bran succeeded Maida, and although they could not replace
him, were fine fellows. There was also a black greyhound, Hamlet, who
usually “behaved most prince-like,” but when Washington Irving visited
Abbotsford, got into mischief and killed a sheep. Nimrod, too, was
occasionally naughty, but the master never failed to befriend his dogs
when they were in trouble, preferring to pay damages rather than lose
them.
Besides the large dogs, there was a whole retinue of smaller ones,
among them Finette, a sensitive, lady-like spaniel, greatly favored
by Lady Scott; and a number of Dinmont terriers. The latter all bore
“cruet names,” there being in the house at one time a Pepper, Mustard,
Ginger, Catchup, Soy and Spice. Spicie was a warm-hearted, affectionate
little creature, and is often mentioned, especially to Miss Edgeworth.
Her little friend--Scott once assured her--is recovering from an
asthmatic attack, and is active, though thin, “extremely like the
shadow of a dog on the wall.”
Other dogs there were, but where is the space to chronicle them or
their deeds? A few lines must be kept for Hinsefeldt, the large black
family cat that usually lay on the top stair of the book-ladder in
Sir Walter’s study, coming down if Maida left the room, to guard the
footstool until he should return. Irving saw Pussy at Abbotsford, and
describes her clapper-clawing the dogs--an act of sovereignty which
they took in good part. Scott was by nature not very fond of cats, but
Hinse reconciled him to the race, so that even in a dull London hotel,
he could enjoy the society of a “tolerably conversible cat, that ate a
mess of cream with him each morning.”
In 1825 a great business crash involved Sir Walter in a debt, to pay
which he wore out the remnant of his life. Just before, he had been
planning a return to Abbotsford. “But now,” he writes, “my dogs will
wait for me in vain.... I feel their feet on my knees, I hear them
whining and seeking me everywhere. This is nonsense, but it is what
they would do could they know how things may be.” Two or three years
later, being asked to write something for a Manual of Coursing, he
refused sadly:--“I could only send you the laments of an old man, and
the enumeration of the number of horses and dogs which have been long
laid under the sod.”
Indeed, for master as for petted friends, the end was now approaching.
He grew each day more sad and feeble, until at last even his
staghound’s rough caress was more than his spent frame could bear. As a
last hope he was taken on a voyage; but the remedy was powerless, and
he hurried home to die. Half-wild with joy at seeing the old familiar
scenes once more, he finally reached Abbotsford, and sank exhausted in
his chair. There the dogs gathered around him; “they began to fawn upon
him and lick his hands; and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them
until sleep oppressed him.” This sleep ere long deepened into a slumber
more profound, and death came between Sir Walter and his friends on
earth.
Contemporary with Scott was Prof. John Wilson, so well-known to all
as Christopher North. He, too, was passionately fond of animals, and
his daughter, Mrs. Gordon, has left a delightful account of his pets.
Of Grog, chestnut-brown in color, meek and tiny, “more like a bird
than a dog,” with “little comical, turned-out feet, a cosey, coaxing,
mysterious, half-mouse, half-birdlike dog,” who crept noiselessly out
of life one morning, and was found dead on his master’s bed. Of Brontë,
the beautiful Newfoundland, all purple-black, save the white star on
his breast, who daily walked to and from the college with his master,
but at last was cruelly poisoned, and died, leaving “no bark like his
in the world of sound.”
[Illustration: RAB.
(_By permission of David Douglass, publisher of “Rab and His
Friends.”_)]
Of O’Brontë, Brontë’s son, with “the same still, serene, smiling and
sagacious eyes.” Of Rover, the best beloved, whose master stood beside
him when he died, “trying to soothe and comfort the poor animal. A very
few minutes before death closed his fast-glazing eye, the professor
said, ‘Rover, my poor fellow, give me your paw.’ The dying animal made
an effort to reach his master’s hand; and so thus parted my father with
his favorite, as one man taking leave of another.”
Of Charlie, Fido, Tip, and Fang, Paris and many more, not to mention
his friendly canine friends, Neptune, Tickler, Tory, Wasp, and Juba,
who graciously kept him on their visiting-list. Should any one wish to
know more of these dogs, he will find plenty to interest him in the
writings of Christopher North, especially in that pleasant miscellany
called the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_.
[Illustration: “BABY RAB.”
(_Sketch by Dr. John Brown._)]
But the pet most singular and most fairy-like of all, was a sparrow,
that for eleven years inhabited his study, dwelling with him in an
intimacy so entire that the family declared it was developing both in
size and character by the association, and if it lived, would in time
become an eagle. To think of the tiny creature fluttering around great
Christopher, nestling in his waistcoat pocket, carrying stray hairs
from his shoulders to its cage, with nest intentions; perching on his
inkstand, even pecking at his pen! What familiarity, what audacity
with genius! And supposing the nest actually had been made, with those
precious hairs inwoven, how relic-hunters would be seeking it to-day!
The intimacy between this strangely dissimilar pair is only one more
proof that
“The brave are aye the tenderest
The loving are the daring;”
and I cannot but think that if his books should be forgotten, the
legend of the sparrow would still keep Wilson’s memory green.
A friend and brother-author of Scott and Wilson was the Ettrick
Shepherd, James Hogg. To judge from his own account, and from that
in the _Noctes_, his liking for dogs must have equaled theirs. His
perception of canine character was acute; and through his description
we feel well acquainted with Hector, the Collie. According to the
Shepherd, Hector had a sense of humor matched only by his politeness,
and once even, when intensely amused by a conversation between his
master and a friend, “louped o’er a stone wa’,” that he might laugh
unseen behind it. Maida used to grin; why not Hector?
With these three lovers of the canine race must be grouped a fourth,
the good physician, Doctor John Brown of Edinburgh. He has written
about dogs as only Landseer has painted them--sympathetically,
lovingly, with intuitive comprehension of dog-nature. “Rab and his
Friends” is an idyl that brings tears for sole applause; “Our Dogs”
is a Shakespearean comedy, over which we smile or softly laugh. We
remember them as we remember only the intensely alive. Still we see
that night procession where the living guides homeward the beautiful
dead, with faithful Rab slow-following behind.
[Illustration: PITY THE SORROWS OF US HOMELESS DOGS]
Then the scene changes, and “Our Dogs” frolic over the stage. A daring
little fellow leads them--the one that begged admission to the band by
a look that said _Cur non_? Here is Toby the Tyke, with his unequaled
tail and moral excellence; here Wylie, the collie, blithe, beautiful
and kind; and here Rab himself, whose baby outlines are imagined in a
funny sketch by Dr. Brown. Here is Wasp, the dog-of-business; here,
Jock, “insane from his birth,” as might be expected of a dog whose
mother was called Vampire, and whose father, Demon. Enter the Dutchess,
of wee body and great soul; enter Crab, John Pym, and Puck; pass as
enter Dick and Peter, Jock and Bob. In fact, Bob closes the list, and
his character was thus briefly summed up for me in a room in Edinburgh
made sacred by mementoes of his master.
“Bob,” said my informant, “was the last dog we had, and really he was
too much for us all. He was very pure-bred,--so pure, that my brother
used to say it had driven the wits from him. He had no discretion
whatever, yet at the same time so much energy that he was always
getting both himself and us into trouble. He became very grubby at
last,--oh! very grubby, indeed, and we were obliged to dispose of him.”
[Illustration: Dr. JOHN BROWN, DR. PEDDIE, AND DANDIE.
(_From photograph, by permission of Mr. Moffat, Edinburgh._)]
The Edinburgh refuge for lost dogs found a warm advocate in Dr. Brown;
his sketch of two little terriers supporting a hat for contributions
appeals to us still to pity the sorrows of homeless dogs. Even more
vividly does it recall the artist--that kindest gentleman and friend
who spent his life in caring for the needy, sick, and sad. Here in the
picture you see him--the same kind presence as in life--seated with Dr.
Peddie, and Dr. Peddie’s Dandie. This photograph was taken in 1880.
Dandie belonged to Dr. Peddie, but was a great favorite with Dr. John
whom (as both gentlemen lived on the same street) he visited daily,
never seeming content until his regular call was made.
[Illustration: DRINKING FOUNTAIN MONUMENT TO GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY,
EDINBURGH.]
Very unlike the homeless, boneless paupers of Dr. Brown’s Plea, is
an Edinburgh dog now living, to whose luxurious habits the following
anecdote, given me by one acquainted with its truth, bears witness.
Edinburgh, though nominally on the Firth of Forth, lies really some
miles from the sea. In summer, a bather’s train is run sufficiently
early to enable gentlemen to reach their offices in good time. Mr.
Thomas Nelson (of the publishers’ firm Nelson & Co., Edinburgh, London,
New York, etc.) was in the habit of availing himself of this early
train, accompanied by a favorite dog, who enjoyed a sea-bath as much
as did his master. On one occasion Mr. Nelson was away from home for
three weeks, and on his return was surprised to receive a bill from the
railway company for three weeks’ first-class dog fares. On inquiry, he
found that during his absence, the dog had gone daily, as hitherto, by
train, taken the usual bath, and then returned to town--exactly as he
had been used to doing in his master’s company.
[Illustration: GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY.]
All will agree, I fancy, that this anecdote bears witness to the dog’s
neat and gentlemanly habits, as well as to his master’s indulgence.
Just off High Street in Edinburgh, beyond George IV. Bridge, is a
little drinking-fountain with a trough for dogs attached. It is a point
of interest to more than the thirsty--being unique both in subject
and design. Seated on a pedestal is the image of a shaggy, large-eyed
terrier, whose averted gaze continually seeks Greyfriars’ churchyard,
across the intervening houses of the street. Beneath are the words:
GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY.
_From the life, just before his death_,
and below this, the following inscription:
_A Tribute
To the affectionate fidelity of_
GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY.
_In 1858 this faithful dog followed
The remains of his master to Greyfriars’
churchyard, and lingered
near the spot until his death in 1872.
With permission,
Erected by the
Baroness Burdett-Coutts._
The story of leal Bobby has been often told, but is well worth telling
once again. While life sits warm at our hearts, we should remember this
other little heart, so constant and loving. He has been sculptured,
painted, sketched, memorialized, as though he were royal.
One gloomy day I passed the memorial fountain, and turned in at
Greyfriars. It was already closing time, still the old curator let me
in, and while searching for a “potograph” as he called it, of Bobby,
told me what he could about him. Bobby lies buried in a flower-bed
in front of the church. For more than a dozen years he made his
master’s grave his home--a grave unmarked until his own devotion
became its monument. The curator tried at first to drive him away, but
without success, and ended by letting him do as he would. A friendly
restaurant-keeper gave him food; every body indeed was kind, and in his
doggish heart he must have felt their kindness; yet outwardly he drew
near to none. Why should he when his real life lay deep down in six
feet of earth?
“Here’s the potograph at last, ma’am,” said the old curator, “and
here’s his collar, if you’d like to see it.”
I touched reverently the half-worn band of leather, remembering how
near it had once lain to a faithful little heart.
“They tried to get his body from me,” continued Bobby’s friend, “that
they might stuff the skin, and keep it in the museum. But I said to
myself, ‘No, sirs; you mean it well, but it ain’t what Bobby ‘d ‘a’
wanted, and he’s the first call to be axed.’ I meant to do the fair
thing by him, dead or alive. He’d never ‘a’ lain here thirteen year,
wet weather or dry, cold or warm, summer and winter, unless he’d meant
it. You see, ma’am, I naturally knew it wa’n’t right for his skin to be
that far from his master’s; so when he died, I just quietly took my own
way, and got him under ground before them as wanted him knew rightly he
was dead. And there he is,”--pointing to the flower-bed--“all that’s
left of him.”
A soft Scotch rain had been falling while we talked, but now slackened;
and a misty beam of sunlight pierced the clouds low-piled in the west.
Its pale gold lit up Bobby’s resting-place, under-scoring, as it were,
the epitaph just spoken, then glanced along the gray front of the
church, and brought into relief an ancient slab, where a skeleton,
fantastically poised, appeared to be keeping guard. A little robin
hopped lightly to a bush in the flower-bed, whence soon its clear
vespers thrilled the air. Death was there, alas! yet overcome by life;
since love is the only real life, and by right of loving Bobby lives
forever.
_II._
_A SELECT COMPANY._
II.
A SELECT COMPANY.
In the Life and Correspondence of the Rev. Lyman Beecher, under the
far-away date of 1819, is this item:
“Last week was interred Tom junior, with funeral honors, by the side
of old Tom of happy memory. What a fatal mortality there is among the
cats of the Parsonage! Our Harriet is chief mourner always at their
funerals. She asked for what she called an epithet for the gravestone
of Tom junior, which I gave as follows:
‘Here lies our kit,
Who had a fit,
And acted queer.
Shot with a gun,
Her race is run,
And she lies here.’”
The small mourner at this small funeral has since then had many a pet
to love and mourn. Hardly a child but knows the dogs whose stories were
told in Our Young Folks some twenty years ago: Carlo, the poor, good,
homely, loving mastiff; the Newfoundland Rover, who, like Christopher
North’s Brontë, met a cruel death by poison; Stromion, the ‘pure
mongrel,’ Prince and Giglio; lady-like Florence; Rag, the Skye, and
Wix, the Scotch terrier; all these are familiar names. Then, too,
there were cats, as we have just seen; there were birds; there were
accidental, happen-so pets; and, in fine, when we think of Harriet
Beecher Stowe, it is not only as the friend of her race, but also as
the friend and advocate of the great world of animals all around us.
Prominent among her pets to-day are Punch and Missy, as you see them
here; photographed from life. Excellent sitters they must have been,
even the tip of their impetuous tails being subdued into quiet for the
time. The result is an accurate likeness except in the case of Missy,
whose ears were, unfortunately, so far in the foreground, that they
appear twice their proper size.
[Illustration: MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE AT HOME.
(_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co._)]
Punch was a present to Mrs. Stowe, and after being selected with great
care, at a noted dog fancier’s in Boston, was sent by express from that
city to Hartford, Conn., in the fall of 1881. “I shall never forget,”
says one of the family, “how droll and cunning he looked in his slatted
crate, trying every aperture with his funny blunt nose, for a way
of escape. He soon, however, made friends with us all, after being
released from his small wooden prison, and was treated by all with the
consideration of a young prince.”
For two winters Punch made an almost royal progress to Florida--his
mistress, so named, in his train; and was the recipient of most
delicate attentions on board the steamer from officers and crew, not to
speak of mere passengers. He was allowed free access to the captain’s
private room. I am not sure, indeed, but he came to regard it as his
own state apartment, and its crimson plush sofa as his appropriate
seat. Certain it is, that he would often growl, and dispute mildly, its
possession with the captain.
In the main, however, he was a dog of great politeness. It is on
record that when a lady-passenger kept giving him sugared almonds, he
was too well-bred to express his dislike of them, or pain the giver
by a refusal. So he noiselessly carried almond after almond under the
sofa, until quite a pile was accumulated; the young lady, meanwhile,
supposing he had eaten them. This was done so adroitly, and with such
evidently polite motive, that the by-standers were much amused.
Punch was very catholic in his tastes; not only the captain’s plush
sofa found favor in his sight, but also the leather cushion in the
pilot-house, where he spent much of his time, apparently over-seeing
the man at the wheel. It was his habit in pleasant weather to take
long constitutionals around the deck-house, keeping close to its side,
through fear of the sea. Rough weather was sure to send him into
retirement under a sofa in the saloon, whence occasionally he would
creep out to inspect the sea--retiring again with a growl of disgust if
the waves were high.
He was greatly admired in Savannah and Jacksonville, especially by the
darkies, who often asked Miss Stowe if she would not give them “her
pup.” One candid person of color remarked: “Lady, I like your pup; he
looks like he could fight!” But this very popularity brought disaster
in its train. Like the famous thief whose admiration for diamonds led
him always, when possible, to remove them from their ignorant owners
into his own enlightened possession--so somebody--unknown--admired
Punch to the degree that he appropriated him. After two triumphant
years with Mrs. Stowe, in September, 1883, he was stolen; and although
advertised, although rewards were offered, nothing was heard from him
until 1885. In March of this year, he was recognized at a dog-show
in New Haven, and claimed, to the equal delight of himself and his
friends. He had forgotten neither mistress nor home, and his joy in
getting back was unmistakable.
[Illustration: MRS. STOWE’S DOG PUNCH.]
In the meantime, his place had been taken, although not filled, by
Missy, a gift from the same gentleman who had previously sent Punch.
Unlike Punch, however, she was a foreigner, having been imported from
England. Miss Stowe says: “It is a disputed point as to which is the
finer dog--I myself think it six of the one to half a dozen of the
other.”
To Punch’s other claims to distinction, may be added that seal of
public approval--a prize at a dog-show. Both dogs have collars,
bells, and harness in abundance. They wear them when out walking, and
thus--merrily tinkling across the stage--exit Missy, exit Punch to find
behind the scenes, the warm, safe shelter of home!
* * * * *
It was probably a strong sense of contrast that led Miss Elizabeth
Stuart Phelps to call her pet terrier Daniel Deronda! He was, however,
so thoroughly lovable and whole-hearted, that on this account, if no
other, he deserved the name. Was, I say--for alas! he has been gathered
to the dust now many months, and only the memory remains of his doggish
prettiness and affectionate heart. Like Punch, he came from a dog-store
in Boston; but unlike him, was of mingled blood, being blue Skye and
King Charles. One of his merits was that excellent thing--in dogs as in
women--a low, soft voice; and on this gentle “barkter,” as suited to a
lady’s establishment, the fancier laid particular stress.
[Illustration: MRS. STOWE’S DOG MISSY.]
It added greatly to the appearance of gentleness and simplicity in his
character, that he would readily accept the attentions of strangers,
and walk with almost any one who asked him. This however was the
amiability of good breeding, and did not interfere with the fact that
his heart belonged solely to his mistress. Such wisdom as he had was
of the heart and not the head. He knew no tricks to win attention,
he was not particularly intellectual; but by way of counterpoise, he
was very religious, and quite unsectarian in his views. He had an
actual mania for going to church; Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian,
what not--he patronized all with that same fine disregard of lesser
distinctions that characterized George Eliot’s Deronda.
[Illustration: MRS. PHELPS’S DOG DANIEL DERONDA.]
Once he ran away three miles from home, to attend services at a Baptist
church--being recognized there by different persons. When the service
was over he started to return. But the road was long, he was already
tired, and time passed slowly. When, as the hours went by, the truant
was still absent, his mistress grew alarmed; and finally, having put
the police to search, set out herself. By good fortune she had not gone
far before, in the middle of the street, she saw the truant himself,
coming wearily homeward, hot, dusty and bewildered. She called him
by name, and when he heard the familiar voice, and realized that his
dearest friend was near, his look of relief and recognition was most
wonderful.
Accidents come to all, and one day, when Daniel was out walking with
his mistress, he somehow involved himself with a carriage, and the
wheels passed over his neck. He was picked up, a limp, inert little
body. Remedies were applied, though with small hope of success; but at
last, to the astonishment of all, he revived, and erelong was as much a
dog as ever.
He was well-known in Gloucester, and I believe it was humorously
proposed at one time, to make him assistant janitor of the East
Gloucester Temperance Club. Gentler little assistant there had never
been; but the suggestion was not carried out. And soon he passed
away from his friends. He met with another accident, and, after much
suffering, was mercifully put out of pain.
“He loved me, and I loved him,” said his mistress. What better epitaph
could he have?
* * * * *
From Daniel Deronda to George Eliot; the transition is easy and
natural. She herself maintained that she was “too lazy a lover of
dogs, to like them when they gave her much trouble”; but this was mere
theory, and the actual possession of a pet brought her to that pass of
mingled affection and resignation which most owners of animals reach.
A fine bull-terrier, of great moral excellence, was given her; and
soon, with the readiness of a large mind, she adapted herself to the
new-comer’s whims and ways, noting them all with the same clear insight
she gave to the characters in her books. It was not lost upon her,
that he grew positively “radiant with intelligence, when there was a
savory morsel in question.” This, she thought, spoke well for him; she
distrusted intellect where there was “obtuseness of palate.”
The good impression Pug made at first, was justified by his
after-conduct; and several weeks’ experience enabled his mistress to
write that he daily developed new graces. He was affectionate, he was
companionable, he was all that a dog should be! In the matter of voice,
he went a step further than his American cousin at Gloucester; for
whereas Daniel Deronda had a very small bark, Pug had no bark at all!
“He sneezed at the world in general, and looked affectionately” at his
mistress.
Nothing could be more satisfactory than this state of things--devotion
on Pug’s part, answering regard and sympathy on that of George Eliot.
Her feelings, you will notice, were very different from those of
Shakespeare, to whose mighty intellect her own is so often compared.
This great man, who had something to say on almost every subject, had
nothing good to say about dogs, and very little about cats. Probably he
detested the one, and tolerated the other; at any rate, it seems very
doubtful if he cared for them as a man and an author should. Luckily
for all concerned, the world’s authors avoid his bad example and,
almost without exception, have their pets.
* * * * *
The Carlyles, for instance: Thomas Carlyle wrote the lives of Cromwell
and Frederick, and Schiller, and Sterling; he told us about heroes
and demigods; he busied himself with the signs of the times, and the
remains of the past--with Chartism in England, and a Revolution in
France; he had loads and piles of books to be read, hidden facts to
search out, crabbed writings to decipher; his brain and his hours were
full--what possible room could there be for anything else? But room
there was, and to spare, and years after its death, he could still
remember the dog whose little life had cheered him; he was fond of
Fritz, his horse; he could pause to notice Pussy, or fling a seed to
Chico, the canary.
[Illustration: MRS. JANE WELSH CARLYLE AND NERO. (_From photograph by
Prætorius, West Brompton, England._)]
And Mrs. Carlyle--to judge of her feeling for these little friends,
you must read her letters, and see for yourselves how large a space
their ways and doings fill.
It is true, there was some question in the family at first, whether a
dog could be tolerated. Mr. Carlyle was busy writing, and nervous--how
would it affect him? But in 1849, the little creature came, found its
place, and filled it; was “a most affectionate, lively little dog,
though otherwise of small merit, and little or no training”; was happy,
and, in turn, made others happy. For the next ten years, Nero and his
master had many walks together, and “a good deal of small traffic, poor
little animal, so loyal, so loving, so naïve, and true with what of dim
intellect he had.”
Undoubtedly he was a trouble at times, as what mortal thing is not;
yet, on the whole, he was far more of a comfort than trouble. Sometimes
he was stolen, sometimes he strayed away, and then they would suffer
“the agonies of one’s dog lost,” until the missing one again appeared;
for they “could have better spared a better dog.”
Once, when Carlyle was away from home, the prettiest, wittiest letter
imaginable was sent him, in Nero’s behalf, by Mrs. Carlyle. She was
kind enough to translate it from Can-ese into English, and also to
write it out--he being equal only to Nero + his mark.
DEAR MASTER--(thus it reads)--
I take the liberty to write to you myself (my mistress being out of
the way of writing to you, she says) that you may know Columbine [the
black cat] and I are quite well, and play about as usual. There was
no dinner yesterday to speak of; I had for my share only a piece of
biscuit that might have been round the world; and if Columbine got
anything at all, I didn’t see it. I made a grab at one of two small
beings on my mistress’s plate; she called them heralds of the morn;
but my mistress said, “Don’t you wish you may get it?” and boxed my
ears. I wasn’t taken to walk on account of its being wet. And nobody
came but a man for burial rates, and my mistress gave him a rowing,
because she wasn’t going to be buried here at all. Columbine and I
don’t care where we are buried....
(Tuesday Evening.)
My mistress brought my chain, and said “Come along with me while it
shined, and I could finish after.” But she kept me so long in the
London Library and other places, that I had to miss the post. An old
gentleman in the omnibus took such notice of me! He looked at me a
long time, and then turned to my mistress, and said, “Sharp, isn’t
he?” And my mistress was so good as to say “O, yes!” And then the old
gentleman said again, “I knew it! Easy to see that!” And he put his
hand in his hind pocket, and took out a whole biscuit, a sweet one,
and gave it me in bits. I was quite sorry to part with him, he was
such a good judge of dogs.... No more at present from your
Obedient little dog, NERO.
Poor Nero was run over by a butcher’s cart, in October, 1859, and,
though not killed outright, was never well again. His mistress nursed
and petted him--his master could not do enough; but neither care nor
love could avail. Four months later he died, and was buried in the
garden, with a small headstone to mark his blameless dust. “I could not
have believed,” said Carlyle, “my grief, then and since, would have
been the twentieth part of what it was.” And “nobody but myself,” said
Nero’s mistress, “can have any idea of what that little creature has
been in my life; my inseparable companion during eleven years, ever
doing his little best to keep me from feeling sad and lonely. Docile,
affectionate, loyal, up to his last hour.”
I happened once to pass the closed house in Chelsea, where the Carlyles
lived so long. Just a little way from it, is a bronze statue of
Carlyle, with kind, melancholy face--a fit memorial, in fitting place,
to one who, whatever his faults, is yet among the greatest spirits of
our age. Not long before he was walking this very path; now we passed
from the voiceless statue to the desolate house, as from silence unto
silence. The windows were closed, like eyes with sealed lids; the
hospitable door was grimly shut, and the knocker, as we tried it, sent
a hollow echo through the hall within.
But the noonday sunlight fell hot and cheery on the doorstep, where,
comfortably ensconced in a corner, lay a black-and-white cat. It
blinked lazily at us, but was too well off, and I am sure too secure,
also, of our friendliness, to move.
So the house which Mrs. Carlyle’s friends used jestingly to call
“a refuge for stray dogs and cats,” still offered them some slight
shelter--although master and mistress, and little Nero, all were gone!
_III._
_PETS IN LITERARY LIFE._
III.
PETS IN LITERARY LIFE.
The pets and authors of the past may be briefly glanced at on our way
to those of to-day. We may begin with the learned Justus Lipsius,
erstwhile professor at Louvain. This worthy went daily to his
lecture-room with a retinue of dogs, whose portraits, each with a
commemorative description, adorned the walls of his study. Three have
been individualized for posterity as Mopsikins, Mopsy and Sapphire.
Tarot, Franza, Balassa, Ciccone, Musa, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, were,
in their long-vanished life-time, companions to Agrippa, the astrologer
and scholar. The knowing little Monsieur was permitted, as special
favorite, to sleep upon his master’s bed, eat from his plate, and lie
upon the table beside his papers, while he wrote. He may even have
suggested to Goethe the black poodle in Faust, since, like Rupert’s
hound Boy, and Claver’s battle-horse, he was commonly supposed to be a
fiend.
The creator of Faust’s demon-poodle could not endure dogs in real life,
and was always scolding about their “_ungeheure Ton_.” As to their
character, he even committed himself in this very unpleasant epigram:
“Wundern kannes mich nicht dass
Menschen die Hunde so lieben;
Denn ein erbärmlicher Schuffist, wie
Der Mensch, so der Hund,”
which has been rendered:
“It cannot surprise me that men love dogs so much,
For dog, like man, is a pitiful, sneaking rogue.”
Such a disagreeable sentiment as this--one so unworthy both of man and
author--requires an antidote. We find one in these lines of Herrick to
his spaniel Tracy:
“Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see
For shape and service spaniel like to thee.
This shall my love doe, give thy sad fate one
Teare, that deserves of me a million.”
This is all we know of Tracy, but it suffices enough. A faithful dog, a
fond master--in these words his story is told.
Bounce--named most suggestive--belonged to Alexander Pope; Bean, to
the gentler poet, Cowper. Goldsmith had a dog, of course, and equally
of course it was a poodle. No creature less comic would serve his
turn. Sir Joshua Reynolds tells a story of the pair which reads like a
fragment from the Vicar of Wakefield: how one morning he called on the
improvident author, rather expecting to find him in low spirits, and
found him, instead, at his table, alternately writing a few words, and
looking over at the poodle which he had made stand on its hind legs in
a corner of the room.
In this fashion the impecunious one was amusing himself; and the great
artist looked on, no less amused in truth, and pleasantly sympathetic.
If only he had painted the scene, one wishes.
Very different in temperament was Lord Byron. Practically, he agreed
with Mme. de Staël in liking dogs the better, the more he knew of men.
He seems to have had as friendly a feeling for the animal world as his
contemporary, Scott, although showing it in a more whimsical fashion.
Scott would never have traveled with a private menagerie, but Byron
carried with him from England to Italy, “ten horses, eight enormous
dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow and a falcon.”
Dogs were his favorites; they were friends whose affection could be
trusted, and whose criticism he had not to fear. Boatswain is almost
as widely known as his master. No one visits Newstead without seeing
his picture in the dining-room, and in the grounds his grave, with the
famous epitaph:
NEAR THIS SPOT
ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS OF ONE
WHO POSSESSED BEAUTY WITHOUT VANITY,
STRENGTH WITHOUT INSOLENCE,
COURAGE WITHOUT FEROCITY,
AND ALL THE VIRTUES OF MAN WITHOUT HIS VICES.
THIS PRAISE, WHICH WOULD BE UNMEANING FLATTERY
IF INSCRIBED OVER HUMAN ASHES,
IS BUT A JUST TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF
BOATSWAIN, A DOG,
WHO WAS BORN AT NEWFOUNDLAND, MAY, 1803,
AND DIED AT NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOV. 18, 1808.
As this dog was the friend of his youth, so Lion was the companion of
his later days in Greece. Major Parry says that “riding, or walking, or
sitting, or standing,” they were never apart. “His most usual phrase
was, ‘Lyon, you are no rogue, Lyon,’ or ‘Lyon,’ his lordship would say,
‘thou art an honest fellow, Lyon.’ The dog’s eyes sparkled, and his
tail swept the floor as he sat with his haunches on the ground. ‘Thou
art more faithful than men, Lyon; I trust thee more.’ Lyon sprang up
and barked, and bounded round his master, as much as to say, ‘You may
trust me.’”
Faithful to the last, he watched over Byron’s death-bed, and then went
to England, where he lived and died, an honored pensioner, in the house
of Mrs. Leigh.
[Illustration: LORD BYRON AND HIS DOG LYON.]
Mrs. Radcliffe, whose novels delighted and terrorized our
grandmothers, had two dogs, called Fan and Dash. Fan had been a mangy,
poverty-stricken beast, condemned by its rustic owner to be hung. In a
lucky hour the novelist happened by, purchased the guiltless criminal
for half a crown; and Fan, cured of the mange, grown plump and silky,
became so beautiful a dog that Queen Charlotte, when out walking with
her brood of young princesses, would stop to notice her. On one of
these occasions Fan and one of the royal spaniels caught simultaneously
the ends of a long bone; and for some distance this foundling of the
people and the pet of royalty pranced on amicably together, holding
the bone between them!
Dash was a poor street dog whose leg had been run over and broken.
He was taken in a coach to the doctor’s, the leg was set, health and
strength returned, and Dash was more than himself again, for now he was
“Mrs. Radcliffe’s dog.”
Another Dash lived first with Thomas Hood, then with Charles Lamb; he
made such a slave of the latter, that finally Miss Lamb wrote to Mr.
Patmore, entreating him to remove the dog, “if only out of charity; for
if we keep him much longer, he will be the death of Charles.”
The transfer took place, and the late victim’s spirits rose to
high-water mark soon afterwards in this whimsical, charming letter:
DEAR PATMORE:
Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash?... Goes he muzzled or _apesto
ore_? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in his
conversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms
of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, off with him to
St. Luke’s.... Try him with hot water: if he won’t lick it up, it
is a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag horizontally or
perpendicularly? That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield.
Is his general deportment cheerful? I mean, when he is pleased--for
otherwise there is no judging. You can’t be too careful. Has he bit
any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, and keep him for
curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia.... You might pull out his
teeth (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as
mad as Bedlamite.... I send my love in a ---- to Dash.
C. LAMB.
A great contrast to this tyrant was Mouse, the loving, jealous little
terrier of Douglas Jerrold. A source of much gentle mirth while her
master was well and strong, she did her utmost to comfort his dying
hours. Once more, as she nestled beside him, his thin hand rested on
her head; once more, and for the last time, he called her faintly by
name; then they removed her, and in a few hours Mouse was masterless.
Horace Walpole’s dogs furnished many an amusing item for his letters,
and diverted his friends no less than himself. “Sense and fidelity,”
said he, “are wonderful recommendations; when one meets with them ... I
cannot think the two additional legs are any drawback.”
Tory, Patapan, Rosette, Touton and a host of others, were the living
illustrations in his home of this belief.
Tory, the “prettiest, fattest, dearest” King Charles, might have been
leaner with advantage to himself, for a wolf snapped him up as he was
waddling behind his master’s carriage in the Alps.
Patapan is the little aristocrat whom you see beside Mr. Walpole in the
picture. The whims of “His Patapanic Majesty” were all indulged, his
tastes consulted; his master idolized, and royalty itself caressed him;
finally his vanity, already large, was puffed out like a balloon, by
Mr. Chute’s poem in his praise. Thus it sums up his perfections:
“Patá is frolicsome, and smart
As Geoffrey once was--(oh! my heart),
He’s purer than a turtle’s kiss,
And gentler than a little miss;
A jewel for a lady’s ear,
And Mr. Walpole’s pretty dear.”
When the pretty dear was frisking through Strawberry Hill, he may very
likely have brushed in his frolics against a great bowl of blue and
white china occupying a place of honor in one of the rooms.
[Illustration: SIR HORACE WALPOLE AND PATAPAN.]
But the label would not have told him, as it does us, that this was the
veritable “Tub of Gold Fishes” in which the favorite cat of Thomas
Grey was drowned. “Demurest of the tabby kind”--Selima gazed at the
fish, and longed; extended “a whisker first and then a claw;” and then--
“The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.”
She may have found some comfort--since drown she must--in the vase
being genuine old china; just as Clarence preferred drowning in Malmsey
wine to water; but her best comfort--had she known it--was the poem
to be written on her fate, the poem which still points her morals and
adorns her tale.
No one, in this group of literary people, was so intimate with cats as
Southey. He delighted in them, he admired them, he understood them, and
he thought no house quite furnished unless it had a baby and a kitten!
It was to his little daughter Edith that this author dedicated his
history of the cats of Greta Hall, which he intended to supplement
by the Memoirs of Cats’ Eden. Unfortunately for us all, the last was
never finished. The most delightful of philofelists--to use his own
coinage--he tells the story of his cats _con amore_; from the fate
untimely of Ovid, Virgil, and Othello, to the merited honors heaped
upon Lord Nelson, a great carrot-colored cat promoted by him to the
highest rank in the peerage, through all its degrees, under the titles
of His Serene Highness, the Archduke Rumpelstilzchen, Marquis Mac-Bum,
Earl Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide, Waswlher and Skaratchi. Felicitous
titles, are they not?
But how the list lengthens! Only a word can be given to Emily Brontë
with her faithful, sullen mastiff Keeper; to Charlotte Brontë, with her
black-and-white curly-haired Flossy; to Bulwer, with his Newfoundland
Terror, and his better loved Andalusian horse; to Mrs. Bulwer--herself
a beautiful spoiled child--with her beautiful spoiled Blenheim, Fairy,
described by Disraeli as “no bigger than a bird of paradise, and quite
as brilliant”--a Fairy that had its own printed visiting cards, and
paid fashionable calls with its mistress; to Charles Reade, of keen
wit and large heart, who petted squirrels, hares, and deer, as well as
dogs, who wept when the exigencies of Never too Late to Mend required
him to kill Carlo, and who humorously advised Ouida to name one of her
dogs Tonic, as he was “a mixture of steal and w(h)ine.”
[Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS’S PET RAVEN, GRIP.]
Charles Kingsley’s pets, and those of Charles Dickens, have been so
often and so fully described, that any further description seems
superfluous. Timber, Turk and Linda, Mrs. Bouncer, Bumble and Sultan,
were only a few of his many dogs; while Dick the canary--“best of
birds”--a succession of kittens, an eagle, and various ravens, were
among the pets that kept matters lively at Gadshill.
Of the ravens, the most famous was Grip, who sat for his portrait in
Barnaby Rudge, and whose stuffed body still exists.
There are no brighter letters, no finer poems in literature, than those
which “Flush, my Dog,” called out from Mrs. Browning--letters and verse
so vivid, so delicately discriminative, that they amply supply the
lack of other portraiture, and in them Flush still lives. Listen:
“Like a lady’s ringlets brown,
Flow thine silken ears adown
Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast,
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
“Darkly brown thy body is
Till the sunshine striking this,
Alchemize its dullness;
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fullness.
“Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap! those tasseled ears of thine
Flicker strangely fair and fine
Down their golden inches.”
How clearly we see him with that gentlest mistress, bathed in the warm,
sweet sunshine of the past! But there were other than sunny days--long,
weary days in a sick-room, where--
“This dog only waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
“Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares, and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow--
This dog only crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.”
What wonder that she returned his love with--
--“more love again
Than dogs often take of men”?
Flush was a gift from Miss Mitford, another authoress devoted to
dogs; and the rival claims of these ladies for their pets, may still
pleasantly amuse us. “How is your Flushie?” inquires Miss Mitford.
“Mine becomes every day more and more beautiful, and more and more
endearing. His little daughter Rose is the very moral of him, and
another daughter (a puppy four months old, your Flushie’s half-sister)
is so much admired in Reading that she has already been stolen four
times--a tribute to her merit which might be dispensed with; and her
master having offered ten pounds reward, it seems likely enough that
she will be stolen four times more. They are a beautiful race, and that
is the truth of it.”
Now hear Miss Barrett (as she was at this time) telling Mr. Horne:
“Never in the world was another such dog as my Flush. Just now,
because after reading your note, I laid it down thoughtfully without
taking anything else up, he threw himself into my arms, as much as to
say, ‘Now it’s my turn. You’re not busy at all now.’ He understands
every thing I say, and would not disturb me for the world. Do not tell
Miss Mitford--but her Flush, (whom she brought to see me) is not to be
compared to mine! quite animal and dog--natural, and incapable of my
Flush’s hyper-cynical refinement.”
“My Flush,” she writes elsewhere, “my Flush, who is a gentleman.”
Our next glimpse of this well-bred favorite is due to Mr. Westwood,
a friend and correspondent of the lady. “On one occasion,” he says,
“she had expressed to me her regret at Flush’s growing plumpness, and
I suppose I must have been cruel enough to suggest starvation as a
remedy, for her next letter opens with an indignant protest:
“Starve Flush! Starve Flush! My dear Mr. Westwood, what are you
thinking of?... He is fat, certainly--but he has been fatter ... and
he may, therefore, become thinner. And then he does not eat after the
manner of dogs. I never saw a dog with such a lady-like appetite. To
eat two small biscuits in succession is generally more than he is
inclined to do. When he has meat it is only once a day, and it must
be so particularly well cut up and offered to him on a fork, and he
is so subtly discriminative as to differences between boiled mutton
and roast mutton, and roast chicken and boiled chicken, that often he
walks away in disdain, and will have none of it....
“My nearest approach to starving Flush is to give general instructions
to the servant who helps him to his dinner, ‘not to press him to eat.’
I know he ought not to be fat--I know it too well--and his father
being, according to Miss Mitford’s account, ‘square,’ at this moment,
there is an hereditary reason for fear. So he is not to be ‘pressed.’”
Flush left England with his mistress after her marriage, and lived to
a good old age in her Italian home. His doggish heart was never torn
by seeing younger, more agile pets preferred to himself. Secure in the
only affection he valued, he passed quietly out of life; and nothing
now remains of his mortality save a lock of hair, which was treasured
by Robert Browning.
One word more of Miss Mitford. Her chief favorite was the greyhound
Mossy, who died in 1819. She wrote an account of his death which no
one ever saw until it was found, after her own death, sealed in an
envelope, together with some of his hair. It repeats the well-known
burden of the faithful lamenting the faithful: “No human being was ever
so faithful, so gentle, so generous, and so fond. I shall never love
anything half so well.”
Robert Browning declared himself a partisan of cats and owls--tastes
which have suggested different gifts from friends. An owl inkstand on
his desk seemed to be brooding over the thoughts whisked out of it by
Browning’s pen; an owl paper-weight steadied these same thoughts when
transferred to paper. Stuffed owls, pictured owls, looked down upon him
as he wrote. With regard to cats, who have much secret affinity with
owls, his opinions were equally liberal, and he notes with the eye of
an artist their wonderful grace and beauty.
A friend of the Brownings in Florence, Miss Isa Blagden, had many pets
of her own, charitably gathered from the ranks of the distressed. She
is probably best known to American readers by her poem to Bushie, the
favorite dog of Charlotte Cushman.
[Illustration: BUSHIE, THE FAVORITE DOG OF CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.]
Sensitive, nervous and loving was Bushie, her greatest pleasure being
the society of her mistress, her greatest grievance being left at
home when the family went out riding. In this case Bushie’s grief was
hysterical, and required careful soothing ere it abated.
After giving, in her fourteen years of life, “the minimum of trouble
and the maximum of pleasure,” Bushie died in Rome, in 1867, and was
buried in the garden of Miss Cushman’s house. On the broken column
which marked the spot were cut the words:
BUSHIE, COMES FIDELLISSIMA.
If further epitaph be needed, this verse from Miss Blagden’s poem will
suffice:
“From all our lives some faith, some trust,
With thy dear life is o’er;
A lifelong love lies in thy dust:
Can human grave hide more?”
Landor and his dogs made another well-known group in Florence. Of
Landor, Lowell says that, “there was something of challenge even in the
alertness of his pose, and the head was often thrown back like that of
a boxer who awaits a blow.” This fine, defiant old head was often seen
lovingly bent towards Parigi, Pomero, and Giallo--dogs of pedigree and
sense, who cheered his solitude, or adorned his social hours.
Pomero, a Pomeranian, with feathery white hair and bright eyes, lived
in England with Landor, in the town of Bath. All knew him there, and
saluted him, while he in return barked sociably to all. “Not for a
million of money would I sell him,” cried Landor. “A million would not
make me at all happier, and the loss of Pomero would make me miserable
for life.”
This loss nevertheless soon came. “Seven years,” wrote his master, “we
lived together, in more than amity. He loved me to his heart--and what
a heart it was! Mine beats audibly while I write about him.” Over his
“blameless dust” was inscribed this epitaph, so tender and sweet in its
Latin, that translation seems a wrong:
“O urna! nunquam sis tuo ernta portuls:
Cor intus est fidele, nam cor est canis.
Vale, portule! ætemumque, Pomero! vale.
Sed, sidatur, nostri memor.”
Giallo, also a Pomeranian, was a gift from the sculptor Story. He
became a great favorite with his master, who would often talk doggerel
to please him, and maintained that he was the best critic in Italy.
“Giallo and I think” so and so, he would often say; or, “I think so,
and Giallo quite agrees.” That he was quite fit for heaven, was another
belief with his master. Who knows? Perhaps he was!
Victor Hugo’s happy family comprised both cats and dogs. There was
Chougna, the watch-dog, and Sénat, the greyhound, whose collar bore the
inscription: “I wish some one would take me home. Who is my master?
Hugo. What’s my name? Sénat.” There were the Angora kittens, Gavroche
I. and Gavroche II., and Mouche, the great black-and-white cat; the
latter, according to an intimate friend, was “_silencieuse, défiante,
ténébreuse, sinistre_--the cat of the prison, and of exile”--attributes
confirmed by her portrait.
[Illustration: MOUCHE, VICTOR HUGO’S CAT.]
From sheer force of contrast, both Mouche and Hugo must have
enjoyed--had they known him--General Muff, the stately and affable
favorite of an American authoress (Miss Mary L. Booth). I called upon
this lady one day to request of her an introduction to the General;
but he took matters into his own paws, as it were, and introduced
himself before she could appear. Exquisitely dignified and urbane, his
composure was not ruffled by the very wildest gambols of a Persian
kitten, who darted, glanced and flashed hither and thither in the room
like flame.
He wore the famous Fayal collar in which he was photographed. He wore
it because of artistic preference, I suppose--certainly not because he
had nothing else to wear; for I saw in his own particular wardrobe
collars of all kinds and colors, from dainty ribbon to Russia leather.
May it be long before Muff’s gracious personality requires an epitaph!
but when that time comes, the following lines will apply to him as
fitly as to the one for whom they were written--the poet Whittier’s
cat, Bathsheba:
“Whereat
None said ‘Scat!’
Better cat
Never sat
On a mat,
Or caught a rat,
Than this cat.
Requiescat!”
[Illustration: GENERAL MUFF, MISS MARY L. BOOTH’S CAT.]
All who are familiar with the poem by Matthew Arnold, on Geist’s Grave,
or another, on Kaiser, Dead, know the story, told as he alone could
tell it, of this great author’s pets.
The dachshund Geist lived four brief years, then “humbly laid” him
“down to die.” Dearly loved, remembered always--often and often would
his friends recall his “liquid, melancholy eye,” his wistful face at
the window, the scuffle of his feet upon the stair, and his “small,
black figure on the snow.” But “there is no photograph of poor little
Geist,” says Mr. Arnold, “except one taken after his death, which gives
pleasure to us, but could give it to no one else. There is, however,
an excellent portrait of another dog of mine, Max, in a birthday book
from my poems, but it is weighted by a very bad portrait of his master.”
This was the Max of the poem, who “with downcast, reverent head” had
looked upon “Kaiser, dead”--“Kaiser,” once the blithest, happiest of
dogs, supposed at first to be pure dachshund, until at length with--
“The collie hair, the collie swing,
The tail’s indomitable ring,
The eye’s unrest--
The case was clear; a mongrel thing
‘Kai’ stood confest.”
All the same--
“Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;
Thou hadst thine errands off and on;
In joy thine last morn flew; anon,
A fit! All’s over;
And thou art gone where Geist hath gone,
And Toss and Rover.”
It is the fashion of mortality to pass away--but that does not alter
the sadness of it--of losing what we love. As surely as we have friends
or pets, so surely shall we know the pain of loss--fortunate only
if there has been between us such true love that the memory thereof
abides. Such love there was between Mr. Edmund Yates and Nelly, the
story of whose life he told me in the following letter of September,
1887:
“Your letter finds me mourning the loss of the one pet animal of my
life. In the year 1878, having taken a country place, and being in want
of an animal as companion, I went to the Dogs’ Home at Battersea,
and on visiting the kennels, was at once struck with the piteous and
earnest expression on the face of a female collie, looking up, with
many others, through the wire netting; an expression which said, as
plainly as possible, ‘Take me out of this, for Heaven’s sake, and
I will be loving and true.’ I could learn nothing of her previous
history, but I paid a sovereign for her, and took her away with me in a
cab; and from that hour to the day of her death, just two months ago,
Nelly, as I called her, was the light of my household, and won the
admiration and love of all who saw her.
[Illustration: NELLY, THE DOG OF EDMUND YATES.]
“Under kind treatment she developed into a very handsome dog, never
large, but wonderfully graceful, leaping and bounding like a deer.
Her back was a reddish-brown, her chest and paws beautifully white;
she looked bright and intelligent, and her eyes had a certain wistful
expression, which is well reproduced in the accompanying photograph.
She was not particularly clever. She seemed to say, like one of
Tennyson’s heroines:
“‘I cannot understand, I love.’
“She was always with me, and in places which I frequent, she was
thoroughly well-known; she lay opposite me in the carriage, on the deck
of my steam-launch, with her nose up in the air, sniffing the fresh
breeze to windward. (‘See the kind-eyed old collie; on the deck, in the
sunshine, she loves to recline,’ sang my friend Ashby-Sterry of her in
one of his pretty Lazy Minstrel Lays.)
“She followed me in my long rides on horseback, over down and through
wood, ranging far away on her own business, but ever and anon coming
back to see how I was getting on. She lay at my feet in my library,
and slept on a couch at the bottom of my bed. About eighteen months
before her death, she developed signs of failing sight, and gradually
grew totally blind. This blindness was the cause of an accident on
which I do not care to dwell, but which necessitated her destruction;
and on the twenty-seventh of July she passed away without a pang. She
lies buried in the garden here, at the foot of a flag-staff, and on her
prettily turfed grave is the following inscription:
HERE LIES
NELLY
A COLLIE DOG;
FOR NINE YEARS A MUCH LOVED FRIEND,
GENTLE, AFFECTIONATE, AND TRUE.
DIED JULY 27TH, 1887.
E. Y., L. K. Y., A. M. B., W. W.
“This is the history of Nelly, whose memory is so dear to me that I
will never have another pet.”
_Vorbei! vorbei_--past and gone!--says Andersen in telling the
fir-tree’s story. It is also _vorbei!_ with these pets--with Mouche and
Dash and Kaiser, with Geist and Nelly and Flush.
_IV._
“_THE UPPER TEN._”
IV.
“THE UPPER TEN.”
Biography is so genial nowadays, and full of easy gossip, that we
cannot help wondering a little at her former stiffness. Nothing is
below her notice now, but the personalia of earlier times slip into her
pages more by accident than design. This, no doubt, is the reason why
she referred so seldom or so briefly to the pet animals of royalty.
There was a divinity in monarchs then, and she treated them with such
ceremonious respect that if we had only her account to look to, we
should know but little of their real selves.
Fortunately for us, letters have been written in every age, and
countless private journals. From these sources come the anecdotes, the
jests, the bits of gossip which recall the past more vividly, and make
these old rulers seem life-like even yet. In this way many a simple,
natural trait has been preserved to relieve the court background of
formality and grandeur; many a little incident is told that proves our
common blood. Kings and queens loved and hoped, or grieved and feared,
even as ourselves who wear no crowns; and while the soft afterglow of
years falls on royalty surrounded by its pets, we realize anew how one
touch of nature can make the whole world kin.
About the beginning of the seventeenth century, there might have
been seen in India at the magnificent court of Jehangir, a favorite
of unusual intelligence and size, whose story has come down to us in
memoirs written by the Emperor himself. It reads like a page from the
Arabian Nights.
“Among my brother’s elephants,” he says, “was one of which I could
not but express the highest admiration, and to which I gave the name
of Indraging (the elephant of India). It was of a size I never beheld
before--such as to get upon his back required a ladder of fourteen
steps. It was of a disposition so gentle and tractable that under the
most furious incitements, if an infant then unwarily threw itself in
its way, it would lay hold of it with its trunk, and place it out of
danger with the utmost tenderness and care. The animal was at the same
time of such unparalleled speed and activity that the fleetest horse
was not able to keep up with it; and such was its courage that it would
attack with perfect readiness a hundred of the fiercest of its kind.
“Such in other respects, although it may appear in some degree tedious
to dwell upon the subject, were the qualities of this noble and
intelligent quadruped, that I assigned a band of music to attend upon
it; and it was always preceded by a company of forty spearsmen. It had
for its beverage every morning a Hindostany maun (twenty-eight pounds)
of liquor; and every morning and evening there were boiled for its meal
four mauns of rice, and two mauns of beef or mutton, with one maun of
oil or clarified butter. From among all the others this same elephant
was selected for my morning rides, and for this purpose there was
always upon its back a howdah of solid gold. Four mauns of gold were
moreover wrought into rings, chains, and other ornaments for its neck,
breast and legs; and lastly, its body was painted all over every day
with the dust of sandal-wood.”
There is something quite captivating in the idea of all this oriental
pomp enshrining the favorite of an emperor--in its careful tendance,
its perfumes, jewels and musicians--the latter, in particular, being an
attention as delicate as unusual.
One would like to know its after-history--whether it survived so
magnificent a patron, and whether, in that case, its splendor remained
undiminished to the end. But the story of the Elephant of India stops
with Jehangir.
About the same time that this liberal-minded monarch ascended the
throne of the East, there died in Genoa another imperial favorite--the
hound Roldarno, which had belonged to Charles V., and was by him given
to Andrea Doria. Such at least is the common version; but it is also
stated that Roldarno belonged to a later Doria, and did not die until
nine years after the old Admiral was in his grave. In either case, he
was a notable dog, and received the final honor of interment at the
foot of a statue of Jupiter--to the end “that Roldarno still might
guard a king.” His life-size portrait may be seen in the Doria palace.
This same Emperor had an almost feminine liking for birds and flowers;
and he who would not lift a finger to keep his heretic subjects from
the flames, once ordered his tent to be left standing in the camp,
otherwise dismantled, simply because a swallow had nested in its folds.
“And it stood there all alone,
Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o’er those walls of stone
That the cannon-shot had shattered.”
In the last years of his life at Yuste, he made great pets of a cat and
parrot. After his death, they were transferred to his daughter, the
Princess Juana, who with true Spanish courtesy, dispatched a litter
for them in charge of a faithful servant. In due time they reached
Valladolid, well and happy, having traveled together a number of days
without one single recorded peck or scratch.
Charles’s contemporary, William of Orange, liked dogs--and with
reason--for he owed his life to a pet spaniel. It roused him from sleep
just in time to escape by one door as the enemy entered the other.
[Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS SISTER WILHELMINA.
(_From the painting by Antoine Pesne._)]
Either this dog, or another of the same race, after William was
murdered, detected the assassin beneath a pile of rubbish. Having done
this act of justice, he refused food, and died upon the corpse of
his master. William’s monument at the Hague represents him in armor,
reclining under a marble canopy, with the faithful dog at his feet.
Bunsen says that as he looked at it he could not help hoping the two
friends were buried together. Why not?
A monarch who not only liked dogs, but much preferred them to men, was
Frederick the Great of Prussia. His grim father, who curtailed all
the son’s amusements, his freedom, friendships, and food, was probably
unaware of his fondness for animals, or he would have curtailed them
also. The moment Frederick became his own master, a crowd of Italian
greyhounds began to caper at his side across the historic stage. He was
never without a half dozen at the least to divert his leisure moments.
When they were not at their sport, they occupied the blue satin
chairs and couches in his room. Leather balls were supplied for their
amusement, but in spite of this precaution they kept the furniture
ragged.
“How can I help it?” said the king; “if I should get the chairs mended
to-day, they would be as badly torn to-morrow; so it is best to bear
with the inconvenience.”
He was found one day upon the floor with a platter of fried meat, from
which he was feeding his dogs. He kept order among them by means of
a little stick--now driving back an over-greedy applicant, and now
shoving a choice morsel towards some special favorite.
He was apt to dislike any one whom they disliked, and to favor those
they favored. If his pets were ill, he sought medical advice, and
nothing more enraged him than to find--as he several times did--that
the physicians considered it beneath their dignity to prescribe for an
animal.
The best beloved, the Joseph among his dogs, was Biche. The story
goes that when reconnoitering one day during the campaign of 1745, he
was pursued by the enemy, and concealed himself under a bridge, with
Biche in his arms. Discovery was imminent--the least whine or snuffle
would have betrayed them; but the nervous little creature crouched
motionless, almost breathless, and the pair escaped.
It was this dog, which along with the king’s baggage, was captured at
Sohar, and at whose return he wept with joy. An elaborate monument at
Sans Souci commemorates its virtues. All his dogs lie buried there,
at either end of the terrace, under flat stones inscribed with their
names. Frederick wished to be buried with them, but his successor was
unwilling, and interred the great king with his ancestors. In his last
illness he would sit for hours together on the sunshiny terrace--averse
as ever to the society of his kind, but always with a chair at his side
for a dog, and a feeble hand ready to pat its head. A few hours before
he died, he bade the attendant throw an extra quilt--not over his own
chill form--but over a shivering greyhound at his feet! What a tragic
contrast to the joyous little drummer shown in the painting by Pesne.
No less fond of dogs than Frederick, is Prince Bismarck to-day. It
is his ardent wish that they too may live on in another world, so
that death need not separate us from them. One noble hound twice
saved his life, and--trustiest of confidants--accompanied him to the
conference between the Emperors of Germany and Austria--behaving there
with a diplomatic courtesy and reserve that would have done credit to
Metternich.
Sultel, or Sultan, a remarkably intelligent animal, was poisoned in
1877, at his master’s country-seat. He died, after some hours of
intense suffering, throughout which Bismarck watched by his side. He
has been long and deeply mourned. The princess offered a life pension
to any one who would point out the assassin--but in vain; the wretch is
still undetected.
[Illustration: PRINCE BISMARCK AND HIS DOGS.
(_From life photograph._)]
It is said that Prince Bismarck feeds his dogs himself, and (whisper
it low!) that he actually feeds them at table! No unpleasant “Off
with you!” reminds his four-footed friends that they are not as men
and brothers, and hence, as diners-out. Admitted to an honorable
intimacy, the companions of their master’s walks and meals, the
habitués of his study--they live with him on terms of mutual respect,
and show by their stately bearing how truly they are dogs of
distinction.
Statesmen are very apt to make friends of animals, for they realize
that no intimates are so safe as those who cannot betray them--who
understand, but never repeat. Daniel Webster had his favorite horses,
and Randolph of Roanoke his dogs, who traveled with him wherever he
went, and were served at table with clean plates, choice beefsteaks
and new milk--anything less excellent than the best being, in their
master’s opinion, unworthy of himself and them. Henry Fawcett had
Oddo, who was promoted from the post of house-dog to be his companion,
and Lord Eldon had the inimitable Pincher. The latter reached a good
old age, contrary to all expectations, since in the matter of diet
he lived “not wisely but too well.” In the character of a sitter he
made acquaintance with Sir Edwin Landseer, who pronounced him “a very
picturesque old dog, with a great look of cleverness in his face.” He
figured with his master in several other portraits and drawings, was a
faithful, amusing little friend, and as such was remembered by name in
Lord Eldon’s will. When he died, in 1840, he was buried in a peaceful
garden, where, to this day, his tombstone may be seen.
Among the powers that were, who had their pets, Peter the Great must be
included--the Czar whose evil-tempered monkey was a terror to all the
attendants at court, obliged as they were to endure without resenting
its malice. A much more agreeable favorite was Lisette, an Italian
greyhound presented to Peter by the Sultan. Once she saved a life, and
her Victoria Cross is the record in history of this achievement. A poor
fellow had been condemned, for some small error, to the knout. All
intercession had failed, and the hour of execution was at hand, when
his friends bethought them of fastening a petition to Lisette’s collar
and sending her with it to the Czar. This was done, and what he had
refused to his loyal subjects he granted to little Lisette. Not without
reason is the skeleton of this timely advocate still preserved in the
city where she lived!
The Norman kings of England were for the most part sturdy soldiers,
with a passion for the chase in their leisure hours. Very naturally,
therefore, such pets as they possessed came under the head of knightly
belongings, and were either horse and hound or hawk. In truth, they
were too stern a race to spend much time in endearments of any kind.
We can hardly imagine them tending a “fringie-pawe,” or toying with
“spaniels gentle.” The aristocratic greyhound was their favorite
instead, and they spared no pains to develop its peculiar excellencies.
Old Wynken de Worde tells us in a rather bald rhyme, that the
thorough-bred greyhound should be:
Headed lyke a snake,
Neckyed lyke a drake,
Footyed lyke a catte,
Taylled lyke a ratte,
Syded lyke a teme
And chyned lyke a beme;--
while another rough-edged rhyme bears witness to the fact that dogs as
well as ancestors came over with the Conqueror. Thus it runs:
William de Conigsby
Came out of Brittany,
With his wyfe Tiffany,
And his maide Manfas,
And his dogge Hardigras.
Richard Cœur de Lion was called an excellent judge of a hound, a
characteristic remembered by Scott in his novel of “The Talisman”; but
a life of crusading left him small leisure for canine friendships. His
brother John is thought to have given the famous Gellert to Llewellyn,
but this is far from certain. Perhaps, as modern authorities seem to
think, the pathetic story of this hound is only a myth, but in any case
it is too well-known for repetition, and we pass on to the hound of
Richard II.
“It was informed me,” says Froissart, “that Kynge Richard had a
grayhounde, who always wayted upon the kynge, and wolde knowe no man
els. For whensoever the kynge did ryde, he that kept the grayhounde
dyd lette hym lose, and he wolde streyght runne to the kynge, and faun
uppon hym, and lepe with his fore-fete uppon the kynge’s shoulders.
And as the kynge and the Erle of Derby talked togyder in the courte,
the grayhounde, who was wonte to leape uppon the kynge, left the
kynge, and came to the Erle of Derby, Duke of Lancastre, and made hym
the same friendly countenance and chere he was wonte to do to the
kynge. The Duke, who knew not the grayhounde demanded of the kynge
what the grayhounde wolde do; ‘Cosin,’ quod the kynge, ‘it is a greate
goode token to you and an evyl sygne to me.’ ‘Sir, how know ye that?’
quod the Duke. ‘I know it well,’ quod the kynge; ‘the grayhounde
maketh you chere this day as king of Englaunde, as ye shal be, and
I shal be deposed. The grayhounde hath this knowledge naturally,
therefore take hym to you: he will followe you and forsake me.’ The
Duke understood well these words, and cheryshed the grayhounde, who
wolde never after followe Kynge Richard, but followed the Duke of
Lancastre.”
Such is the tragic legend whose embroidery does not hide the underlying
fact. It is easy to see that, with crown, and queen, and life itself in
the balance, the king had yet another pang to endure, when his own dear
hound turned from him, and fawned upon his rival.
Of the hapless princes who were murdered in the tower, little is known.
There is a picture of them, however, painted long years afterward by
Paul Delaroche, which everybody knows. Seated on the antique bed, they
have been looking together at a book, when, all at once, speech and
motion are arrested by the sound of a stealthy step, or it may be a
whisper in the passage outside their room. With tense gaze and bated
breath they listen; meanwhile, their little spaniel peers around the
corner of the bed, in an attitude of keen attention. Like his masters,
he is aware of danger, if indeed he was not the first to detect it. And
thus united by a common fear, the three remain--a tragic, listening
group--immortal forever on the painter’s canvas.
[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH IN HER PEACOCK GOWN.
(_From the painting by Zucchero, at Hampton Court._)]
Several English kings kept a menagerie, Henry I. having formed one at
Woodstock, and Henry III. at the Tower, while their successors kept
up and amplified the collections already formed. In this connection
an unpleasant story is told of Henry VII., a story that proves him no
lover of the canine race. It seems that a lion from the royal menagerie
was baited one day for the king’s amusement, its opponents being four
noble English mastiffs. The struggle was long and severe, but in the
end the mastiffs conquered. Then Henry, who feigned to believe that
the lion was lawful king over other beasts, caused the four luckless
victors to be hung, as traitors to their lord. In this way he pointed
a moral for the use of his turbulent nobles.
A pleasanter story concerns his parrot. It fell from a window in
Westminster Palace into the Thames. “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!”
screamed Polly at this dreadful crisis; and twenty pounds the king
actually paid to the waterman who restored his pet. This was doing
pretty well for a parsimonious king.
[Illustration: MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, AT THE AGE OF TEN.
(_From the painting in Lord Napier’s collection._)]
Baitings, whether of bull, bear, or lion, were greatly in vogue during
his reign. Henry VIII. also enjoyed them, but preferred the chase,
and his account-books are full of items referring to hawk and hound.
Spaniels, mastiffs, greyhounds; their muzzles, collars and chains;
their keeper’s salary; the cost of their transportation in accompanying
the king from place to place--all these items help to swell the bill
of His Majesty’s personal expenses. Occasionally, too, they get into
mischief, killing some poor fellow’s sheep or cow, a loss invariably
paid for, and as duly chronicled in the account-book. Dogs are often
given to the king, who of course does not fail to reward the donor.
One man presents him with a mastiff that has been taught to fetch and
carry, and gets twenty shillings for his gift. Another time four
shillings, eight pence are paid “to one that made the dogges draw
water.” A poor woman gets “four shillings, eight pence in rewarde for
bringinge of Cutte, the kynge’s dog.” He had been lost at least once
before, as is proved by an entry of ten shillings “for bringing back
Cutte, the kynges spanyell.” Other five shillings went for restoring
“Ball, that was lost in the forreste of Walltham.”
From this and similar evidence we may infer that the dogs of yesterday
comported themselves very much like the dogs of to-day; that they
learned tricks, and were skilled in field-sports; that occasionally
they poached; that they were lost, and again found--after the
time-honored fashion of dogs.
[Illustration: LADY MARGARET LENOX, MOTHER Of LORD DARNLEY.
(_In the Hampton Court Collection.--From a rare print._)]
About this time, there seems to have been a growing attachment on the
part of the court ladies to “lytel dogges” as pets. When Catherine
of Aragon was queen, each maid of honor to Her Majesty was allowed
one maid, and _a spaniel_. Anne Boleyn followed the example of her
predecessor--at least where dogs were concerned. The tell-tale
account-books name several of her favorites, but refer most often to a
greyhound, Urian, which, owing to an unruly disposition, was often in
trouble. Once it killed a cow, but Henry recompensed the cow’s owner
by a present of ten shillings.
This was in Anne’s day of prosperity, when she and hers could do no
wrong in the king’s sight. A few years later, when the son she had
hoped for was born dead, and Henry’s dislike was apparent to all; when
ill, sad and apprehensive, we see her once more with her dogs. The king
is away, taking his pleasure, and she mopes alone at Greenwich Palace.
Here, in what was called the Quadrangle Court, we are told that she
“would sit for hours in silence and abstraction, or seeking a joyless
pastime playing with her little dogs, and setting them to fight each
other.”
A few weeks more, and the curtain fell on poor Anne with her
short-lived royalty; erelong, too, on Henry himself, his sickly son,
and unhappy daughter Mary; and now, amidst general rejoicing, Elizabeth
mounted the throne. This remarkable queen, in whose character blended
some very masculine traits with others equally feminine, revealed her
twofold nature in amusements as well as in more serious affairs. She
was fond of singing-birds, of apes, and little dogs; but much fonder of
the chase and bear or lion baitings. Her greatest pet was the famous
wardrobe which at her death numbered three thousand dresses, and of
which a queer specimen is shown in a painting by Zucchero at Hampton
Court. He has depicted her in a loose short robe, figured with birds
and flowers, and wearing an Oriental cap. Her expression is decidedly
ill-tempered, and rather vain. One cannot help congratulating her many
suitors on their lack of success.
As in dress, so in other things--Elizabeth liked to be thought
original; and her fancy for the tiny hunting-dogs called beagles, made
them the fashion during her reign. It is to this whim that Dryden’s
lines refer:
“The graceful goddess was array’d in green--
About her feet were little beagles seen
That watched with upward eye the
Motions of their queen.”
But it is not until the time of the Stuarts that we find something like
the modern feeling for pets--a feeling based on genuine kindly regard
for the animal race. Some of them carried it to excess, no doubt, but
still it is a trait that adds to our liking for these luckless kings--a
pleasant feature in the story of lives that were continually passing
from mirth to tears, from poetry to prose, and from a throne to the
cushionless seat of a Pretender. There is no sadder lesson in history
than this of the Stuart kings, who began with so much, and ended with
nothing. They had beauty, talent, high estate, devoted friends, and
good intentions; yet somehow, what they touched did not prosper, their
good gifts did not avail them.
[Illustration: CHILDREN OF CHARLES I., WITH SPANIELS.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
Beneficent fairies were present at their birth, and brought priceless
gifts; but all was counteracted by one fatal oversight, since the
malevolent fairy, uninvited, came only to punish the slight.
[Illustration: CHILDREN OF CHARLES I.; PRINCE CHARLES AND HIS MASTIFF.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
“What boots it thy virtue?
What profit thy parts?
If one thing thou lackest--
The art of all arts?”
Something--whatever it might be--they assuredly lacked, and atoned for
the lack by their misfortunes. Meanwhile they enjoyed life, and in many
ways made it pleasant, exhibiting wit, ready courtesy, and a good-will
that, as before said, extended to both animals and men.
James I., like his Tudor predecessors, was extremely fond of the chase.
Contemporary writers give queer accounts of his awkward, headlong
riding, and disgusting eagerness for the trophy. “The King of England,”
says one, “is merciful except in hunting, where he appears cruel. When
he finds himself unable to take the beast, he frets and storms, and
cries ‘God is angry with me, but I will have him for all that!’”
Dogs were a prominent feature in the royal establishment, and one hound
named Jewel, Jowel, or Jowler, is often mentioned. Almost his first
appearance in history is in the character of a petitioner. Royal visits
in these earlier days were luxuries expensive to the host, however
welcome. Letters yet exist that prove how much they were dreaded.
Elizabeth bestowed many such marks of honor on her subjects, and no
matter how great the inconvenience, her involuntary entertainers dared
not hint it. That a hint on the matter was once given to James, may be
taken as a proof of his good nature.
He had gone with his retinue to Royston, where, erelong, the presence
of so many guests made a deep hole in their host’s larder and purse.
Therefore--but this part of the story is best told in a letter written
at the time by Edmund Lascelles, a groom of the Privy Chamber.
He says: “One day, one of the king’s special hounds, called Jowler, was
missing. The king was much displeased at his absence; he went hunting
notwithstanding. The next day, when they went to the field, Jowler came
in among the rest of the hounds; the king was told, and was glad of
his return, but, looking on him, spied a paper about his neck. On this
paper was written. ‘Good Mr. Jowler, we pray you speak to the king (for
he hears you every day, and so he doth not us), that it will please His
Majesty to go back to London, for else the country will be undone; all
our provision is spent, and we are unable to entertain him longer.’”
This plain hint was not taken amiss--in fact, it was not taken at all;
and His Majesty staid on at Royston until it quite suited him to leave,
which was not until some days later.
Poor Jewel’s end was untimely. The court was at Theobalds, and Queen
Anne, who liked hunting as well as James, went out to shoot deer.
“She mistook her mark,” writes Sir Dudley Carleton, “and killed
Jewel, the king’s most principall and special hound, at which he
stormed exceedingly a while; but after he learned who did it, was soon
pacified; and, with much kindness, wished her not to be troubled with
it, for he should love her never the worse; and the next day he sent
her a diamond worth two thousand pounds, as a legacy from his dead dog.”
How vividly the scene rises before us--the richly dressed huntress
and courtiers, the too confident aim, the brief suspense then the
horror-struck certainty that no deer, but a hound is the victim--even
Jewel, “most speciall” to the king! And then, it may be, an embassy
was sent to break the news; and we can imagine how cautiously it was
done. But still, there follows a bad half-hour, for the king raves and
storms, until at last the embassador ventures to say, “The queen is
full of grief at her mischance.”
“The queen, ye rogues!” he shouts, “was it her mischance? Why not have
said so before?”
The storm is over, and kind-hearted James hurries off to comfort his
wife.
[Illustration: JAMES STUART, DUKE OF RICHMOND, SON OF ESME STUART.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
He does not appear in so amiable a light on all occasions, and often
tried the patience of his friends by asking for such of their dogs or
hawks as happened to particularly please him. A royal request was in
the nature of a command, and our former kings were not very nice in the
matter. It was assumed as a matter of course that people would be only
too happy to gratify their wishes; so they asked for what they wanted,
and rarely failed to get it.
Besides this indirect levy, King James was at considerable pains to
import valuable hawks and hunting-dogs. There is extant a letter of his
to the Earl of Mar, asking him to send for three or four couples of
Earth-Dogs, as terriers were then called.
“Have a special care,” he urged, “that the oldest of them be not
passing three years of age;” and again, “Send them not all in one ship,
but some in one ship, some in another, lest the ship should miscarry.”
It was customary in these days, when the king visited a school or
university, for some of the students to hold a disputation in his
presence, that he might see their facility in logic, and that they
might do credit to their college. Well, King James once visited
Cambridge, and the Philosophy Act, as it was called, was kept before
him. The subject to be disputed was, “whether dogs were capable of
syllogisms.” Gravely was it argued, gravely did King James listen
(perhaps with a memory of Jowler) and great was the applause when young
Matthew Wren maintained that just as the king was mightier and wiser
than other men, so also, by virtue of their prerogative, were the
king’s dogs more gifted, and more capable than other dogs, even in the
matter of syllogisms. The royal listener was wonderfully pleased with
this bit of logic; and we may add that the logician rose high in his
favor, becoming eventually Bishop Wren.
The children of James and Anne inherited their love of animals, if
indeed they did not derive it from a source more remote. We know that
their unfortunate grandmother, Mary Stuart, had pets: and no more
piteous tale has ever been told than that of the little creature who
staid with her on the scaffold. It was a long-haired Skye terrier,
Bébé by name. When she knelt at the block, he lay concealed in the
folds of her dress; but after the fatal stroke, while the executioners
were despoiling the body, he crept out, and placed himself between the
severed trunk and head. There he was found by Jane Kennedy, and there
he clung, wet with his mistress’s blood, until removed by force. Who
can measure the agony of that faithful little heart, when, all in a
moment, its world of affection had shrunk to a lump of irresponsive
clay! One would fain know of Bébé--whether, as some say, he died of
grief, or, as others maintain, lived several years, well cared for by
a noble lady. And where, when death came, was he buried? Fidelity like
his deserves a memorial, and doubtless had it at the time, although
history is silent on the point. And after all, it does not matter, for
we do not forget him.
One of the most charming figures in this connection, is the Princess
Elizabeth, daughter of James I. As is usually the case with royal
children, she was educated apart from her parents. They sent her with
six little companions to Combe Abbey, to be under the charge of Lord
and Lady Harrington. Through the park of this pleasant country-seat,
flowed a river, and in the river was a tiny island which they gave
to the princess for her very own. A house was built upon it for the
manager of the small farm, and the farm itself was stocked with cattle,
equally diminutive. An aviary was also given her, netted over with
gilt wire, and filled with birds of gay plumage or musical throats.
Furthermore, there was a garden, in which grew flowers for pleasure,
and herbs “for ye animalls’ helth.” It was as nearly a child’s paradise
as anything can be; and I fancy that many a time the discrowned Queen
of Bohemia looked back with longing to the “Fairy Farm” of her youth.
Lord Harrington’s account-books are often and amusingly enlivened by
such items as: so much “to shearing her Hieness’ great rough dog;” to
making cages for her birds, or, to supplying cotton for her monkey’s
bed, etc. A further evidence of her tastes is the childish portrait
preserved at Combe Abbey, which represents her surrounded by her pets.
And many another proof is given, her whole life through, in the
presents of animals her friends sent her, in her own pleasant mention
of her pets, and in her correspondence. Here, for instance, is an
amusing note, dated 1618:
“To Sir Dudley Carleton, from the fair hands of Mrs. Elizabeth Ashley,
chief gouvernante to all the monkeys and dogs. The monkeys you sent
came hither very well, and are now grown so proud that they will come
to nobody but her Highness, who hath them in her bed every morning,
and the little prince. He is so fond of them that he says he desires
nothing but such monkeys of his own.”
All of Elizabeth’s children inherited her fondness for pets, but most
of all, Prince Rupert, whose devotion to Boy became a by-word among the
Roundheads.
[Illustration: PRINCESS ELIZABETH, ELDEST DAUGHTER OF JAMES I., AND HER
PETS.
(_Sketch from painting._)]
As a child Charles I. liked animals, but little is said of his
favorites, after he became king. The times were too serious, a
revolution was seething, and writers were busy with larger themes.
Still, a few anecdotes have reached us. “Methinks,” says Sir Philip
Warwick, “because it shows his dislike of a common court vice, it is
not unworthy the relating of him, that one evening his dog scratching
at the door, he commanded me to let in Gipsy; whereupon I took the
boldness to say, ‘Sir, I perceive you love a grayhounde better than you
do a spanell.’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘for they equally love their masters,
and yet do not flatter them so much.’”
Not long before his execution, Charles bade farewell to his dogs and
had them sent to the queen, lest their presence might distract him
from more solemn thoughts. Of this queen, Henrietta Maria, a charming
story is told, which, though it says little for her prudence, bears
ample witness to her affectionate heart. On her return from Holland,
she landed at Burlington, and staid there over night. Before daybreak
the Parliamentary forces were at hand, and she with her ladies fled
in haste. They had not gone very far when she noticed that Mitte, her
lap-dog, had been left behind. Madame de Motteville calls it “an ugly
old dog,” but adds that the queen was extremely fond of it. So it would
seem, for heedless of remonstrance, back she rushed, caught up Mitte,
who was still dozing on her bed, and once more sped away--in safety.
It may be added that there was formerly, in Holyrood Palace, a painting
of Charles and Henrietta, surrounded by their dogs. Prominent among
these is a white Shock, which some think to be the identical Mitte of
Burlington fame.
Of the little dogs petted in former reigns, numerous specimens may be
seen in pictures and engravings. A rare print of Lady Margaret Lenox,
the mother of Darnley, shows one of them playing at her feet, with a
dapper air that contrasts amusingly with her dignified appearance.
It was reserved for Charles II. to bring the “Comforter” cult to its
highest development, and win thereby much sarcastic notice from the
writers of the time. Old Dr. Carns, who lived in Elizabeth’s reign, was
particularly severe on this folly, but he could not have dreamed to
what lengths it would reach a few years later. We might, with a little
change of spelling, apply his words directly to the pug and terrier
craze of fashionable ladies to-day. Speaking of the “spaniells gentle,
or comforters,” he says:
“These dogges are little, pretty, proper, and fyne, and sought for to
satisfie the delicateness of daintie dames, instrumentes of folly for
them to play and dally withal, to tryfle away the treasure of time, to
withdraw their mindes from more commendable exercises.”
Sarcasm and good advice alike were wasted. Where a king set the
fashion, fine gentlemen and ladies delighted to follow, and lap-dogs
became as necessary to their equipment as lace ruffles or brocades.
Charles II. and his brother, James II., always liked dogs; and some
fine canvases by Vandyke remain, in which the royal children are
grouped with their four-footed friends. In one painting, Prince Charles
is the central figure; one hand hangs idly at his side; the other
rests on the head of a huge mastiff, near which frisks a tiny spaniel.
The same spaniel probably, and another that might be its twin, act as
“supporters” in a second painting to the three oldest children.
When, after many vicissitudes, Charles finally reached the throne,
his devotion to pets was more marked than ever, and he gave them a
good deal of attention that by rights belonged elsewhere. Under date
of September 4, 1667, Repys notes in his Diary that he “went by coach
to Whitehall, to the Council Chamber. All I observed there is the
silliness of the king’s playing with his dog all the while, and not
minding the business.”
As a matter of course, contemporary wits and playwrights are not
silent, and have many a squib too at this foible of Charles:
“His dogs would sit at Council Board,
Like judges in their furs;
We question much which had most sense,--
The Master, or the Curs.”
[Illustration: PRINCESS MARY, DAUGHTER OF CHARLES I.
(_From etching by Modgin of painting by Sir Peter Lely, in the Hampton
Court Collection._)]
John Evelyn, another diarist, speaks with some disgust of the lengths
to which Charles’ affection for his pets led him. The king would have
them always about him, and allowed them to consider his bedroom and
study their kennels.
That dogs were lost and stolen with modern frequency, that rewards were
offered for their return, is shown by notices like the following:
“Lost out of the Mews, on the 6th of the present month (March, 1667)
a little brindled greyhound belonging to His Majesty; if any one has
taken her up, they are desired to bring her to the Porter’s Gate at
Whitehall, and they shall have a very good content for their pains.”
The king might often be seen when the weather was fine, sauntering
along in St. James Park, his dogs beside him; and stopping every
now and then to feed the ducks in the water. It is a pleasant
picture--one we like to remember, and more creditable to Charles than
most other scenes in his life. Such as we see him here, good-natured,
kind-hearted, self-indulgent, just so he passed from the scene of the
world. He had enjoyed the last gleam of prosperity that was to fall on
the Stuart race. Their good fortune died with him, and with him, too,
passed the golden age of the “Comforter.”
With William of Orange came in pugs; and for a long time their odd
ugly faces might be seen in all establishments of rank. Garnished with
orange ribbons, in compliment to the king, they were known as Dutch
pugs, and commanded high prices in the market.
The Georges divided their royal favor impartially between spaniels,
terriers and pugs. The Princess Charlotte, a sister of George III.,
was particularly fond of terriers, and had herself painted with a
long-haired darling of the species in her arms. The Duchess of York
(wife to a son of George III.) was such a lover of dogs as to have
forty at one time, of different varieties. All her favorites were
buried at Oatlands, where even yet some sixty or more tombstones may be
seen. The Duchess herself wrote most of their epitaphs, of which the
following may serve as a specimen:
“Pepper, near this silent grotto,
Thy fair virtues lie confest;
Fidelity thy constant motto,--
Warmth of friendship speaks the test.”
[Illustration: CHARLES II. AND PET SPANIEL, AT DAWNEY COURT, BUCKS,
SEAT OF THE DUCHESS OF CLEVELAND.
(_From old and rare print._)]
Little Princess Amelia, the darling of all who knew her, petted every
thing that came in her reach--her family, her servants, her horses,
kittens, dogs and birds. One painting represents her as a chubby,
winsome baby, playing with a King Charles; another shows her as a merry
little girl with her pet bird. When she had grown up into a young
lady, her sister Augusta gave her a bird which she greatly prized. Two
days after her death it was brought by an attendant to the donor. The
Princess Amelia had so ordered it, she said, requesting only that it
should not be returned the day of her death, nor yet the day after,
lest its presence might affect her sister too deeply in those first
hours of sorrow.
[Illustration: PRINCESS AMELIA AND HER DOG.
(_From painting by Hoppner, in St. John’s Palace._)]
Both Victoria and Prince Albert had many favorites, which in being
painted by Landseer have established a claim to immortality. The artist
Leslie tells a pretty story of the young queen on her coronation day.
The ceremony took an unconscionable time, and when she returned from
it, she heard her pet spaniel barking wildly in the room where he was
shut up. “Oh! there is Dash,” she cried, and hastened to lay off her
splendid robes so that she might give him his long-deferred bath. There
is a burial-place on the terrace at Windsor, as at Sans-Souci, and in
one sunny corner rest the bones of this early favorite.
Eos and Cairnach, Prince Albert’s dogs, were painted together by
Landseer, and form a most dignified, graceful group. Islay, one of the
Queen’s terriers, was painted with a mackaw and several love-birds,
which reveals another trait of his royal mistress. She is very fond
of birds, and in the fowl-house, in the Home Park, are preserved the
bodies of various feathered pets who have paid their last debt to
nature. The most celebrated is a dove, which many years ago, when she
visited Ireland with Prince Albert, was thrown into her carriage--a
living message of good will. She cherished it to the end of its life;
and its descendants still flutter around the towers of Windsor.
Her stables, too, contain favorites. Prince Albert’s horse survived, an
honored inmate, until quite lately; and the cream-colored Herrenhausen
horses dream their lives away here in luxurious ease, being used by Her
Majesty only on state occasions.
“A favorite at Marlborough House” indicates clearly one taste at least
of the exquisite princess who rouses so much enthusiasm in English
hearts; and emphasizes a little speech she made at a meeting of the
Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. “If,” said she, “I have
saved even one cat from misery, I shall feel that I have done some good
in the world.”
If the cats at Windsor and Marlborough House have anything to
complain of, it can only be over-indulgence. The bill for their silk
throat-ribbons and silver bells is a large one, even at the most
moderate estimate; they have their own special cushions and attendants;
they often go out riding with their royal mistresses, and when the
latter leave one palace for another, _Messieurs et Mesdames Les Chats_
travel with them, in such state and comfort as befit the possessions of
royalty.
But now let us turn from England to France, and glance at a few pets
there. A pleasant memory remains of Louis XIII.--his intercession, when
a child, for the poor cats that were to be burned as witches on St.
John’s Day. It availed not only for those particular cats, but for all
their race henceforth in France.
[Illustration: PRINCESS AUGUSTA, DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III.
PRINCESS AMELIA, DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III.
(_By permission of Messrs. Macmillan & Co._)]
One of his predecessors, Henry III., used to carry a daintily-lined
basket suspended from his neck by a silken cord. As he languidly
talked with his guests or courtiers, he would at intervals, with
hands delicate as a woman’s, sparkling with rings, caress the tiny,
long-haired dogs which occupied the basket.
[Illustration: A FAVORITE AT MARLBOROUGH HOUSE.]
Louis XIV. petted himself more than any living creature; yet he had
some sympathy to spare for his numerous dogs; he even had their
portraits painted, at a considerable cost; and he also, presumably, had
a favorite cat--if the story in Swift’s Memoirs is one to be relied
upon. This story is to the effect that during the reign of Queen Anne,
a Miss Nelly Bennet, a young lady who took prestige as a great beauty,
visited the French court.
She traveled in the care of witty Dr. Arbuthnot, who in a letter to
the Dean, describes the outbursts of admiration that greeted his fair
charge.
“She had great honours done her,” he remarks, then adds, “and the
hussar himself was ordered to bring her the king’s cat to kiss.”
When this important bit of news came to be reported in England, a wit,
now unknown, wrote a poem on the event, describing how--
“... When as Nelly came to France
(Invited by her cousins),
Across the Tuileries each glance
Killed Frenchmen by whole dozens.
The king, as he at dinner sat,
Did beckon to his hussar,
And bid him bring his tabby-cat
For charming Nell to buss her.”
Louis XVI. had a favorite spaniel, playful and intelligent, like
all its race. It accompanied him to the prison which he was only
to exchange for the scaffold, and was bequeathed by him as a last
remembrance to his daughter. Through four years of imprisonment it
was her only friend and companion, and when upon her release “Madame
Royale” went to her relatives in Austria, it was not left behind.
But when, in 1801, the royal exiles were in Warsaw, the poor little
favorite fell from a balcony in the Poniatowsky Palace, and was
instantly killed.
The first Napoleon cared little for any animal--except his war-horses.
Cats, indeed, he detested; and of Fortune (a pet dog of the Empress
Josephine) he was always jealous, and could not bear to see his wife
caress it. But age, they say, brings wisdom; and in his case, it
certainly brought toleration--of one dog at least. Here is the story:
The seventeen-year-old Marie Louise, who was to be his second wife,
had a favorite Italian greyhound which accompanied her on her way into
France. Her Austrian suite was replaced at the frontier by a French
one; and at Munich her last Austrian attendant was dismissed, together
with the dog--a thing never intended by Napoleon, and only effected
by intrigue. We can imagine the young girl’s grief, and can readily
believe, as the historian says, that “the acquisition of a colossal
empire did not console her for the loss of a little dog.”
[Illustration: PET SPANIEL OF LOUIS XVI., COMPANION OF HIS DAUGHTER
“MADAME ROYALE,” IN PRISON.]
Fortunately for all concerned, the story found its way to Napoleon.
At once he rubbed his Aladdin’s lamp (an article all emperors
possess), and when he met his bride a few days later at Compiègne, he
led her--not to a grand state-chamber, but to a cosey room, with a
strangely familiar look. Her husband was a stranger; it was a new land,
a new language, and new faces everywhere. But--what was that hysterical
bark and scramble that greeted her on the threshold? What was that
frantic little figure bounding up into her arms? What but her own
little greyhound brought there with other familiar objects from her old
home, by Napoleon’s thoughtful care! She welcomed her pet with a cry of
delight; then turning, thanked, with wet eyes, the husband who was no
longer a stranger.
A few years later, and the wheel of fortune suddenly turned. Napoleon
was an exile, and Louis XVIII. (uncle to the Prisoners of the Temple)
was king. About the time when his royal brother was guillotined, there
also perished a M. de Vieux Pont, whose only crime was the possession
of a parrot which said _Vive le roi!_ The bird came very near sharing
the fate of its master, but citizeness Lebon promised, if its life
was spared, to teach it better sentiments, and was allowed to take
it home. This happened in the Reign of Terror; but now when the Fat
King reigned, a worse fate, through him, befell a parrot of Napoleonic
sympathies. A dog had comforted Madame Royale in her prison; but
neither she nor her uncle, when they arrived at power, had any pity for
Napoleonists.
[Illustration: PET ITALIAN GREYHOUND OF MARIE LOUISE.]
The parrot’s mistress had fled from her home in Ecouen on the approach
of the Royalists, leaving the bird locked up in the closet of her room,
with plenty of food and water. Now it so chanced that Louis XVIII.
spent the night in Ecouen, on his way to Paris, and was lodged in this
very room. In the midst of his slumbers, he was suddenly startled by
a shrill cry, close to his ear, of _Vive l’empereur!_ Nothing could
be seen, yet again and again was the cry repeated. At last the poor,
insulted, gouty king managed to pull the bell-rope and summon his
attendants. After considerable search, they found a door behind the
tapestry, and forced it open. There sat the criminal, chuckling to
herself, and still shouting at intervals, _Vive l’empereur!_ Poor
Polly! her triumph was short. It was _A bas!_ with Napoleonists now;
in a moment her neck was wrung, and a limp little feathered body bore
silent witness that the Bourbons had returned.
[Illustration: CARLO ALBERTO AND HIS FAVORITE HORSE.
(_After the painting by Vernet._)]
Far, far more pleasant is a story told of the young Duchesse de Berri.
On the day of her marriage to Louis’ nephew, she retired to her room
after the ceremony, and was supposed to be resting. After a while
her husband entered. Fancy the surprise, the amusement with which he
witnessed his pretty bride’s diversion. She yet wore her magnificent
marriage robes--a white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, and a
diamond coronet surmounted by white ostrich plumes; but the enormous
train--six yards long--she had twisted several times over her arm. Thus
disencumbered, she was singing blithely, and dancing to her song with
a pet spaniel she had brought from Naples, and which she held by the
forepaws.
[Illustration: VICTOR EMMANUEL AND HIS DOG.
(_From life photograph._)]
Another turn of the wheel, a few years later, seated a third Napoleon
and Eugénie upon the throne. The latter was particularly fond of a
Mexican parrot called Montezuma. When, in 1870, the Empire came to an
end, and she fled to England, all her possessions were left behind in
her hurried flight from the Tuileries. It was not until the imperial
family was settled at Chiselhurst, that, remembering Montezuma, she
sent a trusty attendant to France, to search for him. Almost a year
passed by before he was found, exposed for sale in a shop! Then he was
re-bought; he crossed the Channel in safety; a few hours more, and
the ex-empress was petting him as of old. But not as of old did he
respond to her endearments, nibble the sweetmeats she offered, and say
with flattering approval, _Vive l’impératrice!_ No, all was changed.
Sullenly he declined sugar, pineapple, sweet biscuit; sullenly he
withdrew from her caressing touch; and sullenly at last he spoke: _Vive
la république!_ Truly the empire had passed away.
The princes of Savoy have always entertained a soldierly liking for
horse and hound; and with war for their occupation, and hunting
for diversion, they have had abundant opportunity to test the good
qualities and friendship of these animals. There is a museum in
Turin where many of their favorite horses--stuffed and mounted--are
preserved. Especially interesting is the “Favorito Cavallo” of Carlo
Alberto, which, according to the inscription, was his chosen mount in
peace, and which bore him safely through the campaign of 1848-49. It
accompanied him into exile, and finally (1866) died in Turin, at the
age of thirty years.
Several horses in the museum belonged to Victor Emmanuel. This
patriotic and jolly king was “_innamorato dei cani_,” especially of
four hounds, the companions of his hunting trips. He was never so
happy as when off on one of these expeditions. Often he would dismount
and stretch himself on the ground beneath a tree, his horse and dogs
grouped around him. Then, with a sigh of luxurious comfort, he would
say: “Ouf! how happy am I here, and thus! What a beastly trade, what a
pig-occupation, is this of being a king!” (_Che porco mestiero è quello
di fare il Re!_)
And again: “How well off should I be if I only always could live
quietly, at ease among these friends!” patting, as he spoke, first
one dog, then another. Poor king! he had given a United Italy to his
people; to himself he could grant few hours of ease.
_V._
_A NOTABLE CANINE TRIO._
V.
A NOTABLE CANINE TRIO.
In almost every library where the owner has an antiquarian taste may
be found a pair of stout, leather-bound volumes, bearing a kind of
“important-facts” appearance which the title, stamped in gilt, airily
contradicts. _Nugæ antiquæ_, it reads. Trifles, in fine; anecdotes,
memoranda of things passed by.
The writer of the _Nugæ_ was Sir John Harrington--a man of literary
tastes, witty, vivacious, warm-hearted and sarcastic. He put into his
collection a little about a good many things. There are items of secret
or curious history; there are good stories about “King Elizabeth and
Queen James,” as some witty person entitled them; there are letters;
and there is one letter, above all, full of interest and feeling,
“concerninge his dogge, Bungey.” It was written to the young Prince
Henry, King James’s oldest son; and Sir John evidently thought it worth
while to make a copy, before sending away the original. It is only a
trifle in the great sum of history--yet a trifle that means much. The
brilliant Sir John comes very near us as we read; and none of his wit
pleases us so well as this simple and affectionate tribute to the dog
he had lost.
One or two facts “concerninge” Bungey’s owner may not be amiss before
giving the letter.
[Illustration: PRINCE HENRY, ELDEST SON OF JAMES I.
(_From rare print by Crispin Pass._)]
When Elizabeth of England was a simply-dressed princess instead of the
elaborately got-up potentate into which she afterwards developed, she
had the ill-luck to be suspected of aiming at her sister’s throne. In
consequence, not only was she herself put into the Tower, but various
friends of hers were arrested, among them a gentleman named Harrington.
He was heavily fined, besides being imprisoned. When, however, a
few years later, Elizabeth became queen, she did not forget her old
adherent, and among other marks of favor, stood godmother to his son
John, afterwards Sir John Harrington. The fortunate baby grew up into a
handsome and entertaining young man, with such an aptitude for saying
bright things that his reputation spread far and wide. A maid-servant
at an inn waited very carefully on him, for fear that if he were
neglected, he “would make an epigram of her.” Even the Queen used to
speak of him as her “witty godson.” She probably had no idea his wit
ever turned on her own foibles, as well as those of other people. That
it did so, however, appears from his journal.
One item, remembering Elizabeth’s three thousand dresses, is especially
amusing:
“On Sunday, my Lorde of London preachede to the Queene’s Majestie,
and seemede to touch on the vanitie of deckinge the bodie too finely.
Her Majestie tolde the Ladies that if the Bishope helde more discorse
on such matters, she wolde fit him for Heaven, but he shoulde walke
thither withoute a staffe, and leave his mantle behinde him; perchance
the Bishope hathe never soughte her Highnesse wardrobe, or he wolde
have chosen another texte.”
The same hobby that led her to number her own dresses by the thousand,
and her wigs by the hundred, led her also to interfere with the clothes
of her subjects. One gentleman wore a suit she did not like, and she
spit upon it, to show her aversion; “Heaven spare me such jibinge!”
says poor Sir John. In fact, although the Queen’s godson, he had to
tread carefully at court! and King James’s easy rule must have been a
relief to him. Especially did he enjoy the friendship of Prince Henry,
to whom, in 1608, he wrote the famous letter about “Bungey.”
“Having good reason,” he says, “to thinke your Highnesse had goode will
and likinge to reade what others have tolde of my rare dogge, I will
even give a brief historie of his goode deedes and strannge feates;
and herein will I not plaie the curr myselfe, but in good sooth relate
what is no more nor lesse than bare verity. Although I meane not to
disparage the deedes of Alexander’s horse, I will match my dogge
against him for good carriage; for if he did not bear a great prince
on his back, I am bold to saie he did often bear the sweet wordes of a
greater princesse on his necke.
“I did once relate to your Highnesse after what sorte his tacklinge
was wherewithe he did sojourn from my house to the bathe to Greenwiche
Palace, and deliver up to the Courte there such matters as were
entrusted to his care. This he hath often done, and came safe to the
bathe, or my howse here at Kelstone, with goodlie returnes from such
nobilitie as were pleasede to emploie him; nor was it ever tolde our
ladie queene that this messenger did ever blab ought concerninge his
highe truste, as others have done in more special matters. Neither must
it be forgotten as how he once was sente withe two charges of sack wine
from the bathe to my house, by my man Combe; and on his way the cordage
did slackene, but my trustie bearer did now bear himselfe so wisely as
to covertly hide one flasket in the rushes, and take the other in his
teeth to the howse, after which he wente forthe, and returnede with
the other parte of his burden to dinner; hereat your Highnesse may
perchance marvel and doubte, but we have livinge testimonie of those
who wroughte in the fields, and espiede his worke....
“I need not saie how muche I did once grieve at missinge this dogge,
for on my journiee towardes Londone, some idle pastimers ... conveyed
him to the Spanish ambassador’s, where in a happie houre after six
weekes I did heare of him; but such was the Courte he did pay to the
Don, that he was no less in good likinge there than at home. Nor did
the howsehold listen to my claim ... till I rested my suite on the
dogge’s own proofs, and made him performe such feates before the nobles
as put it past doubt that I was his master. I did send him to the halle
in the time of dinner, and made him bringe thence a pheasant out the
dish, which created much mirthe, but muche more when he returnede at
my commandment to the table again, and put it again in the same cover.
Herewith the companie was well content to allowe me my claim, and we
both were well content to accept it, and came homewardes....
“I will now saie in what manner he died. As we travelled towards
the bathe, he leapede on my horse’s necke, and was more earneste in
fawninge and courtinge my notice than what I had observed for time
backe, and after my chidinge his disturbing my passinge forwards, he
gave me some glances of such affection as movede me to cajole him; but
alass he crept suddenly into a thorny brake, and died in a short time.
“Thus I have strove to rehearse such of his deedes as maie suggest
much more to youre Highnesse’ thought of this dogge. Now let Ulysses
praise his dogge Argus, or Tobite be led by that dogge whose name doth
not appeare, yet could I say such things of my Bungey, for so he was
styled, as might shame them bothe, either for good faith, clear wit,
or wonderful deedes; to saie no more than I have said of his bearing
letters to London and Greenwiche more than an hundred miles. As I
doubte not but your Highnesse would love my dogge if not myself, I have
been thus tedious in his story, and againe saie, that of all the dogges
near your father’s courte, not one hathe more love, more diligence to
please, or less pay for pleasinge, than him I write of....
“I now reste your Highnesse’ friend in all services that maye suite him.
“P. S. I have an excellent picture (of Bungey) curiously limned, to
remain in my posterity.”
Of this excellent picture I have been unable to find any trace; but the
word-picture is wonderfully vivid, and Bungey will live as long as the
letter survives to tell his story.
Not long before it was written, Sir John had noted in his journal that
“My man Ralphe hathe stolen two cheeses from my dairy-house. I wishe
he were chokede herewyth--and yet, the fellowe hath five childerne:
I wyll not sue him if he repentethe and amendethe.” Kind-hearted Sir
John! Small wonder that Bungey loved him, or that when, some four years
later, he died, he left behind him many friends, and hardly an enemy.
* * * * *
During the next reign, in another county of England, lived another
dog, the opposite of Bungey in appearance and manners, but who,
nevertheless, has attained a wide fame. He was no dog of the courts,
graceful and dapper; he knew no tricks to enchance the value of a
faithful heart; in fact, he was only a large, ungainly mastiff, whose
merits as a watch-dog were all that recommended him. He belonged to
old Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, and the way in which his name became
notable, is this:
He was a “yard-dog,” and of course slept outside of the house. One
night, however, he persisted in following the master to his bedroom.
Blows and persuasion were alike useless to drive him away. The Italian
valet shut the door upon him, and then the animal sat down outside and
howled. Probably Sir Henry reflected that at this rate he would get
no sleep at all. At any rate, as the least of two evils, he ordered
the door to be opened. In walked the mastiff, silenced at last, and
content; for “with a wag of the tail, and a look of affection at his
lord,” he crawled under the bed and lay down. Matters being thus
peaceably adjusted, the valet left the room, and Sir Henry settled
himself for sleep. About midnight, the quiet was broken by a sudden
disturbance and uproar. The mastiff had sprung from his ambush, and
seized some one by the throat. When the half-strangled victim, through
Sir Harry’s interference, was released, it proved to be no other than
the amiable Italian who had exerted himself a few hours before to
drive the dog from the room. Now, under the influence of fright, and
the fear of prosecution, he confessed that his object was the murder
and robbery of his master.
By this time, I take it, the house was roused. One can readily imagine
the scene: Sir Harry in his laced night-gear, the frightened servants,
the scared yet sullen criminal, still held in check by an occasional
low growl from his late assailant. And the mastiff himself--can you
not see the uncouth, powerful, sagacious figure, his whole attention
centered on the would-be-thief, and quite unaware that he himself is
the hero of the hour?
But such he was, and Sir Harry Lee of Ditchley--a just man and gallant
soldier--knew how both to appreciate and reward his fidelity. We set
up statues to our great men, or, in Sir Harry’s own England, valor and
genius find memorial in Westminster Abbey.
To commemorate then, in like manner, the heroic deed of his mastiff,
Sir Harry had a painting made by Johnson, an artist of note. It
represents the old soldier wrapped in a leather cloak that harmonizes
well with his powerful frame and look of activity. Beside him is the
mastiff, and, at the bottom of the picture, this inscription:
“More Faithful than Favoured.”
“Reason in man cannot effect such love
As Nature doth in them that Reason want:
Ulysses true and kind his dog did prove
When Faith in better friends was very scant.
My travels for my Friends have been as true
Tho’ not as far as Fortune did him bear;
No friends my Love and Faith divided knew,
Tho’ neither this nor that once equall’d were,
But in my dog, whereof I made no store,
I find more love than them I trusted more.”
About this time, King Charles had a nephew sufficiently famous to make
all his belongings noteworthy; and no account of famous dogs would be
complete without some sketch of Prince Rupert’s white hound Boy. A
beautiful lad this young prince must have been, as Vandyke has painted
him, with Boy at his side. Always adventurous and daring, but with a
dash and fire in his daring quite beyond the usual soldierly courage,
he won something like adoration from his troopers. After a manhood of
war, his last years were very quiet, and being of a scientific turn, he
spent much time in experiments. The art of engraving owes him a large
debt, and “Prince Rupert’s Drops,” still commemorate his name. And as
to his character, whatever faults he might have, he was still, as one
writer tells us, “so just, so beneficent, so courteous, that his memory
remained dear to all who knew him. This I say of my own knowledge,
having often heard old people in Berkshire speak in raptures of Prince
Rupert.”
Many, indeed, are the stories told about this beautiful and daring
boy, of his headlong courage, his warm heart, his kindness and pluck.
Once he was out hunting, and the fox took to the earth. “A dog which
the Prince loved, followed, but returning not, His Highnesse, being
impatient, crept after, and took hold of his legs, which he could not
draw out by reason of the narrowness of the hole, until Mr. Billingsby
(the Prince’s tutor) took hold of His Highnesse’s heels; so he drew out
the Prince, the Prince the dog, and the dog the fox.”
When a mere lad, Rupert was taken prisoner, and detained for nearly
three years in the Castle of Lintz, on the Danube. Time hung heavy
on his hands here, but part of it he whiled away with pets. He even
succeeded in taming a hare, so that it would trot after him like a
spaniel, and perform little tricks at his command.
[Illustration: PRINCE RUPERT WITH HIS WHITE DOG BOY.
(_From the painting by Vandyke._)]
But his chief companion and diversion was Boy, a hound given him by
Lord Arundel, to lighten his captivity. It was of “a breede so famous
that the Grand Turk gave it in particular injunction to his ambassadour
to obtaine him a puppie thereof.” When Rupert was released, Boy shared
his freedom, and became an inseparable friend.
Many an old lady in those hard days was suspected of being a witch, and
holding secret confabs with the Devil, after a midnight tide through
the air on a broomstick. If she had a cat, especially a black one,
poor Pussy was considered a go-between, and was liable to be burned.
Dogs, too, fell under suspicion now and then; and as Prince Rupert was
thought by the Puritan faction to act under the Devil’s guidance, so
Boy was supposed to run on messages between the unholy allies. In the
Bodleian Library there is carefully preserved an old pamphlet of 1642,
entitled “Observations on Prince Rupert’s dogge, called Boye,” which
amusingly details the different views about him.
“I have kept a very strict eye,” says the writer, “upon this dogge,
whom I cannot conclude to be a very dounright divell, but some Lapland
ladye, once by nature a handsome white ladye, but now by art a handsome
white dogge. They have many times attempted to destroye it by poyson,
and extempore prayer (!) but they have hurt him no more than the plague
plaister did Mr. Pym.” In fact--
’Twas like a Dog, yet there was none did knowe
Whether it Devill was, or Dog, or no.
Every squib or broadside of abuse directed against the prince must also
hit poor Boy, and in several he figures very cleverly. One of the most
amusing is “A Dialogue between Prince Rupert’s Dogge, whose name is
Puddle, and Tobie’s Dog, whose name is Pepper.” It bears date 1643, and
opens with a sledge-hammer contest of wits between the Royalist and
Puritan dogs, under whose names are but thinly veiled the two great
parties of the day.
Prince Rupert’s dog opens the parley with great disdain:
“What yelping, whindling Puppy-Dog art thou?” And honest Tobie’s dog
retorts the question:
“What bauling, shag-hair’d Cavallier’s Dogge art thou?”
“Pr. R. D. Thou art a dogged sir, or cur, grumble no more but tell me
thy name.”
“T. D. I was called Tobie’s house-dog ... my name is Pepper.”
“P. R. D. Though your zeal be never so hot, you shall not bite me,
Pepper.”
“T. D. I’ll barke before I bite, and talke before I fight. I heare you
are Prince Rupert’s white Boy.”
“P. R. D. I am none of his white Boy, my name is Puddle.”
“T. D. A dirty name indeede; you are not pure enough for my company,
besides I heare on both sides of my eares that you are a Laplander, or
Fin-land Dog or, truly, no better than a witch in the shape of a white
Dogge.”
Hereupon Prince Rupert’s dog calls the other “a Round-headed Puppy
that doth bawle and rayle;” and Tobie’s Dog retorts that Puddle is
“a Popish, profane dog, ... more than half-divell. It is known,” he
says, “that at Edgehill you walked invisible, and directed the bullets
who they should hit, and who they shoulde misse, and made your Mister
Prince Rupert shott-free.”
And so on, through several amusing pages. It is a pleasant and
fun-inspiring jest; but other productions of the time strike a note of
savage hate, strange enough, as applied to an innocent dog.
Boy’s fate befitted a soldier’s dog: on the fatal field of Marston
Moor, where many a gallant cavalier was slain, he also fell, shot to
the heart. As The More True Relation, a Puritan statement, says: “Here
also was slain that accursed cur which is here mentioned by the way,
because the Prince’s dog hath been so much spoken of, and was prized by
his master more than creatures of much more worth.”
[Illustration: PURITAN CARICATURE OF THE DEATH OF PRINCE RUPERT’S WHITE
HOUND BOY.
(_From old pamphlet in British Museum._)]
Even his master’s grief at his loss was a subject of derision; and
shortly after Boy’s death a squib appeared, called: “A Dogge’s Elegie,
or Rupert’s Teares for the late defeat given him at Marston Moor neere
York ... where his beloved Dogge, named Boye, was killed by a valliant
souldier who had skill in Necromancy.” (He is said to have used a
silver bullet, Boy being proof against leaden ones.)
An old pamphlet contains a queer woodcut, representing his death, and
then several lines of doggerel, beginning:
“Sad Cavaliers, Rupert invites you all
That doe survive, to his Dog’s Funerall.”
So lived and perished Boy, his master’s well-loved friend, his master’s
enemies’ aversion--and almost the only instance in history of an animal
being the object of violent party-hate.
Prince Rupert had other pets, both dogs and horses, but none so dear
as his white hound. Perhaps the most affecting instance of his feeling
after Boy’s death, is shown in a letter to Will Legge, written in 1661.
It bears “the dolefull news that poor Royall at this time is dying,
after being the cause of the death of many a stag. By heaven,” he
bursts out, “I had rather lose the best horse in my stable!”
With this--as a last pleasant memory of Rupert--we will leave him.
_VI._
_PETS IN ARTIST LIFE._
VI.
PETS IN ARTIST LIFE.
For the artist pets have a peculiar value. Not only are they companions
and live playthings--they are also “properties.” Portrait and landscape
painters use them as accessories; animal painters and sculptors find in
them their models. They live in close companionship with their human
friends, and the tie between them is usually warm and lasting. An
exception might be the cat whose fur was sacrificed to the early genius
of Benjamin West. In default of brushes, the lad used first the long
hairs from her tail, then the shorter ones from her body--until she was
half-shorn. True, one of his biographers assures us that he laid hold
of her “with all due caution, and attention to her feelings”; but this
is clearly a post-mortem statement--he had never interviewed Pussy!
Fox, a beautiful Pomeranian dog belonging to Gainsborough, occasionally
served as model; but his most important office was to act as peacemaker
between the artist and his wife. Sometimes, “as through the land at
eve they went,” they would fall out; and then the dignified restraint
between them would be first broken by one or the other writing some
words of reconciliation, and giving the note to Fox. Off he would
bound with it to the other party, and a messenger so charming always
proved irresistible.
[Illustration: MISS BOWLES.
(_From the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]
Sir Joshua Reynolds’ many dogs, to all of whom he was much attached,
can be traced in regular order through his portraits, especially
those of children. The Italian greyhound, the Scotch terrier, the
silky-haired spaniel or setter, are as well-known as his own features.
A specially attractive picture represents little Miss Cholmondely
carrying her dog over a brook. The pretty anxiety of the child and the
unconcern of her pet are amusingly contrasted. Hardly less charming
are the portraits of Miss Bowles with a spaniel, and an unknown Felina
hugging a kitten.
Of a favorite macaw which often appeared in his pictures, a story is
told almost as wonderful, Sir Joshua thought, as that of the painted
grapes which deceived the birds. For this bird instantly recognized the
portrait of a servant whom he hated, and tried to bite the pictured
face. Dr. Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith came several times to see this
performance, and Reynolds declared that, in his opinion, “birds and
beasts were as good judges of pictures as men are.”
[Illustration: “FRIENDS NOW, PUSSY!”
(_From the painting by Angelica Kauffmann._)]
There remains to us an affecting last glimpse of this famous painter
after he had lost his sight and could no longer pursue the art he
loved. In this premature night he found much comfort with a tame bird,
until one morning the window was left open, and it flew away. His
grief, though deep, was happily of short duration. Death came to his
relief, and he escaped from the body, even as the bird from the house.
[Illustration: THE PAINTER HOGARTH AND HIS DOG TRUMP.]
One of his favorite pupils, Angelica Kauffmann, painted a charming
picture called “Friends now, Pussy.” It depicts a radiant little girl
holding in her arms a kitten whose contented purr we cannot fail to
hear, so perfectly is it suggested.
Hogarth was the painter of human life as it is; of people good, bad and
indifferent--noble or base. But wherever man is, there also is the dog;
and so throughout this artist’s work we find him--now a drawing-room
pet, and now a vagabond; now man’s companion and now his victim.
Hogarth’s own dog, Trump, surveys us rather sourly from the same canvas
with his master. Very likely it was the curly tip of his tail that
suggested the famous sketch in three lines of a sergeant with his pike
going into a house, and his dog following him. Hogarth executed the
picture thus:
[Illustration]
To be understood, however, it is certainly best to place design and
explanation side by side.
Mrs. Hogarth also had a dog, which eventually was buried at the end of
a filbert walk in her yard at Chiswick. A stone marked the grave, and
Hogarth himself cut the epitaph:
“Life to the last enjoyed, here Pompey lies.”
I tried not long ago, though without success, to find some trace
of this grave. In the oldest, quaintest part of Chiswick stands
Hogarth’s house, still bearing his name, and probably, as to stone
and mortar, much the same as when he lived there. But the once
beautiful garden is now in part a vegetable plot, and in part an
untidy barnyard. A venerable mulberry-tree and some gnarled old yews
are still standing--“sole relics of a finer past”; but of the filbert
walk there remains only a row of little stumps with here and there a
straggling branch. No trace of Pompey anywhere, unless in tradition;
“she had heard,” said the mistress of the house, “that a dog had been
buried somewhere there.” And--final touch--two pigs looked out from
the doorway, squealing shrilly as we passed! It seemed a pity that
Hogarth should not see them; no one would have sooner appreciated the
humor of the scene. But--life to the last enjoyed--he lies in Chiswick
churchyard.
Famous among Middle Age painters was Paolo Uccello--Paul of the
Birds--who won this sobriquet by his extreme delight in birds. They
were his ruling passion, and appeared in his pictures both in and out
of season.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ALBRECHT DURER AT THIRTEEN.
(_Drawn by himself._)]
More famous was the eccentric Bazzi, who, according to the pleasant old
gossip, Vasari, “was fond of keeping in his house all sorts of strange
animals--badgers, squirrels, cat-a-mountains, dwarf monkeys, horses,
racers, little Elba ponies, jackdaws, bantams, doves of India, and
other creatures of this kind, so many as he could lay his hands on.”
Over and above, he had a raven which had learned to talk and to imitate
its master’s voice, especially in answering a knock at the door. “His
house was like nothing more than a Noah’s ark,” adds Vasari.
Of Vittore Carpaccio’s likes and dislikes little is known, but Ruskin
praises as one of the finest paintings in the world, a Venetian
interior by him, representing two fair dames surrounded by animals.
Two dogs--one small, one large--a peacock, doves, a turtle and a
lizard--such were the pets these ladies kept to amuse their leisure
hours.
Albrecht Dürer found special pleasure in studying hares. One hardly
knows which is quainter, the thirteen-year-old artist as drawn by
himself, or the hare which his childish fingers sketched. A later study
is the charming Bunny, apparently pausing after a pleasant nibble to
look at his artist _vis-à-vis_. In some of his pictures, Dürer painted
angel children playing with little hares--surely a gentle companionship!
[Illustration: HARE DRAWN BY THE BOY ALBRECHT DURER.]
But a still greater name in art is that of Raphael, to whom we owe not
only Madonnas and saints, but some wonderfully delicate and realistic
designs of animals and birds. Not much is said in his biographies to
show that he was fond of animals, but that he studied them closely is
evident. It is infinitely sad to pass now through his Loggia at the
Vatican, once glowing with the master’s touch, now faded and in part
defaced. Still, worn as they are, they express Raphael. In the Stanze,
and his other great paintings, we know that his brush worked seriously
in accordance with a plan already conceived. But in the Loggia, with
the bright Italian sun shining in upon him as he worked, he laid aside
all serious intent, and gave himself up to merry play. Under his facile
fingers, the arched ceilings became covered with vines in luxuriant
tangled growth, with interspaces of blue sky, and clusters of grapes
which droop apparently with their own luscious weight, and tempt the
birds on every side.
[Illustration: TWO VENETIAN LADIES AND THEIR PETS.
(_From the painting by Vittore Carpaccio, in the Correo Gallery,
Venice._)]
[Illustration: SECTION OF DOME.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
In one compartment, the vines cluster so close as to admit but small
glimpses of the sky. On the lowest bar but one of the trellis, sits
a fine fierce hawk, so absorbed in his own reflections that he does
not notice a monkey reaching up from below to pull his tail feathers.
A parrot on the bar above is less indifferent, and looks on with
mischievous amusement. Little birds flit about in the higher branches,
and a squirrel is making his way to one of the finest grape-clusters.
The number of creatures that Raphael carefully studied and depicted,
is wonderful. Lizard, mouse and squirrel; tiny snake and bee and snail;
goldfish swimming in glass vases half-wreathed with swaying water
plants; love-birds cuddling together; long-tailed rats scampering along
the scroll-work; pretty voracious ducks with bulging crops; a motherly
hen hovering her chicks--all these and more, may still be seen, the
work of one masterly hand. Really, the painted scenes appear alive; and
I do not know who can look at them without loving the artist who so
well understood the happy natural life of plant and bird and beast.
[Illustration: DUCKS.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
As Paolo Uccello loved birds, so Gottfried Mind loved cats and became
their special artist. He was born near the middle of the last century,
in the town of Berne. There he lived, and there, in 1814, he died. Of
poor and mean appearance, crabbed to all human kind, he was keenly
alive to the ways and feelings, the tricks and graces of cat-kind.
Bears, too, he liked, and for a while frequented the bear pit of Berne
to study them. But cats were his first and abiding love, and to them
he returned. Whatever their moods, whether sulky, grave or gay; in
repose or in action, at every age--he reproduced them upon paper; and
with such marvelous fidelity that he seems to have given Pussy a tenth
and immortal life. His favorite cat used to sit for hours together upon
his knee or shoulder, while he--if such were her pleasure--would remain
motionless, so as not to disturb her rest.
[Illustration: FRAGMENT.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
In our own time, two artists, more than all others, have been famous
for their delineation of animal life; and both of these artists, one is
glad to know, were genuinely fond of the creatures they painted. These
two are, of course, Sir Edwin Landseer and Mlle. Rosa Bonheur.
[Illustration: HENS AND CHICKENS.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
Landseer studied every animal he saw, but preferred dogs, horses, and
deer, especially dogs. Fuseli, his master, used to speak of him as “my
little dog-boy.” Pet after pet had its features transferred to canvas,
and fine dogs were brought to him to be painted, exactly as their
owners might go to Millais or Watts. They became in his hands something
more than canine types; he saw in them individuals with characters and
stories of their own. There is the Dog in High Life, and the Dog in
Low Life; the tranquil big dog as Dignity, the impetuous little dog as
Impudence.
[Illustration: TWO OF GOTTFRIED MIND’S CATS.
(_Plate II. from “Der Katzen-Raphael.”_)]
Here a fine hound waits for the Countess (this dog, by the
way, belonged to Lady Blessington, and was given to her by the at that
time King of Naples); here, by a plain coffin, a collie waits for the
master who will never return; and here two tiny silken spaniels guard a
plumed hat and pair of gloves. These spaniels, which belonged to Robert
Vernon, had an equally tragic fate--the Blenheim being killed by a fall
from a table, and the King Charles by a fall through the staircase
rails. Their picture is now in the National Gallery of London, where
many a one lingers before it, admiring the great lustrous eyes, silken
coats, and delicate, whimsical physiognomies of “The Cavalier’s Pets.”
[Illustration: THE CAVALIER’S PETS.
(_From the etching by Leon Richeton, after Sir Edwin Landseer, R. A._)]
Very near them hangs a painting called “The Sleeping Bloodhound.”
The beautiful animal rests so easily that few would imagine her repose
to be the sleep of death--yet so it is. Countess, as they named her,
belonged to an old friend of Landseer, and running too eagerly one
night to meet him, fell from a height and was killed. The next day he
carried her to the studio; and the fine picture, now so familiar to
all, commemorates both her own beauty and her master’s love.
[Illustration: THE DUSTMAN’S DOG.
(_Drawn by Landseer when a child._)]
Brutus, Vixen and Boxer--all pets of the artist--appear in “The
Ratcatchers;” Paul Pry, another intimate, figures as “A Member of
the Humane Society.” As thoroughly appreciative of dog character in
the extremes of poverty and ease, are two other pictures called “The
Dustman’s Dog,” and “The Critics.” One is a mere sketch (drawn when Sir
Edwin was as yet the child Eddie) of a faithful, homely, hard-worked
cur; the other is a portrait of himself at work, with a noble canine
friend at each shoulder, inspecting the result of his toil.
[Illustration: COUNTESS, THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND.
(_After Landseer’s painting._)]
He had a liking--as what painter of animals has not?--for lions; and
those in Trafalgar Square which guard the Nelson Monument, prove how
well he understood them.
“They are not bumptious,” he said, “nor do they swagger; but look (I
hope) as though they might be trusted ... and are all gentleness and
tranquillity till Nelson gives the word.”
There is no doubt that Landseer’s memory will live. As man and
artist his claims are great. He deserves to be counted among the
world’s benefactors for the impulse his work has given to the right
appreciation and treatment of the dog. If as great and widely known an
artist had patronized Pussy, we should find her better treated to-day,
and certainly better understood. Mind painted her with wonderful
fidelity, but he lacked the dramatic instinct of Landseer. Pussy was
Pussy to him--he never imagined in other situations than those he saw.
It was not in him to create a feline Diogenes and Alexander.
[Illustration: THE CRITICS.
(_Landseer’s portrait of himself._)]
Sir Edwin has passed from us, but Rosa Bonheur still lives, and
still occupies her serene life with the art she loves. There is a
well-known and charming picture of her earlier self, with the dark
hair tossed back from a bright, courageous face, and one arm resting
in calm assurance of mutual good-will on the neck of a shaggy steer.
This indicates a preference both personal and artistic. She has always
delighted in painting cattle; and the patient oxen of the Nivernais, no
less than the picturesque, long-haired cattle of the Scotch Highlands,
attest her loving study of their ways. Deer, too, she enjoys painting,
and horses; while Wasp, the terrier, will hold his own even beside
Landseer’s canine portraits.
[Illustration: PAUL PRY, A MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
(_After Landseer’s painting._)]
Mlle. Bonheur’s home at Fontainebleau is fairly alive with pets; sheep,
horses, goats and dogs; creatures with pedigree and without it;
creatures famous for their beauty or remarkable for their rarity. Not
only does she entertain peaceable, home-loving animals, but also such
fierce inmates as lions and tigers. From one of the former was painted
her magnificent “Old Monarch,” which fronts squarely the spectator
like one “every inch a king.” Her “Tiger” is the faithful likeness of
a pet brought to her as a cub from the jungles of Bengal. Nero was
his well-bestowed name--a name appropriate to the latent power and
ferocity which might become terribly apparent should he ever have the
chance or wish to exert them. But this has never happened. Temptations
to naughtiness are carefully removed from his path, his will is rarely
crossed, his tastes are consulted. Roomily lodged, amply fed, he is
probably the most civilized tiger in existence.
Mlle. Bonheur is convinced of his affection, but it is doubtless as
fortunate for the world as for herself that she never entered his cage.
This superb favorite cost about three thousand dollars, and as His
Majesty’s meat diet is also very expensive, he may be accounted in more
ways than one a dear pet.
Several wild horses were at one time added to the studio “properties”;
and lately a Russian nobleman presented Mlle. Bonheur with a couple of
magnificent Russian bears, to which she is said to be much attached.
Paris is a city dear to artists, and almost every nationality is
represented in its salons. Henry Bacon, for instance, is American;
and among the paintings and sketches that fill his studio, are many
reminiscences of his far-off home. In no way, moreover, is he so
genuinely American as in his devotion to pets. It is a pity that in
many cases their beautiful portraits are all of themselves that remain
to him. Most notable among them, and perhaps also best beloved, was
Glen, a black-and-tan collie from Aberdeenshire, born in 1879, whose
parents, Jock and Miss, had both obtained prize medals.
[Illustration: AN OLD MONARCH.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
Miss made a rather careless mother--often allowing her puppies to
wander out of sight; but this was pure absent-mindedness--for when
in their rovings beyond the kennel they came to grief, she appeared
conscious of her maternal short-comings, and employed all her
intelligence to serve her little ones.
[Illustration: WASP, ROSA BONHEUR’S PET TERRIER.
(_After Rosa Bonheur’s painting._)]
The farmer who had charge of the kennels, stepped out of his cottage
one morning into the first snow of the season, to be met by Miss in
a state of terrible excitement. She jumped upon him, pulled at his
coat, and neither caress nor threat could quiet her. At last, having
thoroughly attracted his attention, she made a dash down the avenue,
looking back over her shoulder as she ran. The farmer, being versed in
“canese,” understood that he was expected to follow--and followed!
Without diverging to right or left, or running in curves, as is the
habit of shepherd dogs, Miss preceded him through the fresh-fallen
snow down the avenue and across a field, stopped at the edge of a large
post-hole, and after looking down rushed back to hurry up the help she
was bringing. Her favorite pup, Glen, had gone out on an early morning
voyage of discovery, had fallen into this hole, and would have perished
there but for this timely aid.
Nor does the story end here. After Glen was pulled out, and on his way
home under the farmer’s great-coat--for he was only a little thing,
not yet a month old--Miss staid behind, and with much scratching
and barking filled in the hole, being of opinion, probably, that
post-holes, like barn doors, should be closed after an accident has
happened.
[Illustration: THE HORSE FAIR.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
A few months later Glen went to live in Tunbridge Wells, England, with
his brother Jock, and if they had not quarreled, would still be, in all
likelihood, a British subject; but owing to their many disputes, Glen
was sent abroad. The next summer, and indeed each summer of his life,
has been passed on the Normandy coast at Etretât. From what he knows
of Glen’s character, Mr. Bacon does not think him entirely to blame in
these family quarrels. Besides, his brother Jock’s short life was not
exemplary, for it was reported that he bit a child; and although the
child recovered from the bite, “it was the dog that died.”
[Illustration: THE LION AT HOME.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
Glen, being a shepherd dog, is delighted when he encounters upon the
downs a flock of sheep, and if not called off, will instantly herd
them into a compact, frightened mass, much to the distress of their
guardian and his dog. When he cannot find sheep, he will amuse himself
by gathering together the hens and chickens he finds in an orchard;
and once, in default of these, while his master was sketching on the
sands of Mont-Saint-Michel, he herded the fishermen’s children who were
playing at low tide beyond the town. Unheeded by his master, he had
made a wide circle round the children, frightening them together like a
flock of sheep; and when discovered, he was capering round the group as
though the task had been set him of keeping them together.
Glen is well remembered at Mont-Saint-Michel, for besides this
performance, and besides leaping from the battlements when in his hurry
he could not find the stairway--he showed what seems to be his only
ambition--that of whipping a dog of twice his own size. After several
days’ premeditation, he attacked a big fellow brought from Newfoundland
by one of the fishermen, and--as usual--was unsuccessful, although he
evidently thought he might have succeeded if he had not been pulled off.
[Illustration: GLEN AND HIS MASTER AT ETRETAT.]
Glen is as fond of the water as any spaniel, and will bathe in the
breakers, leaping clear of the surf on the crest of the waves, and has
been very useful in shipwrecks of toy boats--rescuing and bringing them
safe to land to the great joy of their youthful owners.
[Illustration: Glen
Born in Aberdeenshire
Oct. 29 1879]
Every evening before he and his master retire for the night, they take
a walk. It often happens that his master has a friend spending the
evening with him, who, in Glen’s opinion, stays later than he should
stay. In this case, when the clock has struck the half-hour after ten,
Glen becomes uneasy, rises from his rug before the fire, stretches
himself, looks around, and, creeping up to the visitor, gives him a
gentle poke under the elbow. Of course he is ordered to lie down by
his master; but if the visitor is not acquainted with the ways of the
household, he is charmed with the dog’s attention, gives him a friendly
pat, and declares that Glen does not bother him. Shortly afterwards,
the guest is surprised to find the dog again beside him, sitting up on
his haunches, and gently scratching his sleeve with his paw; and he
does not discontinue his impolite hints so long as the visitor stays.
If the visitor is an _habitué_, when Glen begins his caresses he looks
at his watch, and in spite of his host’s apologies, promises Glen
that he will go in a few minutes. Often, when alone, the master will
be occupied in the evening with book or pen until, feeling a gentle
nudge at his elbow, he looks up to find the large brown eyes of his dog
fixed upon him. This is a friendly hint as to the hour, and one which
certainly prevents unduly late hours for both master and dog.
A well-known artist in New York, Mr. F. S. Church, makes frequent and
delightful studies of animals and birds--although not so much for their
own sake, perhaps, as for that of some thought to which they are the
fit accessories. Now it is a maiden wandering in desert places, alone,
save for the savage beasts her innocence has tamed. Now it is an Alpine
shrine where rain and snow have beaten against the patient Christ upon
the cross. But still the pent-roof of the shrine affords some shelter;
and beneath it, along the outstretched arms, or nestling close to
the thorn-crowned head, is a flock of birds. The storm-beaten little
wanderers have found refuge where many a one has come before--with the
Christ, at the cross.
[Illustration: MR. CHASE AND KAT-TE.]
Here a group of feathered mourners singing a dirge for the last rose of
summer; there a witch’s daughter in mystic converse with an owl.
Decidedly more realistic is the sketch called “At Rest,” of a monkey
extended in that hopeless rigidity which can never be mistaken for
life. There is something curiously touching in the stiffened form--a
look of almost human protest against fate--as though death had arrested
him at the very moment when he was about to become a man.
Another sketch represents a stray cat which thrust its head into the
studio one day, and stared for a moment at its occupant, with great,
astonished, yellow eyes. From mingled motives of humanity and art he
tried to detain her, but in vain. As silently as she had come she
vanished, although--like the grin of the cat in Wonderland--her stare
remained after her head had disappeared, thus enabling the artist to
transfer it to paper.
[Illustration: _Lilla Cruikshank’s little dog._]
It will be guessed from all these possible pets that Mr. Church had no
actual ones. Such is the case, and a great pity it is that this petless
master and a few masterless pets cannot meet! His loss, however, is
somewhat balanced by the gain in a neighboring studio, which belongs
to Mr. William M. Chase. It is rich in artistic bric-à-brac and
paintings, but the special decoration when I saw it, was a Russian
deer-hound named Kat-te. The magnificent, snow-white fellow lay upon a
Turkish rug, whose rich tints set off to perfection his own Northern
fairness. He rose, at his master’s request, to shake hands and exhibit
his beautiful form in its height and length. He even condescended to
lay upon my palm for a moment his clean-cut, delicate muzzle, but soon
wearied of exhibition, and went back to his _dolce far niente_ on the
rug.
Kat-te was found by Mr. Chase in Harlaem, and, at that time, spoke
Dutch, as a dog may. It required some time to teach him English;
nevertheless, he now understands that language also. And yet more, when
he met a party of Russians on the street one day, and was addressed by
them in their own language, he showed the greatest delight and emotion.
He tried to follow them home, he was restless, he was excited, and thus
evinced in canine fashion, not only his philological attainments, but
also his faithful Russian heart. Some idea of his noble proportions may
be gained from the accompanying picture.
The caricaturist Cham had a dog called Azor, as well-known as himself;
and Du Maurier’s Chang, a very beautiful, sagacious dog, figured, while
living, in many of his master’s sketches, and by his death grieved all
who knew him.
George Cruikshank’s Lilla was a docile, affectionate little creature,
and, like most studio pets, figures occasionally in his master’s
work. The drawing given here is from the original in Madame Tussaud’s
exhibition. It is well stuffed and mounted, and purports to be the
veritable Lilla; but although its history was inquired into both by the
artist who sketched it, and myself, we failed to get even the smallest
crumb of information. Its identity, therefore, must be left an open
question.
Dante Rossetti had a collection of pets which, in its whimsical
variety, can only be likened to that of the naturalist Buckland.
Armadillos and wombats were included, but decidedly the most notable
was the zebu. One of the artist’s biographers gives an amusing account
of the creature. It was an intractable subject for petting, and put
an end to all attempts in that direction by one day tearing up by the
roots the little tree to which it was tethered, and chasing its owner
all round the garden. After this exploit, it was given away; Mr. Knight
says that Rossetti, when discussing his pets, past and present, was not
much given to talk of the zebu.
[Illustration: LADY TANKERVILLE, WHO HID HER KITTENS IN THE HEAD OF
STORY’S STATUE OF PEABODY.]
Roman studios are as well supplied with live “properties” as American
or English ones. Will the visitor who has once seen it ever forget that
charming staircase, vine-wreathed, flowery and musical, which, although
in the busy Piazza di Termini, still keeps an air of forest seclusion?
It is the passage to a studio equally retired, fashioned like a nest in
the ruined baths of Diocletian. Paintings, bits of tapestry, etc., form
a background for various marble inmates, whose serenity is interfered
with neither by cat nor dog. It is the staircase, covered with wire
netting, that holds the favorites. Pigeons inhabit the upper part,
and keep up a continual flutter at the latticed window, their wings
gleaming silver in the sunshine. Lower down are musical blackbirds; I
remember especially among the latter one beautiful fellow, who shrank
back, mute, at the approach of our party, but answered his master’s
call at once, and perched, lightly as thistledown, upon his arm.
This master, the sculptor Ezekiel, like most bird-lovers, does not
allow cats in his home. He might possibly train Pussy into tolerance,
and so have a happy family--only--he does not like cats! which, to
a cat lover, seems queer. However, even if unconsciously, he must
have some secret understanding of their nature; for in his studio is
a marble Judith with arm raised to strike, who, in her magnificent
fierceness, recalls, far from ignobly, the feline race.
Elihu Vedder’s pets might be expected to wear a rather tragic and noble
air, appropriate to the illustrations of the Rubaiyat; but on the
contrary, they have a commonplace appearance of well-being. The studio
pet one year was an asthmatic small dog, who had thrown himself upon
the artist’s compassion--a grateful, subdued, unassuming object, which,
after each spasm of coughing, would look around with a deprecatory
expression, as if to apologize for the disturbance. Some intelligent
cats, and another small dog, in this instance possessed of vivacious
health and spirits, keep the artist’s home lively, and compete with one
another for his favor.
A third studio in Rome is that of the sculptor Story. Many famous
statues have here been “born in clay and resurrected in marble”--among
them that of George Peabody. The marble is now in London, but a
colossal plaster-cast remains in the studio.
The philanthropist is seated--a position which allows various
projections, or ledges, within the hollow cast--of which a high-minded
cat once took advantage.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE AND WINDOW OF THE SCULPTOR EZEKIEL’S STUDIO IN
ROME.]
Before reading further, look at her picture. Is she not very much like
some dainty young lady in ball-dress? See how deftly she has disposed
her train, how fastidiously she glances over her shoulder! A cat of
distinction--that is evident at the first glance! She came originally
from Walton-on-Thames, in England, was a present to Mrs. Story, and, in
memory of the donor, named Lady Tankerville. Having an artistic bias,
she chose the studio in preference to boudoir life, and was oftenest to
be found there.
After a while she was known to be the proud mother of kittens, but
where she kept them remained a mystery until several weeks later,
when they were found in--of all places!--the head of George Peabody.
It was a delightfully retired situation, and probably there never were
happier kittens. As an instance of post-mortem philanthropy, it is, I
am convinced, unequalled.
[Illustration: BIMBO, ONE OF THE SCULPTOR STORY’S PETS.]
A fine pug called Bimbo must be added to the favorites that have gone
before. A spoiled but intelligent darling, he sits up for his picture
on a velvet chair, with an air of snug contentment quite irresistible.
His mistress holds him in loving memory; and, since his death, contents
herself with a bisque “puggery,” whose inmates, if liable to breakage,
are nevertheless more easily replaced.
One other pet must close this chapter--a pet already old, but likely
to live many more years without appearing perceptibly older. It is a
tortoise, Babbo by name, which belonged to the sculptor Hiram Powers.
I had the honor of frequent interviews with Babbo some summers past;
and Mr. Longworth Powers did his best to photograph him. A crumb of
moistened biscuit was placed on the broad stone step and Babbo beside
it. No use at all; he either got into a bad position or shuffled out
of focus. Juicy cabbage leaves were brought, but although usually
susceptible to their charm, he now turned from them in scorn. He was
gently coaxed, he was thumped down hard, he was entreated, he was
scolded--all in vain. A good tortoise ordinarily, the bare idea of a
photograph seemed to render him frantic; and after three plates were
spoiled, we were compelled to let him go.
“Mr. Powers’ Babbo,” writes Babbo’s mistress, “always came to the
inner studio door if hungry or thirsty, and scratched at it to attract
attention. Then my husband would take him up, hold him in the water
until he had quite satisfied his thirst, when the creature would waddle
off, perfectly contented. If hungry, he would give him a bit of bread
dipped in wine and water.”
The kind master has gone, but Babbo remains, and still has shelter,
drink and sup in the pleasant Florentine garden.
_VII._
_PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE._
VII.
PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE.
No animal has known greater vicissitudes than our pleasant little
house-familiar, Pussy. He had his day of glory in the far past, when
armies retreated before him; his day of divinity, too, as the mighty
basalt cat-headed goddesses in many a museum still testify. And then,
having had in his life-time all that heart of cat could wish, after
death he became a mummy and received funeral honors.
Just how it happened, no one knows, but a few thousand years later we
find Pussy no longer reverenced. Instead of a divinity he was regarded
as the accomplice of witches, and burned in holocaust on St. John’s
Day, or tormented for the amusement of such evil kings as Philip II. of
Spain. Later still, and final stage of his decadence, he was valued in
direct proportion to his usefulness--becoming now a mere drudge, and
now a joyless plaything for children. Could Egyptian heart have dreamed
it?
But Pussy’s fortunes are again rising. He is no longer a stale
divinity, but he is becoming--what is far better in this age of
progress--a social power! Even in his worst estate he had always warm
friends and admirers; now, he has a party. For, “you either love cats,
or you do not love them,” says a witty author; and statistics go to
prove that those who love cats are the majority to-day.
[Illustration:
CAT-HEADED EGYPTIAN GODDESS, BAST OR BUBASTIS.
(_From a bronze in the British Museum._)]
Pussy has also been fortunate in having two strings to his
bow--personal beauty and utility. No other creature so dainty, so
artistically delightful; a thing of beauty, and--to the appreciative--a
joy forever; no other creature so dexterous in pursuit of mice, so
self-supporting, so acute! Throughout the ages, therefore, through
prosperity and adversity, Pussy, like the Jews, has flourished. The
honors of divinity did not turn his handsome head, and persecution has
failed to uproot his race from the soil.
What a small bit of life he is; yet when absent, how we miss him! Only
think of Wales, in good King Howel’s time; when rats were rampagious,
when a kitten, even before it could see, was worth a penny, and heavy
fines were imposed on whoever should hurt or kill a cat. Think of
Varbach, that little German town where mice ran riot, until at last a
cat was obtained. Think of Whittington; how with a cat in his arms he
sailed to a country where cats were not, and made his fortune--through
the cat! There are skeptics, of course, who call this pretty story a
myth; and very possibly, like some other good old stories, it has put
on with time some of the colors of a fairy tale; but that little Dick
had a cat, and a valued one--so much, at least, may well be true.
The queer bas-relief at Guildhall Museum in London has an appearance
of verity; and as it was found in a house which once belonged to the
Whittington family, and had been occupied in the famous Lord Mayor’s
life-time by his nephew, it not improbably commemorates some actual
fact in the great man’s history.
One of the earliest pet cats on record is that of Prince Hana, an
Egyptian notability who lived several thousand years ago, and between
the stone feet of whose statue was placed the statuette of his cat,
Bouhaki. The latter may still be seen in the Louvre, sitting erect in a
dignified attitude, squarely confronting posterity, so to say, with a
gold collar around its neck, and ear-rings in its ears!
[Illustration: BAS-RELIEF OF WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.
(_At the Guildhall Museum, London._)]
Early in history, also, and more famous than Bouhaki is Muezza, the cat
of Mahomet. Every one knows how the Prophet sat reading one day, with
the favorite curled up in peaceful slumber on the wide sleeve of his
robe; and how, rather than disturb her, when obliged to go, he gently
cut off the sleeve. No wonder, with such an example before them, that
Mahommedans still honor cats.
From Mahomet to Petrarch is quite a step--not only in point of time,
but of character. Nevertheless, these great men had one thing in
common--their affection for cats. Laura was not enough for the poet;
he must also have his little white “micino,” holding it second only
to the lady of his heart, and so mourning its death as to have it
embalmed. This veritable cat may be seen to-day in Petrarch’s house
at Arquà--at least the guide assures us it is the same. For my own
part, I have no more doubt of its identity than of the blood-spot in
Holyrood. I take the one to be Rizzio’s blood; I take the other to be
the immortal poet’s equally immortal cat--and thank my stars I am not
so skeptical as some people!
Lovers of Petrarch all visit Arquà, and, if literary, are very apt to
commemorate the visit with their pen. Such an one was Tassoni, whose
charming verse may be roughly rendered as follows:
“Now rises the lovely hill of Arquà
Which pleases, seen from mountain or from plain,
Where lies he in whose writings
The soul expands like a plant in the sun;
And where his embalmed cat just as when alive
Still guards the illustrious threshold against mice.
“To this cat Apollo granted the privilege
Of remaining intact in spite of time,
And of having its manifold honors
Made eternal in a thousand songs;--
So that the sepulcher of mighty kings
Is surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”
Several hundred years after Tassoni, an American pilgrim went to Arquà,
and added his own pleasant tribute to the thousand songs; protesting
that--
“we cannot well figure to ourselves Petrarch, sitting before that
wide-mouthed fire-place, without beholding also the gifted cat that
purrs softly at his feet, and nestles on his knees; or with thickened
back and lifted tail, parades loftily around his chair, in the haughty
and disdainful manner of cats.”
Tasso also had his pet; sad, hapless poet that he was, there was need
of all the comfort he could get. Doubt not but that often his tears
fell warm on Pussy’s fur; and that in her companionship he found solace
when other solace there was none. To this little friend he addressed a
sonnet, begging her, since lamps were denied in his prison, to light
him with her eyes.
Other famous Italians have shared the taste of these poets; among whom,
probably, may be included Andrea Doria. Some writers assure us that
he detested cats, and kept one only to remind him of the conquered
Fieschi, whose badge it was. Be this as it may, the animal who sits
beside him in the ancient portrait at Genoa has an undeniable air of
well-being. If an enemy, it has been treated with respect; if a friend,
it is also an equal, and returns the old admiral’s gaze with proud
directness.
St. Dominic’s hatred of cats is more than offset by the affection which
various popes have shown them. Gregory the Great had a much-indulged
favorite, and Leo XII. had a number. One big cat of grayish-red called
Micetto he presented to another friend of the feline race, the famous
Chateaubriand, as a mark of his esteem.
Pius IX. also had his pet--a superb “_gato soriano_,” which was always
present at his frugal meals, sitting beside him, and claiming its full
share both of food and attention. A very pleasant sight it must have
been, to see this benign old pontiff taking his _passegiata_ in the
gardens of the Vatican, with Pussy sedately pacing at his side. When,
after a while, the link of companionship was broken, and Pussy paced
from this world to another, no pet succeeded him. “I am too old for new
friendships,” said his master; “moreover, death may come to me next,
for my cat and I have both grown old in the Vatican.”
A still more ardent cat-lover in Italy was the aged Archbishop of
Taranto, who died about the beginning of this century. His pets had
their regular meals corresponding with his own; and a guest was once
much amused by hearing him ask a servant during dinner whether the
cats had been served. “Yes, monsignore,” the man gravely answered,
“but Desdemona prefers waiting for the roasts.” Desdemona was a white
Persian, both in color and disposition a complete contrast to her huge
black mate, Othello.
When the archbishop was eighty-six years old, a friend called upon
him rather earlier than usual one morning, and was rewarded by this
pretty scene: the venerable, white-haired old man in dressing gown and
slippers, seated at the breakfast-table, with two great tortoise-shell
cats on chairs beside him, alertly watching his hand for bits of bread,
and purring in the most affectionate manner between mouthfuls.
Cardinal Richelieu was devoted to kittens, rather than cats, finding in
their companionship the relaxation he needed after toil. They lived in
his room, in handsomely lined and cushioned baskets, so that he might
see them whenever he chose. But no sooner were they three months old,
than he had them removed and a new supply brought in. One white Angora
passed the fatal period and retained her place as favorite-in-chief so
long as she lived. Her usual lounging-place was His Eminence’s table,
among his books and papers. In the picture painted by Champaigne, there
are three different views of the famous cardinal, and one can easily
fancy the delicate, sarcastic countenance bent towards his pets, and
occasionally relaxing into a smile at some extra kittenish gambol.
[Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU, FRONT FACE AND SIDES.
(_From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne._)]
Our English Cardinal Wolsey also had a fondness for cats, and more
than once was found by some great dignitary amusing himself with
a kitten. One favorite was sometimes seen with him in the Council
Chamber; and it may well have entered into the final sum of his
offenses that he preferred the society of intelligent cats to that of
empty-headed bigwigs!
In the last century there was a Mlle. Dupuy living in France, of whom
few people now know anything; but who, nevertheless, in her own day had
a reputation as an exquisite performer on the harp. Furthermore, she
possessed a cat who had also some claim to be called an authority in
harpistry. Before a performance in public, Mlle. Dupuy would rehearse
privately before him. He always listened with critical attention, and
if any notes displeased, would growl. Such notes she always amended,
trying them over until he ceased growling. The lady never married, and
when in course of time she died, her will was found to provide, among
other bequests, for the maintenance of this little friend and critic.
Sad to relate, however, the will was set aside by grasping relatives,
and Pussy’s fate is unknown.
Fourier had a magnificent cat--a great pet--in his house at Lyons; and
it is recorded of this rather grim philosopher, that he could never see
a pretty cat or kitten on the street without stopping to caress it.
Lord Eldon, the jurist, had a room full of cats, and once when, owing
to some bone of contention, they grew extremely noisy, went into the
room and solemnly read the Riot Act--with what effect we are not told.
Lord Chesterfield gave all his cats--and they were many--a life
pension, that they might not suffer, after his death, from some other
master’s indifference. More fortunate than Mlle. Dupuy, his will was
carried out.
A very famous cat, indeed, is the one that befriended Sir Henry Wyatt
in his hour of need. According to the epitaph on his monument, this
gentleman “was imprisoned and tortured in the Tower, in the reign of
Richard III.,” where he “was fed and preserved by a cat.” In manuscript
family papers the story is more fully told, as follows:
“He was imprisoned often; once in a cold and narrow tower where he had
neither bed to lie on, nor clothes sufficient to warm him, nor meat
for his mouth. He had starved there, had not God, who sent a crow to
feed his prophet, sent this his and his country’s martyr a cat both to
feed and warm him. It was his own relation unto them from whom I had
it. A cat came one day down into the dungeon unto him, and, as it were,
offered herself to him. He was glad of her, laid her in his bosom to
warm him, and by making much of her won her love. After this she would
come every day unto him divers times, and, when she could get one,
would bring him a pigeon. He complained to his keeper of his cold and
short fare. The answer was ‘he durst not do it better.’ ‘But,’ said Sir
Henry, ‘if I can provide any, will you promise to dress it for me?’ ‘I
may well enough,’ said the keeper, ‘you are safe for that matter’; and
being urged again, promised him, and kept his promise, dressed for him
from time to time such pigeons as his caterer, the cat, provided for
him. Sir Henry, in his prosperity, for this would ever make much of
cats, as other men will of spaniels or hounds; and perhaps you shall
not find his picture anywhere but--like Sir Christopher Hatton with his
dog--with a cat beside him.”
It is a charming, bright little story for those dark days.
A reverse story to that of Sir Henry Wyatt belongs to our own days;
the story of a nameless cat saved from starvation by Henry Bergh. Many
have been the deeds of heroism in the world, many have been the medals
awarded for such deeds; but when all are duly weighed in the balance
this deed too shall have its reward of fame.
[Illustration: THE TWO-LEGGED CAT THAT BELONGED TO DR. HILL OF
PRINCETON COLLEGE.]
A kitten had been walled up by the workmen, in an iron girder at
the base of a building, and the walls had been laid to the second
story, when Mr. Bergh heard what had happened. First, he pleaded for
the innocent victim, but without avail; then, appealing to the law,
he compelled the walls to be taken down, and thus Pussy at last was
removed from what--without his interference--would have proved her
living grave.
It is worth recording in this connection that a few years ago the
Albert Medal was presented to a seaman who rescued various lives from a
sinking ship. The last one saved was the ship’s cat--the brave sailor
crying as he swung her into the boat:
“Life before property!”
Animals have had their full share indeed, of human misadventure at
sea, and have added many a tragic element to the always tragic tale of
wreck. A few years ago, for instance, the Black-eyed Susan was lost at
Scarborough. The wreck was several hours in going to pieces, during
which time they rescued the crew in the life cradle. One man was six
hours in the rigging before he could be got off. And (a friend tells me
this, who heard it from an eye-witness of the scene) the first thing he
did upon reaching the shore was to draw from his bosom a little kitten
which had been his especial pet. The man wept like a child when he
found that his little friend had perished in spite of all his care. A
woman from the same ship brought off a dog successfully.
Turning to “scientific” patrons of cats, we find that Sir Isaac
Newton--if history tells no fibs--not only had Diamond, the little dog
who upset a lighted candle among his manuscripts, but also a cat, and
at least one kitten. So much is certain, for to give them means of exit
and ingress, he cut two holes in his barn door--a big hole for the
cat, a little hole for the kitten! One really hopes this story may be
true--it is so delightfully unsophisticated for a philosopher.
Another man of science, Sir David Brewster, began life with a great
dislike of cats. In later years there were so many mice in his house,
that after her promise never to let Pussy appear in the study, he
permitted his daughter to give the trap a feline assistant. Pussy,
however, was no party to this contract, and, knowing what utter
nonsense it was, took matters into her own claws.
Writes this daughter, Mrs. Gordon:
“I was sitting with my father one day and the study door was ajar.
To my dismay, Pussy pushed it open, walked in, and with a most
assured air put a paw on one shoulder, and a paw on the other, and
then composedly kissed him. Utterly thunderstruck at the creature’s
audacity, my father ended by being so delighted that he quite forgot
to have an electric shock. He took Pussy into his closest affections,
feeding and tending her as if she were a child.”
When after some years she died, both master and mistress grieved
sincerely, and never had another pet.
And finally, grave Princeton College has had a pet, which was also a
phenomenon, in the shape of a two-legged cat--biped from birth--but
a most cheerful, healthy, engaging little creature, dark maltese in
color, with a white star on her breast. Her fashion of walking was
queer, but lively, as the sketch by Dr. F. C. Hill of Princeton will
show.
Brought from a New York village to this college town, she adapted
herself to her new home with the ready pliability of youth, became
everybody’s pet in general, her master’s in particular, and was in all
ways a thoroughly charming, though whimsical baby-cat. Her virtues
were all her own, while her faults, like those of other kittens, were
doubtless due to there being no kittychism. Such is the reason a modern
writer assigns for feline errors, and it carries with it conviction. As
the kitten is bent, the cat will certainly be inclined.
Pussy’s course in life was destined to be brief as brilliant. In the
spring of ‘77, Dr. Hill was absent a fortnight. He came back to find
his small friend dead. He had left her vivacious and merry--now she was
only “a body.” “Poor Kitty,” he wrote, “was well and happy while I was
with her. I really think she pined and died as much from loneliness as
anything else.”
To say that she was missed, is idle; it could not be otherwise with so
bright and loving a creature. Love wins love, the world over, and where
love comes, love follows. Our poor little Pussy’s heart was all her
master’s; it resulted that in his heart was a corner all her own.
Her body was sent, in the interests of science, to Prof. Ward of
Rochester, N. Y., and by him the skeleton was prepared and mounted. It
is now in the museum at Princeton College; so that Pussy remains as
serviceable after death as it was her warm will to be in life.
_VIII._
_AN ODD SET._
VIII.
AN ODD SET.
Our exclusive world is apt to choose its pets like its garments--in
accordance with the fashion of the day. Still, there are always a few
people who prefer choosing for themselves; and from this independence
queer intimacies often result. Accident, too, not infrequently cuts the
knot of custom; while, furthermore, it is true of all that propinquity
works wonders. We come by degrees to like what we live with; and
discover merits on long acquaintance that a shorter one would not
reveal.
White rats and mice, for instance; they make delightful pets. Thomas
Bailey Aldrich says that he--no--that little Tom Bailey had white mice,
and that Miss Abigail couldn’t bear them. It was lucky the thought
never occurred to him of taming the common brown rats, or Miss Abigail
would have had convulsions. Anything more uncanny, more utterly at
variance with civilization, it would be hard to imagine. To see them,
reconnoitering in cellar or back yard, so homely, fierce and shrewd,
so seemingly untamable, full of device as the Old Serpent, and, like
him, inspired with a wicked intelligence, is to feel half doubtful
of their right to exist. And yet they can be tamed, and often have
shown genuine affection for their tamers. They are fond of music,
too--a trait of which the Pied Piper took advantage, to coax them out
of Hamelin Town. In quite another way they were persuaded to leave
Stilf--an exodus quite as strange as that from Hamelin, although less
widely known, through lack of a Browning to put it in rhyme. The story
is this:
In 1519, in Tyrol (a time and place very credulous towards magic),
lived a well-to-do peasant called Simon Fluss--that is, he formerly
was well-to-do. Now, his prosperity had received a check--his crops
were destroyed by field-rats. They ate the seeds, the young stems, the
developed grain, until the farmer found himself face to face with ruin,
and was fairly badgered into self-defense. Not, however, by traps or
terriers did he uphold his rights; no, he brought the matter into a
court of law. Notice was served duly, and a time appointed for hearing
the case. Advocates were chosen for each side, witnesses were examined,
and finally--all legal forms having been observed--judgment was passed
to this effect:
“Those noxious animals called field-rats, must, within two weeks,
depart, and forever remain far aloof from the fields and meadows of
Stilf.”
Those who, from extreme youth or illness, were unable to travel so
soon, had another two weeks allowed them. Where the rats went to, no one
knows.
The most remarkable friend of rats on record, is Susanna, Countess of
Eglintoune, who died more than a hundred years ago, at the great age of
ninety-one. She had a brilliant youth; natural distinction, beauty and
wit combined to make her the brightest star in the society where she
moved. In old age, still beautiful and witty, she tried the effect of
her charms on rats, as before on human beings, and with equal success.
A sliding panel was constructed in the oak wainscot of her dining-room;
and the great feature of the day was when, at a certain stage of the
dinner, she would first tap loudly on the panel, then open it. Obedient
to the signal, a dozen fat, comfortable rats would emerge, and join her
at table. After a bountiful meal of such things as are dear to rats,
the tap would be repeated, the panel opened, and back would go her
long-tailed guests, even as they had come, with perfect decorum.
One rat lived a long time with the naturalist Buckland, and became
quite domesticated, wandering at will around the study, examining books
and papers, and helping himself from the sugar-bowl. As he was too
modest, or too shy to eat before folks, and as a space of nearly two
feet separated the table with the sugar from the mantel where stood
his cage, Mr. Buckland put up a little ladder. The rat easily learned
to climb it, even when loaded with plunder. Judy, a small marmoset,
inhabited the same mantel, and the pair had a reprehensible fashion of
stealing each other’s food.
Buckland’s pets being as various as his interests, the house was full
of them, and a queer lot they were! Joe, a pet hare, also occupied the
study, but being averse to civilization, he would hide by day, and
only come out at night, hopping across the room--if he thought himself
unobserved--to the fire-place, where he would sit up on his legs, so as
“to warm his white waistcoat.”
Tiglath-Pileser was a bear, who for a short period attended college
with his master, went boating with him, and to parties, and like him
wore cap and gown. He once was present at a meeting of the British
association in Oxford, and had the honor of being introduced to Sir
Charles Lyell, and the Prince of Canino. After so brilliant a career,
it is doubly sad to relate that Tiglath-Pileser fell under the ban of
the college authorities, and was rusticated for an indefinite period.
He died some years ago at the Zoölogical Garden in London.
Jenny (from Gibralter) and Jacko the Capuchin (from South America)
were monkeys, and an unfailing source of diversion to Buckland and his
friends. Jacko was very delicate, and each year, as winter approached,
was provided by his master with a warm close-fitting dress. In spite
of this care, he one year grew sickly and thin. Oil was prescribed for
him, but refused, until by a happy thought he was allowed to steal
it. Even theft, from a commonplace, safe saucer, grew monotonous; and
erelong he was detected thieving his medicine at the risk of his life
from a lighted lamp.
Other interesting, if less amusing pets--an eagle, a jackal, countless
marmots, dormice, squirrels, etc.--evince the interest felt by
this lovable scientist in the objects of his study--an interest as
affectionate as scientific. Indeed, it is very reassuring to find
scientific people more often than otherwise the possessors of hearts as
well as brains. Occasionally something happens to make us doubt their
humanity, like the experiment of a modern physiologist, who, after
teaching a dog to regard him as its friend, had it killed, and the
blood of another dog transfused into its arteries. “No sooner was it
injected,” we are told, “than the inert head became animated, the eyes
opened, and on the Professor calling the dog by its name, it attempted
to answer with a caressing look.” Surely, as with Desdemona, that
last look of ill-rewarded affection will rise in judgment against the
experimenter!
[Illustration: SALLY.
(_Zoölogical Gardens, London._)]
A greater physiologist, Professor Agassiz, would not have pets. He
must experiment, and he said that when he came to feel for an animal
the affection of intimacy, experiment became impossible. And then, when
it was a question of experiment, a good fortune, peculiar to himself,
attended him--whatever he wanted was sure to turn up, whether a rare
specimen or common one; whether bird or insect, fish or reptile. Birds,
indeed, were his familiar friends, and he had a faculty of taming them
not unlike that of Madame George Sand. Snakes, too, were friendly; and
I have myself seen him put his hand in the water, and a little fish
move tranquilly back and forth between his outspread fingers. If he
had lived in the time of those great primeval creatures--mammoths,
pterodactyls, and the like--he certainly would have been on friendly
terms with them.
It may be said in passing that the first skeleton of a pterodactyl ever
seen was discovered by an English woman--Mary Anning of Lyme-Regis.
She became a capital geologist, and made many important “finds.” Her
assistant, although devoted, and, to her, invaluable, is not so well
known, being only--a little dog! He was, so long as he lived, the
companion of her walks; and when she found a valuable specimen embedded
in the rocks, would stand guard until she could get it removed, sharing
faithfully in her toil, and grudging her none of the glory.
Very little appreciated in general are pigs! Pork is one thing, the pig
another. The merits of pork are well understood; the merits of Piggy
doubtful. Charles Lamb could sing with delicious enthusiasm the praises
of roast pig--that “young and tender suckling, under a moon old,
guiltless as yet of the sty”; but if he had been asked to take Piggy,
unroasted, alive, into his good graces, he probably would have declined
with a shrug.
But still, to a degree, the pig is appreciated. Jerrold’s sketch,
called “The Manager’s Pig,” had a foundation in fact. The manager of
a London theater, anxious for novelty, had a play written expressly
to bring a pig upon the stage. It was very successful, and after a
run of forty nights, it was suggested that the principal actor should
be prepared for the manager’s table, and the other actors invited to
partake. Whether this was done I cannot learn. A poor reward, indeed,
for Piggy--the glory of being eaten!
The old poet, Robert Herrick, had a pet pig, and did not find his
affection for it at all inconsistent with writing lovely verses to
violets, daffodils, roses and fair maidens. Sir Walter Scott had a
similar pet; so had Miss Martineau, and so had Lord Gardenstone, of
legal fame, who cultivated his favorite’s society to a degree quite
unusual. In its pigdom it followed him everywhere, and even shared his
bed. But, says Chambers, “when it attained the mature years and size
of swinedom, this, of course, was inconvenient. However, his lordship,
unwilling to part with his friend, continued to let it sleep in the
same room, and, when he undressed, laid his clothes upon the floor as a
bed for it. He said that he liked it, for it kept his clothes warm till
the morning!”
This was even outdoing Mr. Hawker, the clergyman, whose eccentric
ways have been so delightfully described by Baring-Gould. Gyp, a
black Berkshire pig, was one of his eccentricities. Being daily
washed and curried, it grew up cleanly and intelligent, and followed
its master exactly like a dog. It even followed him into ladies’
drawing-rooms--not always to the satisfaction of those present. In this
case, he would order it to go home, and it would obey, slinking off
with an air of conscious disgrace, and its tail hanging limply, out of
curl.
Gyp was not the only pet at the vicarage; birds, horses, a pair of
stags and a family party of nine cats added considerable variety to
the good clergyman’s life. Especially the cats! They convoyed him, like
a bodyguard, to and from church, and either frisked in the chancel
during service, or, rubbing up against him, purred an accompaniment to
his prayers. One black-letter Sunday the best-loved cat of all yielded
to temptation--forgetful of the day, she caught a mouse! Never again
was this sinner allowed to enter the church its conduct had disgraced;
hereafter, eight cats only formed their master’s escort--the ninth
staid at home in solitary shame.
How delighted Mr. Hawker would have been with a squirrel which was once
chronicled in the New York Tribune. Its owner is a member of the great
family Anonymous, but, thanks to his humorous, sympathetic observation,
the personality of his(?) pet is more distinct. “He began life,” says
the Unknown, “by tumbling out of the nest when an infant. He fell into
the hands of my nephew, then at Harvard, and lived in his pockets. He
could be put to sleep at any moment if made to stand on his head--which
was odd but convenient. He always went to recitation, which must have
been very gratifying to the professors.”
The little fellow had a moral nature as well as keen wits, and knew
perfectly well when he was doing wrong.
“His chief sin was tearing off slivers of wall-paper. I would then pick
him up and say, ‘Oh, you naughty squirrel! what have you been doing?’
and carry him round the room. When I got near the place, his guilty
conscience invariably compelled him to shriek. Then I would flick his
nose, and say, ‘Go away, naughty squirrel!’ and he would fly to a
corner of the room, and fling himself on his stomach, with his fore and
hind legs stretched out to their extreme length, and his bushy tail
curled over his back and down his nose, to conceal his shame.”
Once he was ill for several weeks, and his teeth grew so long that in
order to save his life it became necessary to take him to a dentist. He
kicked furiously, but the operation was successful. “Although not much
hurt, his rage and indignation at the whirligig thing dentists use were
unbounded, and his shrieks brought people in from the streets to know
what was happening.”
The fate of this amusing patient we are not told.
From the squirrel to the despised skunk is no very long step, nor is it
an unpleasant one--popular prejudice to the contrary. One gentleman,
at least, has had the courage to study its habits, and to introduce a
number of young skunks into his home. At different times he had ten.
From some he removed the scent-bags, but the majority retained them,
and behaved with the utmost propriety. They were coaxing, kittenish
little creatures, and responded to his caresses with delightful
readiness.
Crowley--late favorite in Central Park--was a chimpanzee of enlarged
culture. He was often photographed, and once was painted by the artist
J. H. Beard. He “took his reg’lar meals,” used spoon and napkin with
propriety, understood the meaning of plate and cup, drank from a glass,
and when his meal was ended, would assist digestion by a series of
gymnastics, before which the feats of Milo pale. Like royalty of old,
he dined in public, and a crowd was always present to witness the
ceremony.
Sally, who adorned the London “Zoo,” had not been so well trained in
table refinements; but in other respects was quite as remarkable as
Crowley. She seemed to understand every look and tone of her keeper;
she performed many knowing little tricks, had a keen sense of humor,
and crowned her achievements one day by sitting for her photograph. I
remember her in exactly this pose, mutely examining with great critical
eyes the crowd of visitors, and I could not help wishing I knew her
thoughts. But she kept them to herself, and only by an occasional
snicker did she betray the fact that we amused her.
* * * * *
Among the famous people who have interested themselves in hares may
be mentioned the dashing Prince Rupert (Boy’s master), and the shy,
melancholy poet, Cowper. The association was doubtless accidental
with the Prince; but with Cowper it was the result of strong natural
sympathy between himself and these timid creatures of the woodland.
He contributed to the Gentleman’s Magazine, I believe, a delightful
account of his pets; and was almost childishly pleased by the present
of their picture, drawn for him by a friend.
[Illustration: _Cowper’s Tame Hares._]
“They look exactly like other hares,” said an undiscriminating lady;
but the poet did not agree with her; for him each had its differing
ways and whims, its own individuality. Little Puss, for instance,
grew quite tame, was affectionate, and grateful for kindness; while
Tiney would not suffer the slightest caress--being gruff and surly, a
little Diogenes in fur; and Bess never had to be tamed, but was docile
from the first, and took a humorous delight in playing tricks on her
companions. Bess died young, surly Tiney lived nine years; and Puss,
the best beloved of all, died of a hare’s old age when within a month
of completing his twelfth year. Deep was his master’s grief; long and
sincere his mourning.
The slow tortoise has had almost as many friends as the agile hare, but
none more famous than Mr. Gilbert White of Selborne. In 1770, while
visiting an old friend, he observed in her garden a land tortoise,
which had been there, she told him, for the last thirty years. Timothy,
the pet’s name, spent nearly half of his life in retirement, but in the
other half had learned to recognize his mistress and to come at her
call. On her death, some ten years later, he passed into the possession
of Mr. White; and in March was dug out of the ground to accompany his
new master to Selborne. He took the transfer in high dudgeon; so much
so that immediately on arriving he went into winter quarters again,
and staid there until May. The fourteenth of this month he walked out
in the garden, and found it more to his mind than he expected, with
nice paths, soft, short grass, and plenty of succulent vegetables. He
gained rapidly in health and spirits, and after a few months was able
to dictate a letter for Miss Mulso, a letter almost as good as that of
little Nero to Carlyle.
After telling her that by birth he was a Virginian, and that he had
been kidnapped into England, he speaks of his happy life with the
lady now deceased, as contrasted with the disquietude he suffers in
having a naturalist for a master, and being all the time a subject
for experiments. “Your sorrowful reptile, Timothy,” he concludes.
What became of him eventually, I cannot say. Turtles are proverbially
long lived; but if Timothy is dead let us trust that he left a small
reptilian ghost, still to wander through the garden of his fame.
Quite famous in their day were the chameleons of Mlle. de Saudéry, a
seventeenth century novelist. One of the kindest-hearted women in
France, she was continually giving to the poor, or appealing for the
distressed; so that her fame to-day rests rather upon her charities
than her writings. Her chameleons excited much curiosity, and strangers
went to see them, as one of the sights of the city. The last glimpse we
get of them in history is a post-mortem one, in 1698, when Dr. Martin
Lister visited Paris, and called upon the venerable novelist--then in
her ninety-first year. She made herself very agreeable, and finally,
he says, took him to her closet and showed him “the skeletons of two
chameleons which she had kept near four years alive. In winter she
lodged them in cotton, and in the fiercest weather kept them under a
ball of copper filled with hot water.”
The good lady would have sympathized with Antonia, Mark Antony’s
beautiful daughter, who petted the murenæ in her fish-ponds, and of one
in particular became so fond that she fastened gold ear-rings to its
head--a favor the poor fish could well have spared.
Washington Irving upheld the right of harmless snakes to live in peace;
and a pretty story is told of his preventing a guest from killing
a little striped adder--pointing the lesson of tolerance by gently
stroking his protégé.
The great Goethe was in full accord with this feeling. He kept a
snake for some months, feeding it himself, and caring for it, until
his interest, scientific at first, became personal and affectionate.
The creature became quite friendly, and would uprear its head in
recognition, whenever the master approached.
The poet’s mother once alluded to his favorite--rather femininely--as
“a nasty thing.” “Oh,” said her son, “if the snake would but spin
himself a house, and turn into a butterfly to oblige her, we should
hear no more about ‘nasty things.’ But we can’t all be butterflies....
Poor snake! they should treat you better. How he looks at me! how he
rears his head! Is it not as if he knew that I was taking his part?”
Perhaps, however, even Irving and Goethe, despite their theories, would
have shrunk from the extraordinary pet which Sir Joseph Banks kept in
his library, much to the horror of unsuspecting guests. It was, in
fact, a boa-constrictor!
People of contemplative habits, who enjoy a quiet life among their
books, and hate mortally the intrusion of broom or duster, are very apt
to be interested in spiders. These insects have the same meditative
disposition, and an equal aversion to housemaids. The wise Spinoza
spent his odd moments in training them to recognize signals, and to
have little combats with each other. Magliabecchi, the old Florentine
librarian, had a similar fancy. From morning till night, from night
till morning, year in, year out, he might be found reclining in a sort
of wooden cradle, immovably fixed among piles of books and manuscripts;
and which, in course of time, was further anchored to the surrounding
objects by strands of cobweb. Here he lived, reading volume after
volume with insatiable zeal, eating quantities of hard-boiled eggs, and
cautioning whoever called upon him not to trouble his dear spiders!
Such intimacy would never have suited Fourier, who was horribly
frightened one morning as he lay in bed, by seeing a small spider
on the ceiling above him. Up he sprang; but instead of dressing,
or dislodging the intruder with a broom, he ran from room to room,
screaming for help. “Quick! hurry!” cried the poor reformer; “do
somebody take it away quick!”
The most famous, and undoubtedly the best-known patrons of spiders, are
Mahomet and Robert Bruce. Of the former it is told that he once fled,
hotly pursued by foes, and concealed himself in a cave. Straightway,
an obliging spider threw his web across the entrance; so that when the
enemy came up, seeing it, they said, “No one has been here--for behold
the unbroken web!” and carried the search elsewhere. Thus the Prophet
escaped, and good Mahometans have honored the race of Webspinner since
that day.
The story of Bruce is equally pleasant. The weary king was about to
give up the struggle for his rights, when encouraged by the efforts of
a patient little spider, to “try again,” he did so--this time saving
both life and kingdom.
In the Cricket on the Hearth, Charles Dickens spread the fame of that
friendly little creature far and near. But long before his day, the
eccentric Lord Byron (uncle to the poet) had diverted his bitter old
age by the study of its ways. Human society, except that of a few
servants, he would none of; but for hours together would lie upon the
ground, playing with the crickets he had tamed, making them perform
tricks, and--if they displeased him--whipping them with little wisps of
hay.
From so moody and misanthropic an old gentleman, it is a pleasure to
turn to a lady now living--an artist--who cultivates crickets on social
principles, and reaps duly a large social reward.
The following account of her pets has been sent by a friend.
“The crickets of Miss C----’s studio days were considered such a
curiosity that she had letters from California and all over the
country, asking about them and the care of them. Her end and aim was
to raise crickets from the eggs, laid in glass globes in the studio,
that would sing in the winter, when all the summer crickets were
frozen up in the fields, beneath the snow; crickets to sing to her all
through the long winter nights, when the wind would be howling down the
chimney, and the sleet beating against the windows.
“Years and years gave no success, beyond a few, that were sure to
die before the end of January; but at last, just the winter before
she married, there was one sweet singer which made music for her all
winter long, and which she trained to sing in the ruffle of her neck.
Better yet, it liked to sit and sing in the ruffle at her left wrist,
while the hand kept very quiet, holding the mahl-stick at the easel.
Meanwhile, Toodles, the immense maltese trained cat, would sing an
accompaniment from the rug before the open grate fire.”
Now is not that a picture of cheery cosiness and comfort! I trust the
lady will pardon her separation from other artists and their pets, in
consideration of the pleasant glow her open studio door lets shine upon
the Odd Set.
[Illustration: Helix Desertorum]
Who would ever think of a snail becoming famous? Such is the case,
however; and in the Museum of Natural History, at South Kensington, the
very hero may be seen of whom we write. Also his portrait, together
with his story, enlivens the pages of Dr. Woodward’s Manual of the
Mollusca, under the heading of _Helix Desertorum_. He was brought with
other specimens, in 1846, from Egypt; and having so withdrawn into his
shelly house that it seemed empty, was gummed to a piece of cardboard,
numbered, named, and placed in the museum. Here he lay for four years,
in a kind of Rip Van Winkle slumber, his very existence unknown, until
in 1850 he woke, and tried to walk off from the card. But to do this,
he must have abandoned his well-gummed house, and such a sacrifice
was not to be thought of. So he snoozed again, until an inquisitive
scientist noticed his footprints, immersed him in warm water, and thus
at length released him from “durance vile.” His picture was drawn, his
history noted, and then--no higher distinction being possible for a
snail--he was disposed of, let us say. He ceased to be, and only his
shell remains.
A yet more wonderful pet has lately died in Edinburgh at the age of
certainly sixty years, and very possibly more. Its name was Granny,
and it was a sea-anemone. Found on the wild Berwickshire coast, in
Scotland, in 1828, it remained with its discoverer until 1854, and then
passed into the care of Prof. Flemming. By him it was placed in the
Botanic Garden of Edinburgh, and there lived a peaceful if monotonous
life. Every two weeks it was given half a mussel, which was the only
food it required. But lack of incident was no drawback to fame; and,
like “Helix desertorum,” Granny was sketched, described, and visited.
More wonderful yet, it possessed an album, wherein famous visitors
inscribed their names, and whose autographic treasures will long
commemorate the tranquil fascinations of Granny!
With these odd characters may be counted Sir John Lubbock’s wasp.
We usually think of wasps, in the language of a modern humorist, as
little creatures, very inflammable in their nature, and hasty in
their conclusions, or end. The wasp in question seems to have been
gentler-tempered or milder-mannered than the majority of her race; and
came to be on sociable terms with her scientific friend. Like so many
pets, she was short-lived. “In her last hours,” says Sir John, “she
would take no food, though she still moved her legs, wings and abdomen.
The following day, I offered her food for the last time, but both head
and thorax were dead or paralyzed; she could but wag her tail. So far
as I could judge, her death was quite painless, and she now occupies a
place in the British Museum.”
The quaintest, most pathetic pet in history, I take it, was the fly,
which set out--very gaily, no doubt--with other flies, in a ship bound
to Spitzbergen. One by one, with the increasing cold, his companions
perished, until at last he was left alone. It was no great comfort
that the sailors cherished him as never fly was cherished before; and
erelong, despite the tenderest care, he turned over on his back and
died. He was honored with burial, and even with tears, as the last
frail link, at home’s antipodes, with home.
To conclude this Odd Set, there can hardly be anything odder than the
story of a toad with which formerly I was well acquainted. His summer
residence was the shady, cool brick floor of a kitchen porch, with a
cistern conveniently set in one corner. He was a portly, contemplative
fellow, and had no objection to receiving flies from the human race. It
was his habit to come out from retirement towards evening, and sitting
on the well-curb, imbibe the evening air and insects. On one of these
occasions he was seen by a grave college professor and a student of
strong experimental bias who--noticing the June fireflies sparkling all
around--were seized with the desire to give him a light meal.
It was quite to his taste, and he swallowed a number of flies. But even
his capacious stomach had a limit, and when it could accommodate no
more, he sat motionless and pensive on the curb. And then there was a
curious sight. He had absorbed the fireflies so rapidly, that though
imprisoned, they were still alive; and, beginning to glow, they turned
their captor into a kind of Chinese lantern. Actually, he was lit up
from within, and a soft luminousness shone through his thin membranous
throat. Erelong the glow ceased--the “slaves of the lamp” were dead. It
was an uncanny, goblin-like sight; but my own sympathies, I confess,
were rather with the lights than the lantern.
_IX._
_MILITARY PETS._
IX.
MILITARY PETS.
Ælian tells us that among the Greeks at Marathon fought one soldier who
had a favorite hound. As the two were friends and fellow-soldiers in
life, so in death they still lay side by side upon that immortal battle
field. And, says Ælian, their effigies were placed together on the
memorial tablet, to the end that their fame might live long after their
bodies were dust.
Was it not finely done--to commemorate with the man that died for his
country the animal that died for his master?
There have been many similar instances of canine devotion; yet it
must be confessed that with dogs as with men, less lofty motives
occasionally lead them into war. A restless, happy-go-lucky turn of
mind has inspired many a four-footed one with the wish to be a soldier,
and carried him with credit through the campaigns.
Pure adventurousness animated Bobby, a pet of the Scotch Fusileers, and
gave him a fame out of all proportion to the small body now preserved
in the United Service Museum in London.
In this curious and little known collection there are many interesting
objects--from the sword which Cromwell used with such fatal energy at
Drogheda, to a petticoat once worn by Queen Elizabeth. Why the latter
should be in a military museum it is hard to say, unless, indeed, it is
regarded in the light of feminine armor. But Bobby’s right to be there
is indefeasible. A dog of war, he can rest better nowhere than amidst
the military surroundings so dear to him in life. Very sagacious he
looks, seated dog-fashion on his haunches, and gazing alertly forward
with a knowing cock of the head.
Of low degree--a mere butcher’s dog--he nevertheless, like Napoleon,
possessed a great soul in a little body. All he needed to rise from
the ranks was an opportunity, and erelong it came. When, in the spring
of 1853, a battalion of the Scots Fusileer Guards was stationed at
Windsor, Bobby began to haunt the barracks. The butcher, his master,
came for him several times and took him home, only to find his place
vacant again the next day. He yielded at last to the inevitable, and
Bobby went his way without hindrance. A soldier he would be; a soldier
he was; and, as his True History relates, never failed to be first on
parade, and was always ready to forage. In 1854 he embarked on the
Simoon with his friends for the Crimea. The first day out, he came near
being thrown overboard as a vagrant, but being claimed by the entire
battalion, was allowed to stay.
[Illustration: BOBBY, THE DOG WHO WOULD BE A SOLDIER.]
He served at Malta, Scutari and Varna; was returned as missing from the
Alma, but reappeared in time for the wild battle storm of Balaklava.
Surviving this, he was heard of next at Inkermann, where he proved his
courage by chasing spent cannon balls over the bloody field. A medal
rewarded this feat, and was worn by him suspended from a collar of
Fusileer buttons linked together in a chain. He was present at several
other battles; and when, after the fall of Sebastopol, the battalion
returned to England, Bobby marched into London at its head--the
observed of all observers.
And now it might be supposed that he would rest on his laurels and grow
old in peace. Alas! he had escaped from Balaklava only to meet destiny
in London. In 1860 he was run over by a cart, and instantly killed.
Some say it was a butcher’s cart--which would imply a certain prosaic
justice in his fate--the profession he had scorned thus avenging itself.
The poodle Moustache enhanced the glories of the Consulate and Empire.
He was present at Marengo and at Jena; he once detected a spy; he saved
several lives; and finally, at Austerlitz, when the standard-bearer
of his regiment fell mortally wounded, he sprang forward, seized the
colors from the very grasp of the enemy, and bore them in triumph to
his fellow-soldiers. It was the deed of a hero, and its recompense
was such as heroes love. Maréchal Lannes received Moustache upon the
field of battle, praised him, thanked him in the name of all, and then,
bending down, fastened to his neck--the cross of the Legion of Honor!
Another dog of war was Pincher, who accompanied the Forty-second
Highlanders. In the days when Napoleon’s empire hung trembling in the
balance, this valiant terrier threw his own small influence into the
scale against him, and gallantly barked and capered at Quatre Bras
until wounded by a ball. Even then he refused to leave, and waited
on the field for his friends. Somewhat later he charged with the
Forty-second at Waterloo, came off unhurt from that tremendous field,
entered Paris with the allies, and in 1818 brought his laurels home
to Scotland. As in Bobby’s case, accident closed the life which the
chances of war had spared: while out rabbit-hunting, poor Pincher by
mistake was shot.
Then there was Dash, who served in the Royal African Corps, and made
it his special mission to examine the sentry rounds, and wake up any
sentinel who might be napping at his post. Many a drowsy soldier had
occasion to thank him, and he remained chief favorite with the corps
until his death.
Dogs have distinguished themselves in the navy as well as on land. Sir
John Carr tells the story of a Newfoundland on the English ship Nymph.
During an engagement with the French ship Cleopatra, the men at first
tried to keep their pet below. In vain; he escaped them, and ran up
on deck, barking furiously, with every sign of warlike rage. When the
Cleopatra struck her colors, he was among the foremost to board her,
and promenaded her deck with a proud and lofty air, as one who felt
that his share in the victory was not small.
Another Newfoundland, well named Victor, served on the Bellona, in the
battle of Copenhagen. So courageous and cheerful was his mien amidst
flying balls and smoke and roar of cannon, that the men could not
refrain from cheering him, even in the hottest of the action. After
peace was signed at Amiens and the troops were paid off, the men of the
Bellona had a farewell dinner on shore.
Honorably mindful of their four-footed comrade, seat and plate were
kept for Victor at the table. And there he sat, dignified and sedate,
among the veterans, sharing their roast beef and plum-pudding. They
drank his health, too, and doubtless he responded in his own fashion to
the toast. Finally, the bill was made out in his proper name, and--but
here the parallel with human “diners out” ceases. It was settled by an
adoring crowd of friends.
Another naval hero was Admiral Collingwood’s Bounce, who barked
stoutly through various battles, and who to undoubted courage joined
no inconsiderable amount of vanity. After his master was raised to
the peerage, Bounce put on all the airs which the sensible admiral
had dispensed with--behaving, said the latter, as though he, too, had
become a “right honorable.”
But the most delightful dog of war within my knowledge is little Toutou
of the French Zouaves. Once upon a time, when they were to leave France
for Genoa, an order was passed, forbidding dogs on shipboard. Fancy
the dismay of these pet-loving soldiers! What could be done? Each man,
as his name was called, had to pass into the ship by a narrow gangway,
with officers stationed at each end; and to conceal a dog under such
circumstances was clearly impossible. At this crisis some inventive
genius suggested unscrewing the drums, and concealing within them as
many as possible of their pets. No sooner thought of than done; and so
far, well. But now, like a thunderbolt out of a serene sky, came the
horrid order: “Let the regiment embark to the sound of fife and drum!”
There was no escape; the drums must be beat, and they were.
Simultaneously with the sound, and smothering it, arose a lengthened,
ear-piercing howl.
“What! Where!” cried the officers in consternation.
No sign of a dog anywhere, yet the louder the drums resounded the
louder swelled the canine chorus. At last a spaniel fell out of an
imperfectly screwed drum, and the stratagem was revealed. Then, amidst
roars of laughter, each drummer was obliged to advance alone, and beat
his instrument. If there was an answering howl, the drum was at once
unscrewed and its occupant ejected.
Only one dog ran the gauntlet successfully, and this was Toutou. Again
and again the drum was struck in which he lay concealed, but only its
own reverberations answered, and the drummer passed unsuspected. Once
fairly out at sea, his pet was released. He remained with the Third
Zouaves throughout the war; and when at its close they entered Paris,
who should be seen proudly marching at their head but Toutou, the dog
whom the drum-taps could not scare!
A dog-loving soldier in our own army was the Hungarian General
Asboth, a man of indomitable fire and courage. “Stilled, saddened,
but not bitter,” says Mrs. Frémont, “he held fast to his faith in the
progress of liberty. It was only natural that stray dogs should meet
with kindness from him.” Two special favorites, York and Cream, were
afterwards left by him to this lady’s care. Anything canine was dear to
his heart:
“Mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And cur of low degree,”
and it came to be well understood in camp that all stray dogs were
to be brought to the general. He was a noticeable figure, riding the
rounds in a suit of white linen and great cavalry boots, with a noisy
four-footed retinue at his heels.
From an eye-witness comes the following story. General Asboth returned
one day from a scouting expedition with a bullet through his shoulder;
and as there had been little fighting up to this time, the accident was
a great event. There happened to be in camp a young volunteer captain
of engineers on “detached duty.” Swelling with a pleasant sense of his
own importance, he thought proper at this crisis to call and offer his
services. The old general thanked him: “Mine own officers are very
good,” said he; “they do everythings for me. But, Captain, there is
a thing; if you would go through the camp and find my little dog-pup
which was stole, I would be so much obliged.”
This chance of distinction was not appreciated. “At last accounts,”
said my informant, “he had not yet begun to search for the ‘little
dog-pup,’ and the remarks he made in private were quite frightful to
hear.”
From Asboth to Frémont is a natural transition. They were friends and
comrades; they had in common the traits of courage and enthusiasm; they
had a like disdain of pettiness, and capacity for silent endurance; and
they had also, as you might expect in natures so sound at core, a great
affection for animals.
“For ourselves,” writes Mrs. Frémont, “dogs have always been part
of the family. I do not know, indeed, how boys can be happy without
them.... To the General some of ours were friends and companions,
especially a noble staghound, Thor. They walked together, they could
talk together; a sort of Indian sign-language belonging with old
experiences made Mr. Frémont proficient in sign and eye language, and
Thor knew that.
“Thor’s father, Thor the First, belonged to Charlotte Cushman, and for
years was part of the hunt in the Campagna around Rome. She brought her
dog home, and thinking death near her, gave it to a friend of mine who
had a beautiful Scotch deer-hound of pure breed, Sheila by name. Sheila
had been given to my friend’s brother-in-law, an officer on duty in
Arizona, at Yuma, by an Englishman who came there intending to hunt.
Fancy hounds coursing over that cactus!
“Our Thor was son to the traveled Sheila and Miss Cushman’s dog, who
had traveled also, but in civilized places. We took him with us to
Arizona, and there he died, of fever partly, partly of old age, for
he was eleven, and hounds give out young. He was nearly human in
intelligence--more than human in loyal attachment and undeviating
memory. He and Pluto, a thorough-bred coursing hound, were the two who
were longest with and closest to the whole family.
“Pluto was own cousin to Master Magrath, the famous hound. He was a
gentler nature every way than Thor, who was grand, dignified, without
attachments or associates except in his (our) own family; reserved, and
withdrawing himself from all attentions--even those of our friends.
Yet he had intense devotion to the General, to both my sons, and to
my daughter, and was very fond of me too, but in an indulgent sort of
way, because I belonged with the rest. He had sense and a faithful
heart. The latter gave him great pain; for to a dog you cannot explain
that a parting is not necessarily final; and it was saddening to see
his distress when the General would go away in Arizona. And when
after weeks or months he returned, there was always a general rush to
move small tables, etc., out of range, for Thor would go wild over
him, leaping up to lick his face, jumping wildly about him, putting
his great paws on the General’s shoulders, and rubbing his grizzled
muzzle against the General’s face, with cries almost human, and
painful, hysterical joy. Everything had to give way to him. He had
to be petted and quieted down like an excited baby; but even in his
sleep, afterwards, he would cry out and quiver all over, and the waking
would be a subdued repetition of the first joy. Thor’s name is never
carelessly mentioned even now, six years after his death.”
Mrs. Frémont has also commemorated, in her “Story of the Guard,” a
little terrier named Corporal, which belonged to the band of gallant
young men known as General Frémont’s Body-Guard. He was not pure-bred,
but that did not matter--sense and fidelity being happily independent
of birth. He had joined the Guards while they were in camp at St.
Louis, became a general favorite, and when they made their splendid
charge at Springfield, Mo., charged with them. The wild dash over, he
remained on the field all night with a wounded soldier, sped away for
help when morning dawned, coaxed and pulled until he persuaded a man to
follow, and thus succeeded in saving his friend’s life. In memory of
this brave deed the men bought him a collar, bright as red leather and
silver could make it, with the inscription:
CORPORAL,
THE BODY-GUARD’S DOG.
Springfield, Oct., 1861.
But although dogs are such good soldiers, they are no braver than
horses; while Pussy, their hereditary rival, keeps fairly abreast with
them in war as in peace. The Grenadiers’ Cat was contemporary with
Bobby, a courageous sharer in several hard-fought battles, and one
of the lamented slain at Balaklava. Another regimental cat was found
by Colonel Stuart Wortley, after the storming of the Malakoff, with
one foot pinned to the earth by a bayonet. He took her to a surgeon,
who dressed the wounded paw; and after her recovery, adopting her
preserver, she used to follow the colonel “all over the camp, with her
tail carried stiff in the air.”
Deer, and even lambs, have served in the army with credit, we are told.
One military deer “liked biscuit. But he always knew if a biscuit had
been breathed on, and if it had he would not touch it. He was very fond
of music, and used to march in front of the band. Sometimes a person
would come in between him and the band, and he would seem to be quite
cross about it.”
An unusual pet, which like the king never dies, is the goat of the
Royal Welsh Fusileers. When one goat ceases to be, another immediately
succeeds him. The incumbent now, alas! deceased, and whose portrait
is given here, was a fine white Billy from the royal herd at Windsor,
presented to the regiment by the queen. Apropos of his decease, an
officer wrote at some length in the London Graphic concerning these
famous goats. He quoted from the Military Antiquities of Grose, showing
them to be an ancient institution.
“The Royal Regiment of Welsh Fusileers has the privileged honor of
passing in review preceded by a goat with gilded horns and adorned with
ringlets of flowers; and although this may not come immediately under
the denomination of a reward of merit, yet the corps values itself much
on the ancientness of the custom.
[Illustration: THE DEER THAT MARCHED AHEAD.]
“Every first of March, being the anniversary of their tutular saint,
David, the officers give a splendid entertainment to their Welsh
brethren; and after the cloth is taken away a bumper is filled round to
H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, whose health is always drunk the first on
that day; the band playing the old tune of ‘The Noble Race of Shenkin,’
when a handsome drummer-boy, elegantly dressed, mounted on the goat,
richly caparisoned for the occasion, is led thrice round the table in
procession by the drum-major.
“It happened in 1775, in Boston, that the animal gave such a spring
from the floor that he dropped his rider upon the table, and then
bounding over the heads of some officers, he ran to the barracks with
all his trappings, to the no small joy of the garrison.”
The officer goes on to say that “the same goat which threw the drummer
accompanied the regiment into action at Bunker’s Hill, when the Welsh
Fusileers had all their officers except one placed _hors de combat_.
What became of the Bunker’s Hill goat, we do not know; nor can we
say how many successors he had between the years 1775 and 1844. In
the latter year the regimental goat died, and to compensate the
Twenty-third for its loss, Her Majesty presented the regiment with
two of the finest goats belonging to a flock--the gift of the Shah of
Persia--in Windsor Park. Since that date the queen has continued to
supply the Royal Welsh Fusileers with goats as occasion has required.
Billy--‘Her Majesty’s Goat,’ as he is styled--bears between his horns a
handsome silver shield or frontlet, surrounded by the Prince of Wales’
plumes and motto, with the inscription: ‘The gift of Her Majesty, Queen
Victoria, to the Royal Welsh Fusileers. A. D., MDCCCXLVI. _Duw a Cadwo
y Frenhines._’
[Illustration: THE WELSH FUSILEERS’ GOAT.]
“Billy always marches at the head of his battalion, alongside of the
drum-major.”
From this account, it would almost seem as though Billy had a share in
placing all his officers but one _hors de combat_ at Bunker’s Hill.
If such was the case, then he undoubtedly contributed to the American
victory on that occasion, and I do not see why a grateful nation should
not place his portrait in the Old South. Billy as a corner-stone of
American Independence--that is certainly a new side-light upon history!
Of all creatures, the most unfit for war appear to be birds; yet they,
too, have had their share of military vicissitudes and military fame.
Geese have shown a genuine vocation for soldiering, and often have been
seen waddling over a battle field with derisive composure, as though
it were no more than a quarrelsome barnyard. The Romans honored them
hardly less than their national eagle, ever after the geese of the
Capitol gave the alarm, and enabled them to drive back the Gauls. If
Rome was saved, to the geese was the glory!
A modern goose for twenty-three years accompanied an Uhlan regiment,
and yet another, Jacob by name, joined the Coldstream Guards in Canada.
He had been living in the usual barnyard retirement of fowls when one
evening, as he was returning home from a little trip outside, a fox
gave chase. All would soon have been over with Jacob had he not spied
a sentry near by and taken refuge between his feet. The fox was shot,
and henceforth, so long as a sentry was stationed at this place, the
grateful bird would join him on his beat.
Some two months later he repaid his preserver by saving the latter’s
life, when he in turn was attacked. Flying at the enemy, and beating
his wings in their faces, he so disconcerted them that his friend was
enabled to kill part and beat off the rest.
A gold collar, with suitable inscription, was his reward; and Jacob, in
high favor with all, accompanied the battalion to England. In London he
shared its barracks and had a sentry-go of his own, until one luckless
day he was run over by a cart and killed.
A great contrast to Jacob, morally, was the raven Ralph, which Thomas
Campbell saw in garrison at Chatham. He was one of those clever,
swaggering, disreputable, yet kind-hearted rascals who so often enlist;
who are always in hot water, and who, nevertheless, make many friends.
Ralph had a fluent tongue, and his “Attention, Corporal!” “Turn out,
Guard!” and “Sentry go!” often cheated the listeners. His wings had
been clipped, but in other respects he enjoyed all the freedom his own
reckless habits permitted; and when in an excess of curiosity he fell
over into a water-butt and was drowned, there was general lamentation,
as though he had been a very upright bird instead of an extremely
depraved one.
[Illustration: OLD ABE.]
A pleasanter story is that of the little bantam cock which perched on
the poop of Lord Rodney’s ship during a great battle with the French,
flapping his wings and crowing shrill defiance. It is a pleasure to
know that this tiny hero never figured on the dinner-table, but was
carefully provided for so long as he lived, by the admiral’s special
orders.
There has been no more famous pet in our own military history than Old
Abe, the eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Regiment. From being at first
the pet of a company, he rose to be the pet of a regiment, and finally
of the nation, being supported at the public expense from the close of
the war until his death. He has been photographed and painted; he has
had his biography written; has been exhibited for the benefit of the
Sanitary Commission, and was an honored guest in Philadelphia at the
Centennial. More lucky in one respect than human celebrities--he was
never annoyed by requests for his autograph!
It is tame to say that in war he stood fire like a veteran; in truth,
he thrilled with a wild excitement in battle. Its smoke and roar and
carnage were his proper element. Borne always next to the regimental
colors, his perch was seamed with bullets; and why he was not, the
enemy’s sharpshooters could never tell. Sometimes he would soar high
above the fighting, and, poised in mid-air like one of Homer’s deities,
survey the fearful scene. He shared all the battles of the regiment,
and died full of years and honors.
Always beautiful and picturesque in his best estate, the horse is never
more so than in connection with war. Here, more than elsewhere, except
on the race-course, he has fame and a career. His interests no longer
conflict with those of his master; the honor of each reflects credit on
the other. As under different circumstances he might be an excellent
carriage-horse, so now he is an excellent soldier, and knows “the keen
delight of battle with his peers.”
Achilles had his Chestnut, his Dapple, and his Spry; Hector, too, had
his favorites--Whitefoot and Firefly; but far more famous and certainly
more authentic, is Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander. Plutarch relates
the whole beautiful story: how Philip of Macedon paid a great sum for
the horse, only to find it quite unmanageable. Just as he was ordering
its removal, the young Alexander, who had been watching the futile
efforts of the grooms, begged leave to try his hand. By a method
similar to Rarey’s--by gentleness, confidence and a firm hand--he won
Bucephalus. Henceforth, the two were fast friends and fellow-soldiers.
They fought together in Asia, accompanied part of the time at least by
Peritas, a great Molossian hound. Once Bucephalus was captured by a
party of barbarians, but they wisely surrendered him in time to avert
the king’s vengeance.
Wounded in the great battle with Porus, and worn out by age, this noble
horse died in India on the banks of the Hydaspes. His monument was
a city, built on the spot where he died, and named after him by his
master. The pair are commemorated in various ancient works of art, of
which the most notable is a great mosaic, now in Naples, representing
the battle of Issus.
Next to Bucephalus might be placed the black horse which Cæsar rode
during his campaigns in Gaul. It had curiously divided hoofs, whence
the augurs predicted good fortune to its rider; and, as though to
preserve that fortune for one alone, it would let no one mount but
Cæsar. Its after-fate is uncertain--except that the master of the world
was not ungrateful, and placed the statue of his good servant before
the temple of Venus in Rome. Possibly its history is summed up in the
story Suetonius tells--that Cæsar ordered the horses which had served
him in Gaul to be consecrated and maintained without labor the rest of
their lives. Among them, it is more than likely, was the nameless steed
of good augury.
A thousand years later we find the famous Cid in Spain riding Bavieca
to victory, and mindful of his horse’s welfare even in the hour of
his own death. “When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep!” says Ruy Diaz, “for
shameful thing were it that he should be eat by curs.”--“And this good
horse lived two years and a half after the death of his master, and
then he died also, having lived, according to the history, full forty
years.”
Yet another group of centuries, and what equine hero is this, standing
firm as a rock, small, but deep-chested, in color a rich chestnut,
and gazing at us with large velvety eyes?--who but Copenhagen, the
war-horse of Wellington!
A grandson of the great racer, Eclipse, he had wonderful powers of
endurance, and combined good temper with sagacity. The Duke rode
him for eighteen consecutive hours at Waterloo; and then, says he,
“thinking how bravely my old horse had carried me all day, I could
not help going up to his head, to tell him so by a few caresses. But,
hang me, if when I was giving him a slap of approbation on the hind
quarters, he did not fling out one of his hind legs with as much vigor
as if he had been in stable for a couple of days!”
After the war was over he was taken to Strathfieldsaye, the Duke’s
country-seat; and there, an object of general interest, spent the rest
of his days in honorable leisure. It is true that this distinction had
its drawbacks. Young ladies would entreat the “kind duke” or the “dear
duchess” for a little of Copenhagen’s hair to set in a ring; until
finally, his neck growing bare of mane, and his tail threatening to
become a mere stump, his admirers were forced to content themselves
with such stray hairs as might fall. A fine paddock was assigned him,
with a summer house at one corner, opening into it by means of a
wicket. Here he would come daily to receive bread and gentle petting
from the duchess.
With age his eyesight partially failed, and his teeth grew so poor
that he could not eat oats unless they were broken up beforehand. He
was twenty-seven years old when he died, in 1835. He was buried in
his paddock, with military honors, and a small circular railing still
marks the spot. Some person--unknown--stole one of his hoofs, which
poor memorial is now preserved in the same museum as Bobby, together
with the skeleton of Marengo, the horse of Wellington’s great rival,
Napoleon.
Various horses have served with credit in America; but more renowned
than any--glorious as Roland “who brought good news from Ghent”--is the
one that bore Sheridan to Winchester, and enabled him to turn defeat
into victory. He was coal-black save for a small white star in the
forehead, beautifully formed, and full of fire. From 1862 until the end
of the war, he was present in ninety battles, and several times, but
not seriously wounded. The climax of his fame was that wild ride when--
“With foam and with dust the black charger was gray.”
It roused a storm of enthusiasm at the time; nor will a memory soon die
which like this has received such splendid praise in art and song. So--
“Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky--
The American soldiers’ temple of fame--
There, with the glorious general’s name,
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
‘Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight
From Winchester--twenty miles away!’”
_X._
_ANIMALS AT SCHOOL._
X.
ANIMALS AT SCHOOL.
A good deal of time is devoted, especially of late years, to the
education of animals and birds. The simplest form of training is that
which adapts them to our service, and teaches them to recognize and
obey the different words of command.
Sir Miles Fleetwood would have been poorly off indeed if his horse had
not understood the meaning of whoa! and had the discretion to obey it.
A London magistrate under James I., he was, according to Aubrey, “a
severe hanger of highwaymen, and the fraternity were for revenge.” They
caught him riding alone one night, set him on horseback beneath the
gallows, with his hands tied behind him, fastened one end of a rope to
the gallows’ arm, the other being noosed around his neck, then left him
to his fate.
“So he cried ‘Ho, Ball! Ho, Ball!’ and it pleased God that his horse
stood still until somebody came along, which was a quarter of an hour
or more. He ordered that this horse should be kept as long as he
should live, which was so; he lived till 1646.”
The history of animals abounds in examples of their intelligence and
docility; and probably no one who has a favorite animal has failed to
notice some such instance for himself.
[Illustration: LOVE LEADING THE ORCHESTRA.
(_After painting by A. Gill._)]
The idea of teaching animals to perform tricks is certainly a very
old one. The trained horses, dogs and elephants of our modern circus
had their predecessors more than two thousand years ago, in Roman
amphitheaters.
We learn from historians that, when Tiberius was emperor, his kinsman
Germanicus exhibited a play in which the actors were elephants. They
were dressed in regular garments, danced, performed various tricks,
and finally, at a given signal, seated themselves around a table on
couches spread with velvet, and concluded the performance by eating
and drinking with perfect propriety. A modern artist has amusingly
represented this ancient bit of comedy.
Plutarch mentions a trained dog which was exhibited before Vespasian,
in the theater of Marcellus, and which won great applause from that
jolly emperor.
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANTS OF GERMANICUS.]
Coming down to the middle of the seventeenth century, we have a print
of “The Cat Showman” surrounded by a cat orchestra in a state of
high performance; we have also the famous “chestain-coloured naig,”
Morocco, which was exhibited in Scotland; and which “being trained up
in dancing, and other conceits of that kind, did afford much sport and
contentment to the people, but not without gain, for none was admitted
to see the dancing without two pence the piece, and some more.” His
master Banks, to borrow Anderson’s entertaining account, would ask--
“from twenty or thirty of the spectators a piece of gold or silver,
put all in a purse, and shuffle them together; thereafter he would bid
the horse give every gentleman his own piece of money again. He would
cause him to tell by so many pats with his foot, how many shillings
the piece of money was worth. He would say to him: ‘I will sell you to
a carter’; then he would seem to die. Then he would say, ‘Morocco, a
gentleman has borrowed you, and you must ride with a lady of court.’
Then would he most daintily hackney, amble, and ride a pace, and
trot.... By a sign given him, he would back for the King of Scots, and
for Queen Elizabeth, and when ye spoke of the King of Spain, would
both bite and strike at you--and many other wonderful things. I was a
spectator myself in those days.”
[Illustration: THE CAT SHOWMAN.
(_Fac-simile of a print of the seventeenth century._)]
The mule Marco, whose tricksy, sagacious countenance confronts us in
the photograph along with that of his master, Pinta, was the delight
of little Florentines and Romans, not to mention their elders. His
tricks were the ordinary ones, but whatever he did was rendered
original by the indescribable air of humorous intention with which it
was performed. He had always the air of voluntarily combining with his
friend Pinta to play a practical joke upon the spectators; and it was
impossible not to enjoy the situation, when after some particularly
knowing performance, Marco would slightly turn his head over his
shoulder, and glance at the audience out of the tail of his eye, as if
to say: “You are great fools to be taken in with so little; I could do
bigger things if I cared to try.”
[Illustration: PINTA AND HIS MULE MARCO.]
The poor shoemaker, Bisset, a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott,
succeeded after a year and a half of patient effort, in teaching his
pig to perform a number of tricks. Not only would it answer to his
name, obey signals, kneel down, stand erect on its hind legs, and bow,
but it would pick out certain letters with its foot, and form them
into words. Still “curiouser and curiouser,” to quote Miss Alice, it
would add up a column of figures, and put the correct sum total below.
So wonderful were its feats, that both master and pig came near being
killed by an excited audience, as the possessors of unholy wisdom.
The education of dogs is in itself a profession, and has opened
multifarious employments to those intelligent creatures. The collie
will convoy a flock of sheep to pasture, guard them all day, drive them
into shelter if storms arise, and guide them home to the fold at night.
The dogs of the St. Bernard hospice have been devoted for centuries to
the task of saving life amid Alpine wastes; and they perform this duty
with a patience, zeal and sagacity that no human being could surpass.
Old Barry saved forty-two persons--a record unequaled in any records.
There are firemen’s dogs, who in most cases volunteer for the service,
apparently from pure adventurousness, but have often saved life and
property in the way of their profession. Not least among deeds of
daring was that splendid rush of “Bob, the London Fireman’s Dog” into a
blazing building, whence he brought out alive a poor cat!
[Illustration: HELP, THE RAILWAY DOG OF ENGLAND.]
Help, a collie, has been trained to collect money; is an accredited
agent, in fact, for the “Society of Railway Servants.” “I am Help,”
says the inscription on his collar, “the railway dog of England, and
traveling agent for the orphans of railway men who are killed on duty.
My office is at 306, City Road, London, where subscriptions will be
thankfully received.” In three years this dog collected five hundred
pounds. One can hardly resist the mute, dignified appeal with which
this noble collie approaches you, looks up gravely into your face,
then after waiting long enough for you to inspect his credentials, and
contribute if you like, passes on to another.
Some dogs, like that of Allan Pinkerton, show an aptitude for
detective business, and become valuable auxiliaries; others, in the
service of dishonest owners, become smugglers. Immense ingenuity has
been expended in training them for the latter business, with results
highly satisfactory to their owners, “Le Diable”--so named by French
custom-officers, from his cleverness and daring--in this way made his
master a rich man, and--guiltless outlaw that he was--was killed at
last while smuggling a packet of costly lace.
A more honorable outlet for canine activity has been found in
the Prussian army, where a “Watch-Dog Battalion” is formed. Its
members--usually collies--are trained to carry dispatches, hunt up
stragglers on a march, look for the wounded, and do outpost duty; all
of which they do so well that no soldier could possibly do better.
But it has been reserved for the present decade, and for Sir John
Lubbock, to train a dog to converse. He says that he was struck first
by the applicability to animals of the deaf-mute system (as used by
Dr. Howe with Laura Bridgman), and began to test it on his black
poodle Van. After preparing a number of cards, printed in large clear
letters, with such words as “water,” “tea,” “bone,” “food,” “out,”
etc., he by degrees associated them in the dog’s mind with the objects
they represented, and in a few weeks succeeded in teaching Van their
meaning. When the little fellow wished to go out, he would bring the
card with that word, if food, then that card, and so on; selecting the
desired card from a number of others with evident discrimination, and
greatly pleased with his own success.
Lately too, Prof. Bonnetty and his troupe of feline actors have come
to the fore in Paris, where they have aroused immense enthusiasm. The
professor takes his cats at random from gutters, streets or roofs, as
chance may have it, and for about three months leaves them at perfect
liberty in a large room, quietly observing their dispositions and
manners. At the end of this time he begins to train them--in no case
compelling them by fear. Their education usually requires a year and a
half.
[Illustration: PROF. BONNETTY’S TROUPE.]
Master and pupils are on the best possible terms with each other. Their
“hours in school” are short, their quarters exquisitely tidy, and their
food--of milk, bread and liver--invariably the best and freshest of its
kind.
They are really cats of high culture; the best proof whereof is
the simplicity and ease with which they do difficult things. No
circus-rider ever jumped through hoops, walked ropes, climbed poles or
waltzed over chairs, with greater agility. They sheathe their claws
to live and play in amity with birds and mice. They are “cats with
a conscience,” as the professor says, and their helpless, confiding
little associates have no more fear of them than of one another.
Juno, Sjenni, Maor, Tommek, Blanc, Cæsar, Brutus, Paris, Bruxelles,
Henderik, Swart and Gora were the members of the troupe some years
past--together with Boulanger, a tiger-marked kitten who displayed
“little fear and a great thirst for fame,” and Tyber, the star-actor.
The latter was a wonderful performer, evincing a fine intellect, and,
says De Biez, would certainly have been a god in Egypt!
A parallel may be found for these clever French felines in the Brighton
cats of England. They are more discriminatingly chosen than Prof.
Bonnetty’s actors; but their performances, although different in some
respects, are no more wonderful. One of them, a white Angora, rides a
bicycle with much grace. When fairly started she becomes enthusiastic,
and urges her two-wheeler rapidly along, with an evident enjoyment
that the by-standers find contagious. The tabbies do housework to
perfection, scrub little handkerchiefs or towels in a tub, hang up the
washing, preside over the roast beef of Old England, or the tea things,
skate on rollers, and all with such blithe content and spirit, that
they seem like little witches masquerading in fur.
[Illustration: THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.
FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.
A FAVORITE DIVERSION.
“A SPIN.”
(_The Brighton Cats._)]
One of the most notable efforts at educating Pussy has been
made recently by a Russian, Prince Krapotkine. This gentleman’s
revolutionary sentiments landed him one day in a prison, where he had
plenty of leisure to educate anything he could find. The anything in
this case proved to be the prison cat. His fellow-prisoner, M. Emile
Gautier, being already educated, was a disinterested observer of the
experiment. He reports among other things, that Pussy became very
expert at the game of hide-and-seek. He adds:
“I ought to tell you, besides, that Nature has ornamented my head with
a luxurious mass of hair. Krapotkine, on the other hand, is extremely
bald.... It has often happened when playing with her, that she softly
passed her paw over our respective heads, as if to ascertain that
her eyes did not deceive her. This inspection concluded, and the
visual notions confirmed by touch, her physiognomy took the air of
comic surprise. The variety of sensations perplexed her. Nearly every
evening the scene was gone through, to our great edification, as you
may imagine.”
[Illustration: A CAT WITH A CONSCIENCE.
(_One of Prof. Bonnetty’s Troupe._)]
The birds which act with these different troupes have been
comparatively unimportant, except in connection with their feline
companions. Nevertheless, birds, too, can be trained, and are. There is
a charming pathetic story of a little Sardinian, Francesco Micheli, who
turned his liking for birds to account in earning money for his family.
He trained sparrows, thrushes, linnets, canaries--whatever feathered
creature came within his reach. Some he taught to pipe simple tunes,
others to play hide-and-seek with his white Angora cat; a nest of young
partridges, under his teaching, embraced the military profession,
learned to drill, hold little swords, fire off little cannon, pretend
to be killed, and then come to life again. One of these intelligent
partridges, Rosolotta, grieved with a human grief when her dear master
died, and is said--like “Greyfriars’ Bobby”--to have watched over his
grave so long as she lived.
[Illustration: “TELL ME THY SECRET, BEPPO.”
(_The Roman Bird Girl._)]
I was reminded of this little Sardinian and his pets by a scene I
witnessed one morning in Rome. A crowd of people had gathered near
the broad base of the Antonine column, watching the performance of
four pigeons and three canaries. The little maid with the pigeons was
charming--and so were they--as she bid them tell her their secrets, and
in response they fluttered up her shoulders, and cooed into her ear.
But the true interest of the entertainment--its dramatic part--began
with the canaries. The little actors were sitting in a row on top of
their cage, demurely waiting for orders. Their mistress talked to them
meanwhile, now praising their talents, now admiring their beauty, they
following each motion of her lips with keen, inquisitive glances.
“Thou, Beppo, art a bird of great character, _un gran carattere_!
Really, thou art wonderful! Zirlo, my fine fellow” (to the second),
“what a bird art thou! Who like thee can climb the _scaletta_ (little
ladder)! No one, in truth, and they are base _ladroni_ that deny thy
merits; eh Pippa?” (to the third). “Dost thou hear? _Bellissima!_ One,
two, three, come then, my Pippa, kiss me.” She extended a finger. Pippa
transferred herself to it from the perch, and climbing the arm to her
face, gave a fluttering little salute first to one cheek, then to the
other. After which, hopping back to the finger, she made a droll little
bow, and returned to the perch.
Then it was Zirlo’s turn; and this enterprising bird not only climbed
the _scaletta_, but finding a gun at the top, shouldered it, pulled
the trigger with an infinitesimal claw, and--bang!--who should tumble
from his perch but poor Beppo, and lie perfectly rigid on the ground.
Zirlo’s fit of anger was quenched at this piteous sight; carefully
he examined the stiff figure and at last, picking up an inch-square
pocket-handkerchief with one foot, applied it to his eyes, and wept
bitterly. Then up jumped Beppo, who had only been feigning, and the
two touched bills in token of reconciliation, and waltzed--wing in
wing--fraternally off the stage.
It was a pretty scene--the sunshine, the people, the tiny performers
below, and the mighty column towering high above them--the grandeur of
old Rome looking down upon the present thus lightly amusing itself.
_XI._
_A MENAGERIE IN STONE._
XI.
A MENAGERIE IN STONE.
In Rome there is always something to stir the fancy and quicken the
pulse--always something to recall to the Present the magnificent Past.
Now it is a column or statue, now a ruined palace, and now the vast
fabric of an amphitheater. But the ruins are weighted with such tragic
memories of by-gone Cæsars--their wars, their triumphs, their funeral
pomp--as to be almost oppressively solemn. Let us then leave them
for once, and go where the Past will suggest itself in some simpler,
happier fashion--let us visit a Roman “Zoo.”
No day could be better for the purpose than this sunny one; for the Zoo
has its home in the Vatican, and we need all the sunshine we can get to
counteract its chill. Besides, no matter with how definite a purpose we
set out, once within that marble world we are sure to linger--so many
are the objects that claim the eye. It is only after a lingering stroll
that we at last reach the _Sala degli Animali_, or Hall of the Animals.
An odd world it is, suggesting the pictures of Paradise before the
dispersion of species; a world that includes creatures wild and
tame, familiar and suppositious--birds, harpies, dragons, reptiles,
quadrupeds, Minotaur, insects and fish. Three patrons of the chase
preside, Diana and Hercules at one end of the hall, the imperial hunter
Commodus at the other.
[Illustration: SCULPTURE OF GREYHOUNDS IN THE VATICAN.]
The longer we gaze the stronger grows our feeling that it is in truth
a menagerie, surviving somehow from early days. Only, how very silent!
The last party of tourists has passed on, we are quite alone, save for
these many shapes all around us--and it is hardly in nature that no
faintest sound or movement should be heard. Those graceful greyhound
puppies play with each other in perfect silence; not a footfall nor
crackling twig betrays the flight of yonder deer.
And so, gradually, it dawns on us that although this is life, it is
life long turned to stone. Some Arabian Nights’ enchantment has been
at work, arresting these varied forms in their prime of activity; and,
doubtless, on some future day, at the true wizard’s touch, they will
turn back again from marble into breathing flesh. But that will not
happen to-day, nor yet to-morrow, so we may as well take advantage of
the stillness to see what the menagerie contains.
[Illustration: SCULPTURE OF THIEVING MONKEY IN THE VATICAN.]
A dun cow, not far from Diana, stands snuffing the fresh air with
upraised head; and a horse which once was roan--at least the marble
still bears traces of reddish paint--looks inquiringly toward her.
Near these peacefully-inclined animals crouches a lion, in readiness
to leap upon his prey. In the next group the victim is secured; it
represents a horse pulled down by a lion. Note the relentless grasp of
the one, the helpless agony of the other. Wonderful as a work of art,
it is nevertheless too painful to linger before; we are glad to turn
away. Similar in character are two groups of deer seized by hounds, and
another of a panther devouring its prey.
Here is a wild boar, here the ugly phiz of a camel; here an alligator,
to whose neutral character an existence in marble seems peculiarly well
adapted; and here, at a respectful distance from his jaws, are a cock,
a goose, a pelican, several peacocks and an eagle. The dignity of the
latter is worth noting--its calm, imperial reserve, so indicative of
the Rome whose emblem it was.
Of the monkey hard by it can only be said that he is as perfect as
monkeyish a monkey as ever breathed. He has been stealing fruit,
probably from some old Roman garden, and has made off to this corner to
eat it on the sly, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to
make sure that no one will interrupt.
[Illustration: STAG IN ALABASTER IN THE VATICAN.]
A goat, a rhinoceros and a hyena come next, and then we approach a
most remarkable bust of the Minotaur, that bull-headed, human-bodied
terror which demanded a yearly tribute of youths and maidens, and was
finally slain by Theseus, to the great relief of the Athenian world.
What brutal, pitiless life, what fierce joy in the anticipated victims,
looks out from his eyes and dilates his nostrils! It is a relief to
turn away from the brute and examine instead his near neighbors, a crab
and a green-gray dolphin rising from waves of white marble.
The queer object just beyond is an armadillo with stone scales scarcely
harder than real ones; while every one will recognize at first glance
the jolly little rabbit beside him, and the two hares nibbling at a
bunch of grapes. The next animal is a historic one--the famous white
sow of Alba. She reclines among part, not all of her thirty pigs, for
the artist seems to have given out in exhaustion after carving the
first dozen.
[Illustration: PLINY’S DOVES: A MOSAIC IN THE CAPITOL AT ROME.]
In the neighborhood of Commodus are several panthers and lions; a
leopard, whose black spots have been inserted, like mosaic; a stag,
whose dappled skin is represented by the natural venation of the
alabaster from which it is carved; an eagle with her young; a craw-fish
and a porphyry frog.
[Illustration: PATRICIAN OR PLEBEIAN?]
There are also a number of dogs, in every way admirable, and probably
the exact portraits of some fair Roman lady’s pets. Nothing could be
more natural or charming than the two greyhound puppies frolicking with
each other; nothing more graceful or aristocratic than the full-grown
greyhound which sits upon its haunches, and offers a paw. They are
patrician to their very toes and tail-tips, just as the honest mastiff
hard by, growlingly protecting her puppies, is plebeian.
The shaggy dog who looks up at you in friendly fashion, and whose
portrait appears above, is also decidedly a patrician, if the
conjecture is right that he represents the famous Molossian breed.
Such, in barest outline, is the Vatican menagerie--the work of the
Baryes, Bonheurs and Landseers of days past. It has overflowed its
bounds to some extent, and a number of fine specimens must be sought
in other collections. In the Capitol, for instance, are “Pliny’s
Doves,” whose gurgling coo we quite expect to hear, until closer
inspection proves them--a mosaic! They are called the doves of Pliny,
not because they belonged to that delightful letter-writer, but because
he described them in terms so accurate that we cannot help knowing the
mosaic of the Capitol is the same he looked at almost nineteen hundred
years ago. “There is a dove,” he says, “which is greatly admired, in
the act of drinking, and throwing the shadow of his head upon the
water, while other doves are present, sunning and pluming themselves on
the margin of a drinking-bowl.”
Pliny was an excellent judge of art matters, and certainly these doves
are no less admired to-day than in his time.
But more famous than any bird or beast in Italy, is the bronze wolf
of the Capitol. Its age is great, as the Etruscan workmanship alone
would prove; and many believe it to be the identical statue struck by
lightning during the consulship of Cæsar and Bibulus. In confirmation,
they point to the jagged rent in one of its hind legs, which may have
been caused by such an accident. This, if true, would make it the most
notable sculpture in existence. However, whether Cæsar saw it or not,
it is still venerable enough to command attention, and few tourists
fail to pay it their respects.
[Illustration: THE CHIMERA; ETRUSCAN SCULPTURE IN THE BARGELLO AT
FLORENCE.]
The nurse of Romulus and Remus is also commemorated by a living wolf
which resides in the triangular patch of garden between the steps to
the Capitol, and those which lead up to Ara Cœli. The present incumbent
is a sleek gray fellow from Monte Maietta in the Abruzzi. A live eagle
separated by a netting bears him company, but these caged emblems are
but shabby reminders of the glory of old Rome.
Ancient as the brazen she-wolf, and like it of Etruscan make, is
the Chimera of the Bargello at Florence. It is a comically terrific
creature, whose three heads are all busily engaged--one biting its
neighbor head, and the third roaring at the injury. In the Bargello
also is a superb turkey-gobbler of bronze, credited to Gian da Bologna,
and some capital turtles in marble. Admirable as they are, however,
they are forgotten when, on entering a small room in the Uffizi, the
famous Florentine boar and Molossian hound meet our gaze. Every line
of their softly yellowed marble reveals the patient, loving touch
of sculptors whose work alone survives--whose names and stories are
unknown. They aimed at perfection, and were doubtless content to be
forgotten, if only their works might live.
They, indeed, are the sole, the true enchanters, whose touch petrified
for posterity this menagerie in stone.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Famous pets of famous people" ***
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