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.
Page 190.png changed other to another
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.’”