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.