Poor Matthias! Found him lying
Fallen beneath his perch and dying?
Found him stiff, you say, though warm,
All convulsed his little form?
Poor canary, many a year
Well he knew his mistress dear;
Now in vain you call his name,
Vainly raise his rigid frame.
Vainly warm him in your heart,
Vainly kiss his golden crest,
Smooth his ruffled plumage fine,
Touch his trembling beak with wine.
One more gasp, it is the end,
Dead and mute our tiny friend.
Poor Matthias, wouldst thou have
More than pity? Claim’st a stave?
Friends more near us than a bird
We dismissed without a word.
Rover with the good brown head,
Great Attossa, they are dead;
Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme
Tells the praises of their prime.
· · · · ·
Thou hast seen Attossa sage
Sit for hours beside thy cage;
Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird,
Flutter, chirp, she never stirred.
What were now these toys to her?
Down she sank amid her fur;
Eyed thee with a soul resigned,
And thou deemedst cats were kind.
Cruel, but composed and bland,
Dumb, inscrutable and grand,
So Tiberius might have sat
Had Tiberius been a cat.
Fare thee well, companion dear,
Fare forever well, nor fear,
Tiny though thou art, to stray
Down the uncompanioned way.
We without thee, little friend,
Many years have yet to spend;
What are left will hardly be
Better than we spent with thee.
Maclise was one of the intimate associates, if we may use the
expression, of Dickens’s celebrated Raven. The letter in which the
bereaved owners announced to Maclise the death of this interesting bird
has been published, but the reply of the artist is now printed for the
first time:
“_March 13, 1841._
“MY DEAR DICKENS: I received the mournful intelligence of our
friend’s decease last night at eleven, and the shock was great
indeed. I have just dispatched the announcement to poor Forster, who
will, I am sure, sympathize deeply with our bereavement.
“I know not what to think is the probable cause of his death—I
reject the idea of the Butcher Boy, for the orders he must have in
his (the Raven’s) lifetime received on acct. of the Raven himself
must have been considerable—I rather cling to the notion of _felo de
se_, but this will no doubt come out upon the post mortem. How blest
we are to have such an intelligent coroner in Mr. Wakely! I think he
was just of those grave, melancholic habits which are the noticeable
signs of your intended suicide—his solitary life—those gloomy tones,
when he did speak—which was always to the purpose, witness his last
dying speech—‘Hallo, old girl!’ which breathes of cheerfulness and
triumphant resignation—his solemn suit of raven black which never
grew rusty—altogether his character was the very prototype of a
Byron Hero and even of a Scott—a master of Ravenswood——We ought to
be glad he had his family, I suppose; he seems to have intended it,
however, for his solicitude to deposit in those Banks in the Garden
his savings, were always very touching—I suppose his obsequies will
take place immediately—It is beautiful—the idea of his return soon
after death to the scene of his early youth and all his joyful
associations, to lie with kindred dusts amid his own ancestral
groves, after having come out and made such a noise in the world,
having clearly booked his place in that immortality coach driven by
Dickens.
“Yes, he committed suicide, he felt he had done it and done with
life—the hundreds of years!! What were they to him? There was
nothing near to live for—and he committed the rash act.
“Sympathizingly yours,
“D. MACLISE.”
The pet dove of Thurlow Weed seemed inconsolable after his death. When
any gentleman called at the house the bird would alight on his shoulder,
coo, and peer into his face. Then finding it was not his dear friend, he
would sadly seek some other perch. Miss Weed writes: “Since the day that
father’s remains were carried away, the affectionate creature has been
seeking for his master. He flies through every room in the house, and
fairly haunts the library. Many times every day the mourning bird comes
and takes a survey of the room. He will tread over every inch of space
on the lounge, and then go to the rug, over which he will walk
repeatedly, as if in expectation of his dead master’s coming. Does not
this seem akin to human grief?”
Whittier wrote a good deal about his pet parrot. Read his poem called
“The Bird’s Question.” After his tragic end, the Quaker bard wrote of
him: “I have met with a real loss. Poor Charlie is dead. He has gone
where the good parrots go. He has been ailing and silent for some time,
and he finally died. Do not laugh at me, but I am sorry enough to cry if
it would do any good. He was an old friend. Lizzie liked him. And he was
the heartiest, jolliest, pleasantest old fellow I ever saw.” He used to
perch upon the back of his master’s chair at meal time; at times
disgracefully profane, especially when in moments of extreme excitement
he would climb to the steeple by way of the lightning rod, and there he
would dance and sing and swear on a Sunday morning, amusing the
passer-by and shocking his owner. At last he fell down the chimney, and
was not discovered for two days. He was rescued in the middle of the
night, and, although he partially recovered, he soon died. Whittier
said: “We buried poor Charlie decently. If there is a parrot’s paradise
he ought to go there.” He also had a pet Bantam rooster which would
perch on his shoulder, and liked to be buttoned up in his coat. Grace
Greenwood in Heads or Tails speaks of a diplomatic parrot belonging to
Seward, at Washington, taking part in political discussion, trying to
scream Sumner down, and so sympathetic that when his master had a cough
he had symptoms of bronchitis.
In a trustworthy collection of epitaphs may be found this quaint tribute
with old-fashioned formality to a pet bird:
“Here lieth, aged three months, the body of Richard Acanthus, a young
person of unblemished character. He was taken in his callow infancy from
the wing of a tender parent by the rough and pitiless hand of a
two-legged animal without feathers.
“Though born with the most aspiring disposition and unbending love of
freedom he was closely confined in a grated prison, and scarcely
permitted to view those fields of which he had an undoubted charter.
“Deeply sensible of this infringement of his natural rights, he was
often heard to petition for redress in the most plaintive notes of
harmonious sorrow. At length his imprisoned soul burst the prison which
his body could not, and left a lifeless heap of beauteous feathers.
“If suffering innocence can hope for retribution, deny not to the gentle
shade of this unfortunate captive the humble though uncertain hope of
animating some happier form; or trying his new-fledged pinions in some
happy Elysium, beyond the reach of MAN, the tyrant of this lower world.”
Few women are so fond of pets as Sarah Bernhardt. She carries five or
six with her in all her travels. When in New York the French actress has
apartments at the Hoffman House. When the writer last visited her there
he was received, upon entering the sitting room, by half a dozen dogs,
ranging in size and species from the massive St. Bernard to the tiny,
shivering black and tan.
The actress rose from a low divan and extended one hand to her guest
while she pressed two very small snakes to her bosom with the other.
After she had resumed her seat upon the divan, and while conversing, she
fondled the snakes or allowed them to squirm at will over her person.
In reply to questions, Madame Bernhardt said that the snakes were used
in the famous scene where Cleopatra presses the asp to her bosom and
dies. The actress explained that the snakes with which she was playing
were presented to her by a gentleman in Philadelphia. She spoke
regretfully of the death of the snakes which she had brought with her
from France, and which had succumbed to the hardships of the ocean
voyage.
Emily Crawford tells some good stories about “The Elder Dumas,” the most
dashingly picturesque character, surely, in the whole range of
literature. We quote a paragraph showing Dumas’s fondness for animals:
“At his architectural folly of Monte Cristo, near Saint-Germain-en-Laye,
which he built at a cost of upward of seven hundred thousand francs, and
sold for thirty-six thousand francs in 1848, Dumas had uninclosed
grounds and gardens, which, with the house, afforded lodgings and
entertainment not only to a host of Bohemian ‘sponges,’ but to all the
dogs, cats, and donkeys that chose to quarter themselves in the place.
It was called by the neighbours ‘_la Maison de Bon Dieu_.’ There was a
menagerie in the park, peopled by three apes; Jugurtha, the vulture,
whose transport from Africa, whence Dumas fetched him, cost forty
thousand francs (it would be too long to tell why); a big parrot called
Duval; a macaw named Papa, and another christened Everard; Lucullus, the
golden pheasant; Cæsar, the game-cock; a pea-fowl and a guinea-fowl;
Myeouf II, the Angora cat, and the Scotch pointer, Pritchard. This dog
was a character. He was fond of canine society, and used to sit in the
road looking out for other dogs to invite them to keep him company at
Monte Cristo. He was taken by his master to Ham to visit Louis Napoleon
when a prisoner there. The latter wished to keep Pritchard, but counted
without the intelligence of the animal in asking Dumas before his face
to leave him behind. The pointer set up a howl so piteous that the
governor of the prison withdrew the authorization he had given his
captive to retain him.”
It is difficult to think of any created thing that has not been found
sufficiently interesting to be petted by some one!
Pliny tells us of a cow that followed a Pythagorean philosopher on all
his travels. Proud Wolsey was on familiar terms with a venerable carp.
St. Anthony had a fondness for pigs. Frank Buckland took to rats.
Buffon’s toad has become historical. Clive owned a pet tortoise. Gautier
wrote of his lizards, magpie, and chameleon. Butterflies and crickets
have been domesticated and found responsive. Rosa Bonheur used to be
always escorted by two great dogs, one on either side, while in her home
a favourite monkey played upon her staircase, and amused visitors with
its gambols and pranks. Cowper doffed his melancholy to play with hares,
and immortalized his rather ungrateful pensioners in verse:
Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hare
Has never heard the sanguinary yell
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes,
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years’ experience of my care
Has made at last familiar; she has lost
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor
At ev’ning, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed;
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged
All that is human in me, to protect
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
James M. Hoppin, in his Old England, tells of his visit to Olney, where
Cowper lived. He went to the rooms where he kept his hares, Puss, Bess,
and Tiny; of the veteran survivor of this famous trio he says Cowper
wrote:
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And when he could, would bite.
Dr. John Hall was seen trudging through Central Park last winter,
followed by a troop of frisky little gay squirrels. He had been feeding
nuts to them, and they scattered the snow in clouds as they scampered
along hoping to get more.
It would be interesting to quote from very many distinguished persons
who believe in the immortality of the lower animals.
Lord Shaftesbury says: “I have ever believed in a happy future for
animals. I can not say or conjecture how or where, but sure I am that
the love so manifested, by dogs especially, is an emanation from the
Divine essence, and as such it can, or rather it will, never be
extinguished.”
Frances Power Cobbe wrote: “I entirely believe in a higher existence
hereafter, both for myself and for those whose less happy lives on earth
entitle them far more to expect it, from eternal love and justice.”
Mr. Somerville said: “The dear animals I believe we shall meet. They
suffer so often here they must live again! Pain seems a poor proof of
immortality, but it is used by theologians, and we find many great souls
who believe and hope that animals may also have another life. Agassiz
believed in this firmly. Bishop Butler saw no reason why the latent
powers and capacities of the lower animals should not be developed in
the future, and in his Analogy of Religion he endeavoured to carry out
this train of thought, and to show that the lower animals do possess
those mental and moral characteristics which we admit in ourselves to
belong to the immortal spirit and not to the perishable body.”
The Rev. J. G. Wood has written a most interesting book on Man and
Beast: Here and Hereafter, with the especial aim of proving the
immortality of the brute creation, showing that they share with man the
attributes of reason, language, memory, a sense of moral responsibility,
unselfishness, and love, all of which belong to the spirit and not to
the body.
Bayard Taylor says, “If one should surmise a lower form of spiritual
being yet equally indestructible, who need take alarm?” “Yea, they have
all one breath, so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast, for
all is vanity,” said the Preacher, more than two thousand years ago. In
Taylor’s poem to an old horse, Ben Equus, which died on the farm when he
was a young man, he uses the same idea:
For I may dream fidelity like thine,
May save some essence in thee from decay,
That, not neglected by the Soul Divine,
Thy being rises on some unknown way.
Some intermediate heaven, where fields are fresh,
And golden stables littered deep with fern;
Where fade the wrongs that horses knew in flesh,
And all the joys that horses felt return.
Mrs. Charles writes:
Is all this lost in nothingness,
Such gladness, love, and hope, and trust,
Such busy thought our thoughts to guess,
All trampled into common dust?
Or is there something yet to come
From all our science all concealed,
About the patient creatures dumb
A secret yet to be revealed?
Writing of the death of a favourite spaniel, Southey expresses the same
faith:
... Mine is no narrow creed,
And he that gave thee being did not frame
The mystery of life to be the sport
Of merciless man. There is another world
For all that live and move—a better one,
Where the proud bipeds who would fain confine
Infinite Goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee.
Mrs. Mary Somerville wrote these words at the age of eighty-nine: “If
animals have no future, the existence of many is most wretched.
Multitudes are starved, cruelly beaten, and loaded during life; many die
under a barbarous vivisection. I can not believe that any creature was
created for uncompensated misery; it would be contrary to the attributes
of God’s mercy and justice. I am sincerely happy to find that I am not
the only believer in the immortality of the lower animals.” Lamartine
has the same thought in an address to his dog, and many other wise men
have hoped that such a future was a reality.
The Rev. Henry Storrs says it is wisest to treat animals kindly,
because, if we are ever to meet them again, it will be pleasanter to
have them on our side.
Henry Ward Beecher many times owned his love for horses, as in his one
novel, Norwood:
“I tell you,” said Hiram, turning slightly toward the doctor, “these
horses are jest as near human as is good for ’em. A good horse has sense
jest as much as a man has; and he’s proud, too, and he loves to be
praised, and he knows when you treat him with respect. A good horse has
the best p’ints of a man without his failin’s.”
“What do you think becomes of horses, Hiram, when they die?” said Rose.
“Wal, Miss Rose, it’s my opinion that there’s use for horses hereafter,
and that you’ll find there’s a horse-heaven. There’s Scripture for that,
too.”
“Ah!” said Rose, a little surprised at these confident assertions. “What
Scripture do you mean?”
“Why, in the Book of Revelation! Don’t it give an account of a white
horse, and a red horse, and black horses, and gray horses? I’ve allers
s’posed that when it said Death rode on a pale horse, it must have been
gray, ’cause it had mentioned white once already. In the ninth chapter,
too, it says there was an army of two hundred thousand horsemen. Now, I
should like to know where they got so many horses in heaven, if none of
’em that die off here go there? It’s my opinion that a good horse’s a
darned sight likelier to go to heaven than a bad man!”
When we see the superiority of a noble horse to his brutal or drunken
driver, it seems at least possible, and most of us have lost some pet
that we would rather meet again than the majority of our acquaintances.
Helen Barron Bostwick, after “burying her pretty brown mare under the
cherry tree,” inquires:
Is this the end?
Do you know?
and closes her poem as follows:
Is there aught of harm believing,
That, some newer form receiving,
They may find a wider sphere,
Live a larger life than here?
That the meek, appealing eyes,
Haunted by strange mysteries,
Find a more extended field,
To new destinies unsealed;
Or, that in the ripened prime
Of some far-off summer time,
Ranging that unknown domain,
We may find our pets again.
Sir Edwin Arnold has translated much that is touching about those who
are devoted to animals. A sinful woman led out to die by stoning was
pardoned by the king, because of her pity, even at that terrible crisis,
for a dying dog:
Glaring upon the water out of reach,
And praying succor in a silent speech,
So piteous were its eyes which, when she saw,
This woman from her foot her shoe did draw,
Albeit death-sorrowful, and looping up
The long silk of her girdle, made a cup
Of the heel’s hollow, and thus let it sink
Until it touched the cool, black water’s brink,
So filled the embroidered shoe and gave a draught
To the spent beast.
This brute beast
Testifies for thee, sister! whose weak breast
Death could not make ungentle. I hold rule
In Allah’s stead, who is the merciful,
And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free—
I dare not show less pity unto thee!
We send missionaries to the East to teach those who in some respects are
well fitted by their pure lives, exalted aims, and mercy toward the
brute creation to instruct us. How exquisite the story of the man who
would not enter heaven and leave his dog behind!
But the king answered: “O thou Wisest One,
Who knowest what was, and is, and is to be,
Still one more grace: this hound hath ate with me,
Followed me, loved me: must I leave him now?”
“Monarch,” spake Indra, “thou art now as we—
Deathless, divine—thou art become a god;
Glory and power and gifts celestial,
And all the joys of heaven are thine for aye.
What hath a beast with these? Leave here thy hound.”
Yet Yudhishthira answered: “O Most High,
O thousand-eyed and wisest; can it be
That one exalted should seem pitiless?
Nay, let me lose such glory: for its sake
I would not leave one living thing I loved.”
Then sternly Indra spake: “He is unclean,
And into Swarga such shall enter not.
The Krodhavasha’s hand destroys the fruits
Of sacrifice, if dogs defile the fire.
Bethink thee, Dharmaraj, quit now this beast;
That which is seemly is not hard of heart.”
Still he replied: “’Tis written that to spurn
A suppliant equals in offence to slay
A twice-born; wherefore, not for Swarga’s bliss
Quit I, Mahendra, this poor clinging dog.
So without any hope or friend save me,
So wistful, fawning for my faithfulness,
So agonized to die, unless I help
Who among men was called steadfast and just.”
Quoth Indra: “Nay, the altar flame is foul
Where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep
The ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits
Of offering, and the merit of the prayer
Of him whom a hound toucheth. Leave it here;
He that will enter heaven must enter pure.
Why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way,
And Krishna, and the dear-loved Draupadi,
Attaining firm and glorious, to this mount
Through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute?
Hath Yudhishthira vanquished self, to melt
With one poor passion at the door of bliss?
Stay’st thou for this, who didst not stay for them—
Draupadi, Bhima?”
But the king yet spake:
“’Tis known that none can hurt or help the dead.
They, the delightful ones, who sank and died,
Following my footsteps, could not live again
Though I had turned, therefore I did not turn;
But could help profit, I had turned to help.
There be four sins, O Sakra, grievous sins:
The first is making suppliants despair,
The second is to slay a nursing wife,
The third is spoiling Brahmans’ goods by force,
The fourth is injuring an ancient friend.
These four I deem but equal to one sin,
If one, in coming forth from woe to weal,
Abandon any meanest comrade then.”
Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled;
Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there
The Lord of Death and Justice, Dharma’s self.
Sweet were the words that fell from those dread lips,
Precious the lovely praise: “O thou true king,
Thou that dost bring to harvest the true seed
Of Pandu’s righteousness; thou that hast ruth
As he before, on all which lives! O son,
I tried thee in the Dwaita wood, what time
They smote thy brothers, bringing water; then
Thou prayed’st for Nakula’s life, tender and just,
Not Bhima’s nor Arjuna’s, true to both,
To Madri as to Kunti, to both queens.
Hear thou my word: Because thou didst not mount
This car divine, lest the poor hound be shent
Who looked to thee—lo! there is none in heaven
Shall sit above thee, King Bharata’s son!
Enter thou now to the eternal joys,
Living and in thy form. Justice and love
Welcome thee, monarch; thou shalt throne with them.”
As a farmer and butter-maker I want to condense a dissertation on The
Intellectual Cow, taken from the London Spectator:
The writer resents the general impression that the cow is merely a food
machine, and proves that she never yet has had justice done to her
mental qualities, and is entitled to more respectful consideration.
Cows certainly possess decided individuality, and in every herd will be
found a master mind which leads and domineers over the rest or acts as
ringleader in mischief. They soon learn their own names, and will answer
to them, and seldom make mistakes as to their own stalls. They are also
undoubtedly influenced by affection, and will give down milk more freely
to a friend than to one who is brutal in his manner.
Moreover, they enjoy petting just as much as humans, and will greet with
delight those who bring offerings of potatoes or apple-parings or bits
of bread, or who will give their heads and necks the luxury of a good
rub.
Charles Dudley Warner, in Being a Boy, pays a glowing tribute to the
Martial Turkey:
“Perhaps it is not generally known that we get the idea of some of our
best military manœuvres from the turkey. The deploying of the skirmish
line in advance of an army is one of them. The drum major of our holiday
militia companies is copied exactly from the turkey gobbler: he has the
same splendid appearance, the same proud step, and the same martial
aspect. The gobbler does not lead his forces in the field, but goes
behind them, like the colonel of a regiment, so that he can see every
part of the line and direct its movements. This resemblance is one of
the most singular things in natural history. I like to watch the gobbler
manœuvring his forces in a grasshopper field. He throws out his company
of two dozen turkeys in a crescent-shaped skirmish line, the number
disposed at equal distances, while he walks majestically in the rear.
They advance rapidly, picking right and left, with military precision,
killing the foe and disposing of the dead bodies with the same peck.
Nobody has yet discovered how many grasshoppers a turkey will hold; but
he is very much like a boy at a Thanksgiving dinner—he keeps on eating
as long as the supplies last. The gobbler, in one of these raids, does
not condescend to grab a single grasshopper—at least, not while anybody
is watching him. But I suppose he makes up for it when his dignity can
not be injured by having spectators of his voracity; perhaps he falls
upon the grasshoppers when they are driven into a corner of the field.
But he is only fattening himself for destruction; like all greedy
persons, he comes to a bad end. And if the turkeys had any Sunday
school, they would be taught this.”
Josh Billings, in his Animile Statistix, proved that he had been a close
observer. He says in this comical medley:
“Kats are affectionate, they luv young chickens, sweet kream, and the
best place in front of the fireplace.
“Dogs are faithful; they will stick to a bone after everybody haz
deserted it.
“The ox knoweth hiz master’s krib, and that iz all he duz kno or care
about hiz master.
“Munkeys are imitatiff, but if they kan’t imitate some deviltry they
ain’t happy.
“The goose is like all other phools—alwuss seems anxious to prove it.
“Ducks are only cunning about one thing: they lay their eggs in sitch
sly places that sumtimes they kan’t find them again themselfs.
“The mushrat kan foresee a hard winter and provide for it, but he kan’t
keep from gittin ketched in the sylliest kind ov a trap.
“Hens know when it is a going to rain, and shelter themselfs, but they
will try to hatch out a glass egg just az honest az they will one ov
their own.
“The cuckcoo iz the greatest ekonemist among the birds, she lays her
eggs in other birds’ nests, and lets them hatch them out at their
leizure.
“Rats hav fewer friends and more enemies than anything ov the
four-legged purswashun on the face ov the earth, and yet rats are az
plenty now az in the palmyest days ov the Roman Empire.
“The horse alwuss gits up from the ground on his fore legs first, the
kow on her hind ones, and the dog turns round 3 times before he lies
down.
“The kangaroo he jumps when he walks, the coon paces when he trots, the
lobster travels backwards az fast az he does forward.
“The elephant has the least, and the rabbit the most eye for their size,
and a rat’s tale is just the length ov hiz boddy.”
The very latest item of interest to dog-lovers is the announcement that
Bismarck has purchased a two-pound King Charles spaniel from the dog
show in Boston.
My collection is now as complete as the limitations of time and the
publishers will allow. As proprietor, I beg leave to announce my
Literary Zoo as now open at all hours (for a moderate fee) to those
interested in what we call, with conceit and possibly ignorance, the
inferior orders of creation, and the dumb brutes.