Transcriber’s Notes

Hyphenation has been standardised.

The spellings of Durer and Dürer are being left unchanged.

The spellings of Etretat and Etretât are being left unchanged.

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MAUD HOWE.

FAMOUS PETS
OF FAMOUS PEOPLE

BY

ELEANOR LEWIS

“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.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

MRS. JANE WELSH CARLYLE AND NERO.

(From photograph by Prætorius, West Brompton, England. )

And Mrs. Carlyle—to judge of her feeling for these little friends, you must read her letters, and see for yourselves how large a space their ways and doings fill.

It is true, there was some question in the family at first, whether a dog could be tolerated. Mr. Carlyle was busy writing, and nervous—how would it affect him? But in 1849, the little creature came, found its place, and filled it; was “a most affectionate, lively little dog, though otherwise of small merit, and little or no training”; was happy, and, in turn, made others happy. For the next ten years, Nero and his master had many walks together, and “a good deal of small traffic, poor little animal, so loyal, so loving, so naïve, and true with what of dim intellect he had.”

Undoubtedly he was a trouble at times, as what mortal thing is not; yet, on the whole, he was far more of a comfort than trouble. Sometimes he was stolen, sometimes he strayed away, and then they would suffer “the agonies of one’s dog lost,” until the missing one again appeared; for they “could have better spared a better dog.”

Once, when Carlyle was away from home, the prettiest, wittiest letter imaginable was sent him, in Nero’s behalf, by Mrs. Carlyle. She was kind enough to translate it from Can-ese into English, and also to write it out—he being equal only to Nero + his mark.

Dear Master—(thus it reads)—

I take the liberty to write to you myself (my mistress being out of the way of writing to you, she says) that you may know Columbine [the black cat] and I are quite well, and play about as usual. There was no dinner yesterday to speak of; I had for my share only a piece of biscuit that might have been round the world; and if Columbine got anything at all, I didn’t see it. I made a grab at one of two small beings on my mistress’s plate; she called them heralds of the morn; but my mistress said, “Don’t you wish you may get it?” and boxed my ears. I wasn’t taken to walk on account of its being wet. And nobody came but a man for burial rates, and my mistress gave him a rowing, because she wasn’t going to be buried here at all. Columbine and I don’t care where we are buried....

(Tuesday Evening.)

My mistress brought my chain, and said “Come along with me while it shined, and I could finish after.” But she kept me so long in the London Library and other places, that I had to miss the post. An old gentleman in the omnibus took such notice of me! He looked at me a long time, and then turned to my mistress, and said, “Sharp, isn’t he?” And my mistress was so good as to say “O, yes!” And then the old gentleman said again, “I knew it! Easy to see that!” And he put his hand in his hind pocket, and took out a whole biscuit, a sweet one, and gave it me in bits. I was quite sorry to part with him, he was such a good judge of dogs.... No more at present from your

Obedient little dog, Nero.

Poor Nero was run over by a butcher’s cart, in October, 1859, and, though not killed outright, was never well again. His mistress nursed and petted him—his master could not do enough; but neither care nor love could avail. Four months later he died, and was buried in the garden, with a small headstone to mark his blameless dust. “I could not have believed,” said Carlyle, “my grief, then and since, would have been the twentieth part of what it was.” And “nobody but myself,” said Nero’s mistress, “can have any idea of what that little creature has been in my life; my inseparable companion during eleven years, ever doing his little best to keep me from feeling sad and lonely. Docile, affectionate, loyal, up to his last hour.”

I happened once to pass the closed house in Chelsea, where the Carlyles lived so long. Just a little way from it, is a bronze statue of Carlyle, with kind, melancholy face—a fit memorial, in fitting place, to one who, whatever his faults, is yet among the greatest spirits of our age. Not long before he was walking this very path; now we passed from the voiceless statue to the desolate house, as from silence unto silence. The windows were closed, like eyes with sealed lids; the hospitable door was grimly shut, and the knocker, as we tried it, sent a hollow echo through the hall within.

But the noonday sunlight fell hot and cheery on the doorstep, where, comfortably ensconced in a corner, lay a black-and-white cat. It blinked lazily at us, but was too well off, and I am sure too secure, also, of our friendliness, to move.

So the house which Mrs. Carlyle’s friends used jestingly to call “a refuge for stray dogs and cats,” still offered them some slight shelter—although master and mistress, and little Nero, all were gone!

III.

PETS IN LITERARY LIFE.

III.

PETS IN LITERARY LIFE.

The pets and authors of the past may be briefly glanced at on our way to those of to-day. We may begin with the learned Justus Lipsius, erstwhile professor at Louvain. This worthy went daily to his lecture-room with a retinue of dogs, whose portraits, each with a commemorative description, adorned the walls of his study. Three have been individualized for posterity as Mopsikins, Mopsy and Sapphire.

Tarot, Franza, Balassa, Ciccone, Musa, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, were, in their long-vanished life-time, companions to Agrippa, the astrologer and scholar. The knowing little Monsieur was permitted, as special favorite, to sleep upon his master’s bed, eat from his plate, and lie upon the table beside his papers, while he wrote. He may even have suggested to Goethe the black poodle in Faust, since, like Rupert’s hound Boy, and Claver’s battle-horse, he was commonly supposed to be a fiend.

The creator of Faust’s demon-poodle could not endure dogs in real life, and was always scolding about their “ungeheure Ton.” As to their character, he even committed himself in this very unpleasant epigram:

“Wundern kannes mich nicht dass

Menschen die Hunde so lieben;

Denn ein erbärmlicher Schuffist, wie

Der Mensch, so der Hund,”

which has been rendered:

“It cannot surprise me that men love dogs so much,

For dog, like man, is a pitiful, sneaking rogue.”

Such a disagreeable sentiment as this—one so unworthy both of man and author—requires an antidote. We find one in these lines of Herrick to his spaniel Tracy:

“Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see

For shape and service spaniel like to thee.

This shall my love doe, give thy sad fate one

Teare, that deserves of me a million.”

This is all we know of Tracy, but it suffices enough. A faithful dog, a fond master—in these words his story is told.

Bounce—named most suggestive—belonged to Alexander Pope; Bean, to the gentler poet, Cowper. Goldsmith had a dog, of course, and equally of course it was a poodle. No creature less comic would serve his turn. Sir Joshua Reynolds tells a story of the pair which reads like a fragment from the Vicar of Wakefield: how one morning he called on the improvident author, rather expecting to find him in low spirits, and found him, instead, at his table, alternately writing a few words, and looking over at the poodle which he had made stand on its hind legs in a corner of the room.

In this fashion the impecunious one was amusing himself; and the great artist looked on, no less amused in truth, and pleasantly sympathetic. If only he had painted the scene, one wishes.

Very different in temperament was Lord Byron. Practically, he agreed with Mme. de Staël in liking dogs the better, the more he knew of men. He seems to have had as friendly a feeling for the animal world as his contemporary, Scott, although showing it in a more whimsical fashion. Scott would never have traveled with a private menagerie, but Byron carried with him from England to Italy, “ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow and a falcon.”

Dogs were his favorites; they were friends whose affection could be trusted, and whose criticism he had not to fear. Boatswain is almost as widely known as his master. No one visits Newstead without seeing his picture in the dining-room, and in the grounds his grave, with the famous epitaph:

Near this spot

are deposited the remains of one

who possessed beauty without vanity,

strength without insolence,

courage without ferocity,

and all the virtues of man without his vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

if inscribed over human ashes,

is but a just tribute to the memory of

Boatswain, a Dog,

who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,

and died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.

As this dog was the friend of his youth, so Lion was the companion of his later days in Greece. Major Parry says that “riding, or walking, or sitting, or standing,” they were never apart. “His most usual phrase was, ‘Lyon, you are no rogue, Lyon,’ or ‘Lyon,’ his lordship would say, ‘thou art an honest fellow, Lyon.’ The dog’s eyes sparkled, and his tail swept the floor as he sat with his haunches on the ground. ‘Thou art more faithful than men, Lyon; I trust thee more.’ Lyon sprang up and barked, and bounded round his master, as much as to say, ‘You may trust me.’”

Faithful to the last, he watched over Byron’s death-bed, and then went to England, where he lived and died, an honored pensioner, in the house of Mrs. Leigh.

LORD BYRON AND HIS DOG LYON.

Mrs. Radcliffe, whose novels delighted and terrorized our grandmothers, had two dogs, called Fan and Dash. Fan had been a mangy, poverty-stricken beast, condemned by its rustic owner to be hung. In a lucky hour the novelist happened by, purchased the guiltless criminal for half a crown; and Fan, cured of the mange, grown plump and silky, became so beautiful a dog that Queen Charlotte, when out walking with her brood of young princesses, would stop to notice her. On one of these occasions Fan and one of the royal spaniels caught simultaneously the ends of a long bone; and for some distance this foundling of the people and the pet of royalty pranced on amicably together, holding the bone between them!

Dash was a poor street dog whose leg had been run over and broken. He was taken in a coach to the doctor’s, the leg was set, health and strength returned, and Dash was more than himself again, for now he was “Mrs. Radcliffe’s dog.”

Another Dash lived first with Thomas Hood, then with Charles Lamb; he made such a slave of the latter, that finally Miss Lamb wrote to Mr. Patmore, entreating him to remove the dog, “if only out of charity; for if we keep him much longer, he will be the death of Charles.”

The transfer took place, and the late victim’s spirits rose to high-water mark soon afterwards in this whimsical, charming letter:

Dear Patmore:

Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash?... Goes he muzzled or apesto ore? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in his conversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, off with him to St. Luke’s.... Try him with hot water: if he won’t lick it up, it is a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful? I mean, when he is pleased—for otherwise there is no judging. You can’t be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, and keep him for curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia.... You might pull out his teeth (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as Bedlamite.... I send my love in a —— to Dash.

C. Lamb.

A great contrast to this tyrant was Mouse, the loving, jealous little terrier of Douglas Jerrold. A source of much gentle mirth while her master was well and strong, she did her utmost to comfort his dying hours. Once more, as she nestled beside him, his thin hand rested on her head; once more, and for the last time, he called her faintly by name; then they removed her, and in a few hours Mouse was masterless.

Horace Walpole’s dogs furnished many an amusing item for his letters, and diverted his friends no less than himself. “Sense and fidelity,” said he, “are wonderful recommendations; when one meets with them ... I cannot think the two additional legs are any drawback.”

Tory, Patapan, Rosette, Touton and a host of others, were the living illustrations in his home of this belief.

Tory, the “prettiest, fattest, dearest” King Charles, might have been leaner with advantage to himself, for a wolf snapped him up as he was waddling behind his master’s carriage in the Alps.

Patapan is the little aristocrat whom you see beside Mr. Walpole in the picture. The whims of “His Patapanic Majesty” were all indulged, his tastes consulted; his master idolized, and royalty itself caressed him; finally his vanity, already large, was puffed out like a balloon, by Mr. Chute’s poem in his praise. Thus it sums up his perfections:

“Patá is frolicsome, and smart

As Geoffrey once was—(oh! my heart),

He’s purer than a turtle’s kiss,

And gentler than a little miss;

A jewel for a lady’s ear,

And Mr. Walpole’s pretty dear.”

When the pretty dear was frisking through Strawberry Hill, he may very likely have brushed in his frolics against a great bowl of blue and white china occupying a place of honor in one of the rooms.

SIR HORACE WALPOLE AND PATAPAN.

But the label would not have told him, as it does us, that this was the veritable “Tub of Gold Fishes” in which the favorite cat of Thomas Grey was drowned. “Demurest of the tabby kind”—Selima gazed at the fish, and longed; extended “a whisker first and then a claw;” and then—

“The slippery verge her feet beguiled,

She tumbled headlong in.”

She may have found some comfort—since drown she must—in the vase being genuine old china; just as Clarence preferred drowning in Malmsey wine to water; but her best comfort—had she known it—was the poem to be written on her fate, the poem which still points her morals and adorns her tale.

No one, in this group of literary people, was so intimate with cats as Southey. He delighted in them, he admired them, he understood them, and he thought no house quite furnished unless it had a baby and a kitten!

It was to his little daughter Edith that this author dedicated his history of the cats of Greta Hall, which he intended to supplement by the Memoirs of Cats’ Eden. Unfortunately for us all, the last was never finished. The most delightful of philofelists—to use his own coinage—he tells the story of his cats con amore; from the fate untimely of Ovid, Virgil, and Othello, to the merited honors heaped upon Lord Nelson, a great carrot-colored cat promoted by him to the highest rank in the peerage, through all its degrees, under the titles of His Serene Highness, the Archduke Rumpelstilzchen, Marquis Mac-Bum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide, Waswlher and Skaratchi. Felicitous titles, are they not?

But how the list lengthens! Only a word can be given to Emily Brontë with her faithful, sullen mastiff Keeper; to Charlotte Brontë, with her black-and-white curly-haired Flossy; to Bulwer, with his Newfoundland Terror, and his better loved Andalusian horse; to Mrs. Bulwer—herself a beautiful spoiled child—with her beautiful spoiled Blenheim, Fairy, described by Disraeli as “no bigger than a bird of paradise, and quite as brilliant”—a Fairy that had its own printed visiting cards, and paid fashionable calls with its mistress; to Charles Reade, of keen wit and large heart, who petted squirrels, hares, and deer, as well as dogs, who wept when the exigencies of Never too Late to Mend required him to kill Carlo, and who humorously advised Ouida to name one of her dogs Tonic, as he was “a mixture of steal and w(h)ine.”

CHARLES DICKENS’S PET RAVEN, GRIP.

Charles Kingsley’s pets, and those of Charles Dickens, have been so often and so fully described, that any further description seems superfluous. Timber, Turk and Linda, Mrs. Bouncer, Bumble and Sultan, were only a few of his many dogs; while Dick the canary—“best of birds”—a succession of kittens, an eagle, and various ravens, were among the pets that kept matters lively at Gadshill.

Of the ravens, the most famous was Grip, who sat for his portrait in Barnaby Rudge, and whose stuffed body still exists.

There are no brighter letters, no finer poems in literature, than those which “Flush, my Dog,” called out from Mrs. Browning—letters and verse so vivid, so delicately discriminative, that they amply supply the lack of other portraiture, and in them Flush still lives. Listen:

“Like a lady’s ringlets brown,

Flow thine silken ears adown

Either side demurely

Of thy silver-suited breast,

Shining out from all the rest

Of thy body purely.

“Darkly brown thy body is

Till the sunshine striking this,

Alchemize its dullness;

When the sleek curls manifold

Flash all over into gold,

With a burnished fullness.

“Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;

Leap! thy slender feet are bright,

Canopied in fringes.

Leap! those tasseled ears of thine

Flicker strangely fair and fine

Down their golden inches.”

How clearly we see him with that gentlest mistress, bathed in the warm, sweet sunshine of the past! But there were other than sunny days—long, weary days in a sick-room, where—

“This dog only waited on,

Knowing that when light is gone,

Love remains for shining.

“Other dogs in thymy dew

Tracked the hares, and followed through

Sunny moor or meadow—

This dog only crept and crept

Next a languid cheek that slept,

Sharing in the shadow.”

What wonder that she returned his love with—

—“more love again

Than dogs often take of men”?

Flush was a gift from Miss Mitford, another authoress devoted to dogs; and the rival claims of these ladies for their pets, may still pleasantly amuse us. “How is your Flushie?” inquires Miss Mitford. “Mine becomes every day more and more beautiful, and more and more endearing. His little daughter Rose is the very moral of him, and another daughter (a puppy four months old, your Flushie’s half-sister) is so much admired in Reading that she has already been stolen four times—a tribute to her merit which might be dispensed with; and her master having offered ten pounds reward, it seems likely enough that she will be stolen four times more. They are a beautiful race, and that is the truth of it.”

Now hear Miss Barrett (as she was at this time) telling Mr. Horne:

“Never in the world was another such dog as my Flush. Just now, because after reading your note, I laid it down thoughtfully without taking anything else up, he threw himself into my arms, as much as to say, ‘Now it’s my turn. You’re not busy at all now.’ He understands every thing I say, and would not disturb me for the world. Do not tell Miss Mitford—but her Flush, (whom she brought to see me) is not to be compared to mine! quite animal and dog—natural, and incapable of my Flush’s hyper-cynical refinement.”

“My Flush,” she writes elsewhere, “my Flush, who is a gentleman.”

Our next glimpse of this well-bred favorite is due to Mr. Westwood, a friend and correspondent of the lady. “On one occasion,” he says, “she had expressed to me her regret at Flush’s growing plumpness, and I suppose I must have been cruel enough to suggest starvation as a remedy, for her next letter opens with an indignant protest: