Part 1
BETTER THAN MEN
BY RUSH C. HAWKINS
J. W. BOUTON TEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHT STREET NEW YORK 1896
Copyright, 1896, by J. W. Bouton
TO MY BELOVED AND LOVING WIFE, EVER FAITHFUL AND TRUE, WHOSE GOODNESS PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING
CONTENTS
Explanatory 1 The Excursion 13 Tim, the Dissipated 91 Carlo, the Soldier 113 Jeff, the Inquisitive 127 Toby, the Wise 139 Two Dogs 149 Two Innocents Abroad 165 About Columbus, by an old showman 171 In Relation to Mysteries 187 Mysteries 195
EXPLANATORY
The title chosen for the following sketches, written for the purpose of presenting certain prominent characteristics of the lower animals worthy of the attention of the human animal, stands for rather a serious proposition which may be questioned by a majority of those readers whose kindly interest in our mute friends has not already been seriously awakened.
To write so that those who read may infer that a certain selected number of so-called lower animals are better, by nature and conduct, in certain elemental virtues, than men, is, to say the least, rather imprudent, and to the optimistic student of human nature may appear irreverent to an unpardonable degree. Usually, to the minds of such observers, humanity is accepted for its traditional value, regardless of established conditions or inherent actualities. Such investigators investigate only one side of their subject. They start out handicapped with the old theory that in every respect the human animal is superior to every other, without attempting to analyze unseen interior conditions, whether natural or developed.
In relation to natural conditions, the large majority of Christian sects are perfectly logical. They lay down as a clearly established fundamental fact that all human beings, owing to what they designate as Adam’s fall, are born into this world morally corrupt and completely depraved, but that they have within their control for ready application an appropriate panacea for a certain cure of these natural defects. But the optimist neither admits the disease nor the necessity for cure; he says always, at least inferentially, that all human beings come into the world in a state of innocence and purity, and that their few defects represent a certain amount of degeneration.
Both of these theories may be wrong. It is possible that all children come into the world with a certain number of well-known natural qualities—good, bad, strong, and weak—in no two alike, and for which they are in no way responsible; and that what they become in their mature years depends largely, if not entirely, upon home training and the care bestowed upon them by the government under whose laws they exist. Strong, healthy, intellectual, and moral parents, aided by a wise and honestly administered government, assist each other in forming characters which make fine men and women. But without the combination of those parental qualities ever actively engaged in instructing and controlling, sustained by a wise political organization, there is usually but little development of the higher and better qualities of our nature, either moral or intellectual.
It is at this point that we may be permitted to cite the difference between the so-called upper and lower animal. In the dog and horse, notably, their better qualities are inherent, born with them, grow stronger with time, and their almost perfect and complete development is natural, and continues without aid, example, or instruction. Not more than one dog or horse in a thousand, if kindly treated and left to himself, would turn out vicious, and treat them as we may, no matter how unjustly or cruelly, we can never deprive them of their perfect integrity and splendid qualities of loyalty to master and friends.
These most valuable of all moral qualities are natural to certain animals, and, no matter what man may do, they can never be extinguished. Although intangible, they are as much parts of the living organism of the horse and dog as are their eyes or the other organs needed for physical purposes. The affection of the dog for those whom he loves is actually boundless. It has neither taint of selfishness nor has it limits, and it can only be extinguished with the loss of life. The ever-willing horse will run himself to death to carry from danger, and especially from the pursuit of enemies, those who make use of his friendly aid. Other animals will do as much, but they never volunteer for a dangerous service.
In India, where the elephant is used for domestic purposes and is sometimes treated as a domestic animal, he has been known to protect children left in his charge, and in the performance of his daily task will yield willing obedience to orders; but he is a knowing and cautious constructionist, and seldom goes outside of the strict line of duty. He will always fight for his own master or friends when told, and sometimes volunteers to encounter a danger to protect those around him who seek the aid of his superior powers. He is however, a natural conservative, and prefers peace to war.
Many other animals are capable of becoming affectionate pets and interesting companions, but in no respect can they be compared with the dog, the horse, or the elephant. In their separate and individual combination of qualities which render them fit and useful companions for man, they stand quite by themselves. The question of treating animals with kindly consideration is usually disposed of by saying they are not capable of appreciating kind treatment; that their brain capacity is so limited in respect to quantity as to render them quite incapable of distinguishing active kindness from passive indifference or even cruel treatment.
This is the theory of the thoughtless.
The Newfoundland dog which, in the summer of 1866, I saw leap from a bridge into a rapid-running deep creek and rescue a two-year-old child from death, thought—and quickly at that. In a second he appreciated the value of a critical moment, and estimated not only the magnitude but the quality of the danger. No human being could have taken in the whole situation more completely or caused the physical organization to respond to the brain command with greater celerity. The whole incident was over by the time the first on the spot of the would-be human rescuers had taken off his coat.
Crowley, the remarkable chimpanzee, who had his home in the Central Park Menagerie for about four years, proved to be a most convincing item of testimony in favor of the intellectual development of one of the lower animals. The gradual and certain unfolding of his intelligence betrayed the presence of a quantity of natural brainpower almost equal to that of an intelligent child of his own age.
Among his numerous accomplishments was a complete outfit of the table manners of the average well-bred human being. His accurate holding of knife, fork, and spoon, his perfect knowledge of their use, and the delicate application to his lips of the napkin, proved the possession of exceptional knowledge and a well-ordered memory.
The things he did and the words he tried to speak, for he made thousands of efforts every day to utter his thoughts, would make a convincing list of items all going to prove the presence of a capacity for thinking quite worthy of consideration.
In elaborating the various powers which he employed in his methods of expression he showed remarkable ingenuity. He, no doubt, reflected upon his deficiencies, and thought the whole matter over with reference to means of communication with those he cared to converse with, and then, from out the store of his natural capacities, invented an extensive combination of hand and feet signs with the variety of sounds at his command, which finally enabled him to make himself perfectly understood by those about him.
The intellectual development of Crowley, of which I have given only an inadequate idea, came from kind treatment and constant contact with his keeper and the director of the menagerie, both of whom were his devoted friends and teachers.
These little character sketches, as they may perhaps be described, were written for the purpose of awakening the personal interest of those who may read them, with the hope also of enlisting their active influence in behalf of spreading abroad a better understanding of the nature of our four-footed friends and servants, who give so much and receive so little in return. The better appreciation of their exceptionally fine qualities will surely lead to closer relations between them and their masters, and, in the end, insure better treatment for those humble and confiding creatures which the Creator has placed so completely in the power of man.
Fiction plays but a little part in these pages. It has long been a source of pleasure to me to note the marks of intelligence in the animals that we admit to our companionship, that we make a part of our family rule and association. These sketches are nearly all based upon personal experiences and observations of my own. They are my plea for their greater civil rights—at least in the way of kindness and appreciation. Incidentally I have given such local color to the stories as they require. The first sketch, for example, has for its frame the pleasant hills and valleys of Vermont. It recalls old days worth the recording and a people of pure Anglo-Saxon blood worth a lasting memory.
R. C. H.
THE EXCURSION
A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was limited, not costly, and within easy reach.
Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers. These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap ready to flow.
The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing, barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a complimentary nature.
Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England _répertoire_ for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were unknown.
Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe, with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision, but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful, sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong points, and good ones at that.
His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.
While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food, he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”
He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the same.
There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent desire _pour la chasse_. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from one friend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning, after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze leetle—ze _bécasse_, I did hear his whistle, _mais j’ai eu ma chasse_ all ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and had a day’s digging.
The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time, when they were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time, driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found, and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-colored abridgment of a mastiff, short-haired and old. He was the property of one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues. He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a running _pro forma_ barking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy, and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs, and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no particular occupation, nor would he associate with them when off duty. When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders.
As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition, intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve.
I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts, ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my happiest hours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity, but never a single quality which came to me from the habitual association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth.
The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics, have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent, owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming animal that he is to-day.
That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall, long of body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act. Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work.
He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks” to take a run with us over the country roads.
Thus we became chosen friends, and I selected them as companions for a recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now retrace.
An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals, and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to remount, but I soon succeeded in making my companions understand the nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch, and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me.
Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of his speed, Charlie, accompanied by his faithful attendant barking at the top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences, others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble.