Part 2
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.