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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Heads and tales
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
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before using this eBook.
Title: Heads and tales
or, Anecdotes and stories of quadrupeds and other beasts,
chiefly connected with incidents in the histories of more or
less distinguished men.
Editor: Adam White
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25918]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25918
Credits: Produced by Julia Miller, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEADS AND
TALES ***
HEADS AND TALES;
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Heads and tales
or, Anecdotes and stories of quadrupeds and other beasts,
chiefly connected with incidents in the histories of more or
less distinguished men.
Editor: Adam White
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25918]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25918
Credits: Produced by Julia Miller, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEADS AND
TALES ***
HEADS AND TALES;
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OR,
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ANECDOTES AND STORIES OF
QUADRUPEDS
AND OTHER BEASTS,
CHIEFLY CONNECTED WITH INCIDENTS IN THE
HISTORIES OF MORE OR LESS DISTINGUISHED MEN.
COMPILED AND SELECTED BY
QUADRUPEDS
AND OTHER BEASTS,
CHIEFLY CONNECTED WITH INCIDENTS IN THE
HISTORIES OF MORE OR LESS DISTINGUISHED MEN.
COMPILED AND SELECTED BY
Page 6
ADAM WHITE,
LATE ASSISTANT IN THE ZOOLOGICAL DEPARTMENT,
BRITISH MUSEUM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
Second Edition.
LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.
MDCCCLXX.
The Tasmanian Wolf. Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
LATE ASSISTANT IN THE ZOOLOGICAL DEPARTMENT,
BRITISH MUSEUM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
Second Edition.
LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.
MDCCCLXX.
The Tasmanian Wolf. Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
Page 7
PREFACE.
In this work, a part of which is, so far as it extends, a careful compilation
from an extensive series of books, the great order mammalia, or, rather, a
few of its subjects, is treated anecdotically. The connexion of certain
animals with man, and the readiness with which man can subdue even the
largest of the mammalia, are very curious subjects of thought. The dog and
horse are our special friends and associates; they seem to understand us, and
we get very much attached to them. The cat or the cow, again, possess a
different degree of attachment, and have "heads and hearts" less susceptible
of this education than the first mentioned. The anecdotes in this book will
clearly show facts of this nature. In the Letter of the Gorilla, under an
appearance of exaggeration, will be found many facts of its history. We
have a strong belief that natural history, written as White of Selborne did his
Letter of Timothy the Tortoise, would be very enticing and interesting to
young people. To make birds and other animals relate their stories has been
done sometimes, and generally with success. There are anecdotes hinging,
however, on animals which have more to do with man than the other
mammals referred to in the little story. These stories we have felt to be very
interesting when they occur in biographies of great men. Cowper and his
Hares, Huygens and his Sparrow, are tales—at least the former—full of
interesting matter on the history of the lower animal, but are of most value
as showing the influence on the man who amused himself by taming them.
We like to know that the great Duke, after getting down from his horse
Copenhagen, which carried him through the whole battle of Waterloo,
clapped him on the neck, when the war-charger kicked out, as if untired.
We could have added greatly to this book, especially in the part of jests,
puns, or cases of double entendre. The few selected may suffice. The so-
called conversations of "the Ettrick Shepherd" are full of matter of this
kind, treated by "Christopher North" with a happy combination of rare
power of description and apt exaggeration of detail, often highly amusing.
One or two instances are given here, such as the Fox-hunt and the Whale.
The intention of this book is primarily to be amusing; but it will be strange
if it do not instruct as well. There is much in it that is true of the habits of
In this work, a part of which is, so far as it extends, a careful compilation
from an extensive series of books, the great order mammalia, or, rather, a
few of its subjects, is treated anecdotically. The connexion of certain
animals with man, and the readiness with which man can subdue even the
largest of the mammalia, are very curious subjects of thought. The dog and
horse are our special friends and associates; they seem to understand us, and
we get very much attached to them. The cat or the cow, again, possess a
different degree of attachment, and have "heads and hearts" less susceptible
of this education than the first mentioned. The anecdotes in this book will
clearly show facts of this nature. In the Letter of the Gorilla, under an
appearance of exaggeration, will be found many facts of its history. We
have a strong belief that natural history, written as White of Selborne did his
Letter of Timothy the Tortoise, would be very enticing and interesting to
young people. To make birds and other animals relate their stories has been
done sometimes, and generally with success. There are anecdotes hinging,
however, on animals which have more to do with man than the other
mammals referred to in the little story. These stories we have felt to be very
interesting when they occur in biographies of great men. Cowper and his
Hares, Huygens and his Sparrow, are tales—at least the former—full of
interesting matter on the history of the lower animal, but are of most value
as showing the influence on the man who amused himself by taming them.
We like to know that the great Duke, after getting down from his horse
Copenhagen, which carried him through the whole battle of Waterloo,
clapped him on the neck, when the war-charger kicked out, as if untired.
We could have added greatly to this book, especially in the part of jests,
puns, or cases of double entendre. The few selected may suffice. The so-
called conversations of "the Ettrick Shepherd" are full of matter of this
kind, treated by "Christopher North" with a happy combination of rare
power of description and apt exaggeration of detail, often highly amusing.
One or two instances are given here, such as the Fox-hunt and the Whale.
The intention of this book is primarily to be amusing; but it will be strange
if it do not instruct as well. There is much in it that is true of the habits of
Page 8
mammalia. These, with birds, are likely to interest young people generally,
more than anecdotes of members of orders like fish, insects, or molluscs,
lower in the scale, though often possessing marvellous instincts, the
accounts of which form intensely interesting reading to those who are fond
of seeing or hearing of "the works of the Lord," and who "take pleasure" in
them.
more than anecdotes of members of orders like fish, insects, or molluscs,
lower in the scale, though often possessing marvellous instincts, the
accounts of which form intensely interesting reading to those who are fond
of seeing or hearing of "the works of the Lord," and who "take pleasure" in
them.
Page 9
CONTENTS.
MAMMALIA.[1]
Man 1
Gainsborough's Joke—Skull of Julius Cæsar when a
2
boy
Sir David Wilkie's simplicity about Babies 3
James Montgomery translates into verse a description
4
of Man, after the manner of Linnæus
Addison and Sir Richard Steele's Description of
5
Gimcrack the Collector
Monkeys 9
The Gorilla and its Story 9
The Orang-Utan 11
The Chimpanzee 12
Letter of Mr Waterton 20
Mr Mitchell and the Young Chimpanzee 22
Lady Anne Barnard pleads for the Baboons 24
S. Bisset and his Trained Monkeys 25
Lord Byron's Pets 26
The Ettrick Shepherd's Monkey 27
The Findhorn Fisherman and the Monkey 29
"We ha'e seen the Enemy!" 29
The French Marquis and his Monkey 30
George IV. and Happy Jerry.—Mr Cross's Rib-nosed
31
Baboon at Exeter Change
The Young Lady's pet Monkey and the poor Parrot 33
Monkeys "poor relations" 34
Sydney Smith on Monkeys 34
Mrs Colin Mackenzie on the Apes at Simla 35
The Aye-Aye, or Cheiromys of Madagascar 36
Bats 38
MAMMALIA.[1]
Man 1
Gainsborough's Joke—Skull of Julius Cæsar when a
2
boy
Sir David Wilkie's simplicity about Babies 3
James Montgomery translates into verse a description
4
of Man, after the manner of Linnæus
Addison and Sir Richard Steele's Description of
5
Gimcrack the Collector
Monkeys 9
The Gorilla and its Story 9
The Orang-Utan 11
The Chimpanzee 12
Letter of Mr Waterton 20
Mr Mitchell and the Young Chimpanzee 22
Lady Anne Barnard pleads for the Baboons 24
S. Bisset and his Trained Monkeys 25
Lord Byron's Pets 26
The Ettrick Shepherd's Monkey 27
The Findhorn Fisherman and the Monkey 29
"We ha'e seen the Enemy!" 29
The French Marquis and his Monkey 30
George IV. and Happy Jerry.—Mr Cross's Rib-nosed
31
Baboon at Exeter Change
The Young Lady's pet Monkey and the poor Parrot 33
Monkeys "poor relations" 34
Sydney Smith on Monkeys 34
Mrs Colin Mackenzie on the Apes at Simla 35
The Aye-Aye, or Cheiromys of Madagascar 36
Bats 38
Page 10
One of Captain Cook's Sailors sees a Fox-Bat, and
39
describes it as a devil
Fox Bats (with a Plate) 41
Dr Mayerne and his Balsam of Bats 47
Hedgehog 48
Robert Southey to his Critics 48
Mole 49
Mole, cause of Death of William III. 49
Brown Bear 56
The Austrian General and the Bear—"Back, rascal, I
58
am a general!"
Lord Byron's Bear at Cambridge 59
Charles Dickens on Bear's Grease and Bear-keepers 59
A Bearable Pun 60
A Shaved Bear 61
Polar Bear 61
General History and Anecdotes of Polar Bear, as
61
observed on recent Arctic Expeditions (with a Plate)
Nelson and the Polar Bear 67
A Clever Polar Bear 67
Captain Ommaney and the Polar Bear 70
Raccoon 71
"A Gone Coon" 71
Badger 71
Hugh Miller sees the "Drawing of the Badger" 72
The Laird of Balnamoon and the Brock 75
Ferret 75
Collins and the Rat-catcher, with the Ferret 76
Pole-Cat 76
Fox and the Poll-Cat 77
Dog 77
Phrases about Dogs 77
Cowper's Dog 79
Cowper and his dog Beau 81
39
describes it as a devil
Fox Bats (with a Plate) 41
Dr Mayerne and his Balsam of Bats 47
Hedgehog 48
Robert Southey to his Critics 48
Mole 49
Mole, cause of Death of William III. 49
Brown Bear 56
The Austrian General and the Bear—"Back, rascal, I
58
am a general!"
Lord Byron's Bear at Cambridge 59
Charles Dickens on Bear's Grease and Bear-keepers 59
A Bearable Pun 60
A Shaved Bear 61
Polar Bear 61
General History and Anecdotes of Polar Bear, as
61
observed on recent Arctic Expeditions (with a Plate)
Nelson and the Polar Bear 67
A Clever Polar Bear 67
Captain Ommaney and the Polar Bear 70
Raccoon 71
"A Gone Coon" 71
Badger 71
Hugh Miller sees the "Drawing of the Badger" 72
The Laird of Balnamoon and the Brock 75
Ferret 75
Collins and the Rat-catcher, with the Ferret 76
Pole-Cat 76
Fox and the Poll-Cat 77
Dog 77
Phrases about Dogs 77
Cowper's Dog 79
Cowper and his dog Beau 81
Page 11
Burns's "Twa Dogs" 81
Dog of Assyrian Monument 86
Bishop Blomfield bitten by a Dog 88
Sydney Smith's Remark on it 88
Bishop of Bristol—"Puppies never see till they are
88
nine days old"
Mrs Browning, the Poetess, and her dog Flush 89
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart., and his dog Speaker 93
Lord Byron and his dog Boatswain 94
Lady's reason for calling her dog Perchance 96
Collins the Artist and his dog Prinny—the faithful
96
Model
Soldier and Dog 97
Bark and Bite!—Curran on Lord Clare and his Dog 98
Mrs Drew and the two Dogs 98
Gainsborough and his Wife and their Dogs 100
Sir William Gell's Dog, which was said to speak 101
The Duke of Gordon's Wolf-hounds 102
Frederick the Great and his Italian Greyhounds 104
The Dog and the French Murderers 104
Hannah More on Garrick's Dog 105
Rev. Robert Hall and the Dog 106
A Queen (Henrietta Maria) and her Lap-Dog 106
The Clever Dog that belonged to the Hunters of
107
Polmood
The Irish Clergyman and the Dogs 108
Washington Irving and the Dog 108
Douglas Jerrold and his Dog 109
Sheridan and the Dog 109
Charles Lamb and his dog "Dash" 110
French Dogs of Louis XII. 110
Martin Luther observes a Dog at Lintz 111
Poor Dog at the Grotta del Cane 111
Dog a Postman and Carrier 113
Dog of Assyrian Monument 86
Bishop Blomfield bitten by a Dog 88
Sydney Smith's Remark on it 88
Bishop of Bristol—"Puppies never see till they are
88
nine days old"
Mrs Browning, the Poetess, and her dog Flush 89
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart., and his dog Speaker 93
Lord Byron and his dog Boatswain 94
Lady's reason for calling her dog Perchance 96
Collins the Artist and his dog Prinny—the faithful
96
Model
Soldier and Dog 97
Bark and Bite!—Curran on Lord Clare and his Dog 98
Mrs Drew and the two Dogs 98
Gainsborough and his Wife and their Dogs 100
Sir William Gell's Dog, which was said to speak 101
The Duke of Gordon's Wolf-hounds 102
Frederick the Great and his Italian Greyhounds 104
The Dog and the French Murderers 104
Hannah More on Garrick's Dog 105
Rev. Robert Hall and the Dog 106
A Queen (Henrietta Maria) and her Lap-Dog 106
The Clever Dog that belonged to the Hunters of
107
Polmood
The Irish Clergyman and the Dogs 108
Washington Irving and the Dog 108
Douglas Jerrold and his Dog 109
Sheridan and the Dog 109
Charles Lamb and his dog "Dash" 110
French Dogs of Louis XII. 110
Martin Luther observes a Dog at Lintz 111
Poor Dog at the Grotta del Cane 111
Dog a Postman and Carrier 113
Page 12
South and Sherlock—Dog-matic 113
General Moreau and his Greyhound 113
Duke of Norfolk and his Spaniels 114
Lord North and the Dog 115
Perthes derives Hints from his Dog 115
Peter the Great and his dog Lisette 116
The Light Company's Poodle and Sir F. Ponsonby 118
Admiral Rodney and his dog Loup 119
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal 119
Mrs Schimmelpenninck and the Dogs 120
Sir Walter Scott and his Dogs 122
Sheridan on the Dog-Tax 123
Sydney Smith dislikes Dogs.—An ingenious way of
124
getting rid of them
Sydney Smith on Dogs 125
Sydney Smith.—"Newfoundland Dog that breakfasted
126
on Parish Boys"
Robert Southey on his Dogs 126
A Dog that was a good judge of Elocution.—Mr True
127
and his Pupil
Dog that tried to please a Crying Child 128
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette 128
Horace Walpole.—Arrival of his dog Tonton 129
Horace Walpole.—Death of his dog Tonton 130
Archbishop Whateley and his Dogs 131
Archbishop Whately on Dogs 132
Sir David Wilkie.—A Dog Rose 133
Ulysses and his Dog 133
Wolf 135
Polson and the Last Wolf in Sutherlandshire 135
"If the tail break, you'll find that" 137
Fox 138
An Enthusiastic Fox-hunting Surgeon 138
General Moreau and his Greyhound 113
Duke of Norfolk and his Spaniels 114
Lord North and the Dog 115
Perthes derives Hints from his Dog 115
Peter the Great and his dog Lisette 116
The Light Company's Poodle and Sir F. Ponsonby 118
Admiral Rodney and his dog Loup 119
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal 119
Mrs Schimmelpenninck and the Dogs 120
Sir Walter Scott and his Dogs 122
Sheridan on the Dog-Tax 123
Sydney Smith dislikes Dogs.—An ingenious way of
124
getting rid of them
Sydney Smith on Dogs 125
Sydney Smith.—"Newfoundland Dog that breakfasted
126
on Parish Boys"
Robert Southey on his Dogs 126
A Dog that was a good judge of Elocution.—Mr True
127
and his Pupil
Dog that tried to please a Crying Child 128
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette 128
Horace Walpole.—Arrival of his dog Tonton 129
Horace Walpole.—Death of his dog Tonton 130
Archbishop Whateley and his Dogs 131
Archbishop Whately on Dogs 132
Sir David Wilkie.—A Dog Rose 133
Ulysses and his Dog 133
Wolf 135
Polson and the Last Wolf in Sutherlandshire 135
"If the tail break, you'll find that" 137
Fox 138
An Enthusiastic Fox-hunting Surgeon 138
Page 13
Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, on the Pleasures of Fox-
139
hunting, and the gratification of the Fox
Arctic Foxes converted into Postmen, with Anecdotes
142
(with a plate)
Jackal 148
Burke on the Jackal and Tiger 149
Cat 149
Jeremy Bentham and his pet cat "Sir John Langborn 150
S. Bisset and his Musical Cats 152
Constant, Chateaubriand, and their Cats 153
Liston, the Surgeon, and his Cat 153
The Banker Mitchell's Antipathy to Kittens 154
James Montgomery and his Cats 155
David Ritchie's Cat 157
Sir Walter Scott's Visit to the Black Dwarf 157
Southey, the Poet, and his Cats 158
Archbishop Whateley and the Cat that used to ring the
160
Bell
Tiger and Lion 161
Bussapa, the Tiger-slayer, and the Tiger 162
John Hunter and the Dead Tiger 164
Mrs Mackenzie on the Indian's regard and awe for the
165
Tiger
Jolly Jack-tar on Lion and Tiger 166
Androcles and the Lion 167
Sir George Davis and the Lion 170
Canova's Lions and the Child 171
Admiral Napier and the Lion in the Tower 173
Old Lady and the Beasts on the Mound 173
Seals 174
Dr Adam Clarke on Shetland Seals 175
Dr Edmonstone and the Shetland Seals 176
The Walrus or Morse (with a Plate) 182
Kangaroo 188
139
hunting, and the gratification of the Fox
Arctic Foxes converted into Postmen, with Anecdotes
142
(with a plate)
Jackal 148
Burke on the Jackal and Tiger 149
Cat 149
Jeremy Bentham and his pet cat "Sir John Langborn 150
S. Bisset and his Musical Cats 152
Constant, Chateaubriand, and their Cats 153
Liston, the Surgeon, and his Cat 153
The Banker Mitchell's Antipathy to Kittens 154
James Montgomery and his Cats 155
David Ritchie's Cat 157
Sir Walter Scott's Visit to the Black Dwarf 157
Southey, the Poet, and his Cats 158
Archbishop Whateley and the Cat that used to ring the
160
Bell
Tiger and Lion 161
Bussapa, the Tiger-slayer, and the Tiger 162
John Hunter and the Dead Tiger 164
Mrs Mackenzie on the Indian's regard and awe for the
165
Tiger
Jolly Jack-tar on Lion and Tiger 166
Androcles and the Lion 167
Sir George Davis and the Lion 170
Canova's Lions and the Child 171
Admiral Napier and the Lion in the Tower 173
Old Lady and the Beasts on the Mound 173
Seals 174
Dr Adam Clarke on Shetland Seals 175
Dr Edmonstone and the Shetland Seals 176
The Walrus or Morse (with a Plate) 182
Kangaroo 188
Page 14
Charles Lamb on its Peculiarities 188
Captain Cooke's Sailor and the first Kangaroo seen 189
Charles Lamb on Kangaroos having Purses in front 189
Kangaroo Cooke 189
Tiger Wolf 190
Squirrel, &c. 194
Jekyll on a Squirrel 195
Pets of some of the Parisian Revolutionary Butchers 195
Sir George Back and the poor Lemming 196
c 197
M Dougall and Arctic Lemming
Rats and Mice 198
Duke of Wellington and Musk-Rat 200
Lady Eglinton and the Rats 200
General Douglas and the Rats 201
Hanover Rats 202
Irishman Shooting Rats 203
James Watt and the Rat's Whiskers 204
Gray the Poet compares Poet-Laureate to Rat-catcher 204
Jeremy Bentham and the Mice 205
Robert Burns and the Field Mouse 206
Fuller on Destructive Field Mice 208
Baron Von Trenck and the Mouse in Prison 209
Alexander Wilson, the American Ornithologist, and the
211
Mouse
Hares, Rabbits, Guinea-Pig 212
William Cowper on his Hares 213
Lord Norbury on the Exaggeration of a Hare-Shooter 220
Duke of L. prefers Friends to Hares 221
S. Bisset and his Trained Hare and Turtle 221
Lady Anne Barnard on a Family of Rabbits all blind of
222
one eye
Thomas Fuller on Norfolk Rabbits 222
Dr Chalmers and the Guinea-Pig 223
Sloth 224
Captain Cooke's Sailor and the first Kangaroo seen 189
Charles Lamb on Kangaroos having Purses in front 189
Kangaroo Cooke 189
Tiger Wolf 190
Squirrel, &c. 194
Jekyll on a Squirrel 195
Pets of some of the Parisian Revolutionary Butchers 195
Sir George Back and the poor Lemming 196
c 197
M Dougall and Arctic Lemming
Rats and Mice 198
Duke of Wellington and Musk-Rat 200
Lady Eglinton and the Rats 200
General Douglas and the Rats 201
Hanover Rats 202
Irishman Shooting Rats 203
James Watt and the Rat's Whiskers 204
Gray the Poet compares Poet-Laureate to Rat-catcher 204
Jeremy Bentham and the Mice 205
Robert Burns and the Field Mouse 206
Fuller on Destructive Field Mice 208
Baron Von Trenck and the Mouse in Prison 209
Alexander Wilson, the American Ornithologist, and the
211
Mouse
Hares, Rabbits, Guinea-Pig 212
William Cowper on his Hares 213
Lord Norbury on the Exaggeration of a Hare-Shooter 220
Duke of L. prefers Friends to Hares 221
S. Bisset and his Trained Hare and Turtle 221
Lady Anne Barnard on a Family of Rabbits all blind of
222
one eye
Thomas Fuller on Norfolk Rabbits 222
Dr Chalmers and the Guinea-Pig 223
Sloth 224
Page 15
Sydney Smith on the Sloth—a Comparison 224
The Great Ant-Eater (with a Plate) 225
Elephant 229
Lord Clive—Elephant or Equivalent? 230
Canning on the Elephant and his Trunk 232
Sir R. Phillips and Jelly made of Ivory Dust 233
J. T. Smith and the Elephant 234
Sydney Smith on the Elephant and Tailor 235
Elephant's Skin—a teacher put down 236
Fossil Pachydermata 236
Cuvier's Enthusiasm over Fossils 236
Sow 238
"There's a hantle o' miscellaneous eatin' aboot a Pig" 238
"Pig-Sticking at Chicago" 238
Monument to a Pig at Luneberg 239
Wild Boar (with a Plate) 239
The River Pig (with a Plate) 245
S. Bisset and his Learned Pig 250
Quixote Bowles fond of Pigs 251
On Jekyll's treading on a small Pig 251
Good enough for a Pig 251
Gainsborough's Pigs 252
Theodore Hook and the Litter of Pigs 253
Lady Hardwicke's Pig—her Bailiff 253
Pigs and Silver Spoon 253
Sydney Smith on Beautiful Pigs 254
Joseph Sturge, when a boy, and the Pigs 255
Rhinoceros 229
The Lord Keeper Guildford and the Rhinoceros in the
City of London 230
Horse 256
Horse shot under Albert 256
Bell-Rock Lighthouse Horse 257
Edmund Burke and the Horse 257
The Great Ant-Eater (with a Plate) 225
Elephant 229
Lord Clive—Elephant or Equivalent? 230
Canning on the Elephant and his Trunk 232
Sir R. Phillips and Jelly made of Ivory Dust 233
J. T. Smith and the Elephant 234
Sydney Smith on the Elephant and Tailor 235
Elephant's Skin—a teacher put down 236
Fossil Pachydermata 236
Cuvier's Enthusiasm over Fossils 236
Sow 238
"There's a hantle o' miscellaneous eatin' aboot a Pig" 238
"Pig-Sticking at Chicago" 238
Monument to a Pig at Luneberg 239
Wild Boar (with a Plate) 239
The River Pig (with a Plate) 245
S. Bisset and his Learned Pig 250
Quixote Bowles fond of Pigs 251
On Jekyll's treading on a small Pig 251
Good enough for a Pig 251
Gainsborough's Pigs 252
Theodore Hook and the Litter of Pigs 253
Lady Hardwicke's Pig—her Bailiff 253
Pigs and Silver Spoon 253
Sydney Smith on Beautiful Pigs 254
Joseph Sturge, when a boy, and the Pigs 255
Rhinoceros 229
The Lord Keeper Guildford and the Rhinoceros in the
City of London 230
Horse 256
Horse shot under Albert 256
Bell-Rock Lighthouse Horse 257
Edmund Burke and the Horse 257
Page 16
David Garrick and his Horse, "A horse! a horse! my
258
kingdom for a horse!"
Bernard Gilpin's Horses stolen and recovered 260
The Herald and George III.'s Horse 261
Rev. Rowland Hill and his Horse 261
Holcroft on the Horse 263
Lord Mansfield, his Joke about a Horse 267
Sir John Moore and his Horse at Corunna 268
Neither Horses nor Children can explain their
269
Complaints
Horses with Names 270
Rennie the Engineer and the Horse Old Jack 270
Sydney Smith and his Horses 271
Sydney Smith.—He drugs his Domestic Animals 273
Horseback, an Absent Clergyman 273
Judge Story and the Names he gave his Horses 274
Short-tailed and Long-tailed Horses at Livery,
275
difference of Charge
Ass and Zebra 276
Coleridge on the Ass 276
Collins and the old Donkey at Odell 276
Gainsborough kept one to Study from 277
Irishman on the Ramsgate Donkeys 278
Douglas Jerrold and the Ass's Foal 278
The Judge and the Barrister 279
Ass that loved Poetry 279
Warren Hastings and the refractory Donkey 279
Northcote, an Angel at an Ass 281
Sydney Smith's Donkey with Jeffrey on his back 281
Sydney Smith on the Sagacity of the Ass 283
Sydney Smith's Deers, how he introduced them into
284
his Grounds to gratify Visitors
Asses' Duty Free 284
Thackeray on Egyptian Donkey 285
258
kingdom for a horse!"
Bernard Gilpin's Horses stolen and recovered 260
The Herald and George III.'s Horse 261
Rev. Rowland Hill and his Horse 261
Holcroft on the Horse 263
Lord Mansfield, his Joke about a Horse 267
Sir John Moore and his Horse at Corunna 268
Neither Horses nor Children can explain their
269
Complaints
Horses with Names 270
Rennie the Engineer and the Horse Old Jack 270
Sydney Smith and his Horses 271
Sydney Smith.—He drugs his Domestic Animals 273
Horseback, an Absent Clergyman 273
Judge Story and the Names he gave his Horses 274
Short-tailed and Long-tailed Horses at Livery,
275
difference of Charge
Ass and Zebra 276
Coleridge on the Ass 276
Collins and the old Donkey at Odell 276
Gainsborough kept one to Study from 277
Irishman on the Ramsgate Donkeys 278
Douglas Jerrold and the Ass's Foal 278
The Judge and the Barrister 279
Ass that loved Poetry 279
Warren Hastings and the refractory Donkey 279
Northcote, an Angel at an Ass 281
Sydney Smith's Donkey with Jeffrey on his back 281
Sydney Smith on the Sagacity of the Ass 283
Sydney Smith's Deers, how he introduced them into
284
his Grounds to gratify Visitors
Asses' Duty Free 284
Thackeray on Egyptian Donkey 285
Page 17
Zebra, a Frenchman's double-entendre 287
Camels 287
Captain William Peel, R.N., on Camel 287
Captain in Royal Navy measures the progress of the
289
Ship of the Desert
Lord Metcalfe on a Camel when a Boy 290
Red Deer 291
Earl of Dalhousie and the ferocious Stag 291
The French Count and the Stag 293
Fallow Deer 294
Venison Fat, Reynolds and the Gourmand 294
Goethe on Stag-trench at Frankfort-on-Maine 294
Giraffe 295
"Fancy Two Yards of Sore Throat!" 295
Sheep and Goat 295
How many Legs has a Sheep? 296
Goethe on Roos's Etchings of Sheep 296
Lord Cockburn and the Sheep 298
Erskine's Sheep—an Eye to the Woolsack 298
Sandy Wood and his Pet Sheep and Raven 298
General Carnac and She-goat 299
John Hunter and the Shawl-goat 300
Commodore Keppel beards the Dey of Algiers 303
Ox 304
Irish Bulls 304
A great Calf! "The more he sucked the greater Calf he
304
grew!"
Veal ad nauseam! too much of a good thing 304
James Boswell should confine himself to the Cow 305
Rev. Adam Clarke and his Bullock Pat 305
Samuel Foote and the Cows pulling the Bell of
306
Worcester College
The General's Cow at Plymouth 308
Camels 287
Captain William Peel, R.N., on Camel 287
Captain in Royal Navy measures the progress of the
289
Ship of the Desert
Lord Metcalfe on a Camel when a Boy 290
Red Deer 291
Earl of Dalhousie and the ferocious Stag 291
The French Count and the Stag 293
Fallow Deer 294
Venison Fat, Reynolds and the Gourmand 294
Goethe on Stag-trench at Frankfort-on-Maine 294
Giraffe 295
"Fancy Two Yards of Sore Throat!" 295
Sheep and Goat 295
How many Legs has a Sheep? 296
Goethe on Roos's Etchings of Sheep 296
Lord Cockburn and the Sheep 298
Erskine's Sheep—an Eye to the Woolsack 298
Sandy Wood and his Pet Sheep and Raven 298
General Carnac and She-goat 299
John Hunter and the Shawl-goat 300
Commodore Keppel beards the Dey of Algiers 303
Ox 304
Irish Bulls 304
A great Calf! "The more he sucked the greater Calf he
304
grew!"
Veal ad nauseam! too much of a good thing 304
James Boswell should confine himself to the Cow 305
Rev. Adam Clarke and his Bullock Pat 305
Samuel Foote and the Cows pulling the Bell of
306
Worcester College
The General's Cow at Plymouth 308
Page 18
Gilpin's Love of the Picturesque carried out—a reason
308
for keeping three Cows
King James on a Cow getting over the Border 309
Duke of Montague and his Hospital for Old Cows and
309
Horses
Philip IV. of Spain in the Bull-ring 310
Sydney Smith and his "Universal Scratcher" 311
Rev. Augustus Toplady on the Future State of Animals
312
—the Rev. William Bull
Windham on the Feelings of a Baited Bull 313
Whale 315
A Porpoise not at Home 315
Whalebone 315
"What's to become o' the puir Whales?" 316
Very like a Whale! 316
Christopher North on the Whale 316
308
for keeping three Cows
King James on a Cow getting over the Border 309
Duke of Montague and his Hospital for Old Cows and
309
Horses
Philip IV. of Spain in the Bull-ring 310
Sydney Smith and his "Universal Scratcher" 311
Rev. Augustus Toplady on the Future State of Animals
312
—the Rev. William Bull
Windham on the Feelings of a Baited Bull 313
Whale 315
A Porpoise not at Home 315
Whalebone 315
"What's to become o' the puir Whales?" 316
Very like a Whale! 316
Christopher North on the Whale 316
Page 19
HEADS AND TALES.
Page 20
MAN.
In this collection, like Linnæus, we begin with man as undoubtedly an
animal, as opposed to a vegetable or mineral. Like Professor Owen, we are
inclined to fancy he is well entitled to separate rank from even the Linnæan
order, Primates, and to have more systematic honour conferred on him than
what Cuvier allowed him. That great French naturalist placed man in a
section separate from his four-handed order, Quadrumana, and, from his
two hands and some other qualities, enrolled our race in an order, Bimana.
Surely the ancients surpassed many modern naturalists of the Lamarckian
school, who would derive him from an ourang, a chimpanzee, or a gorilla.
One of them has nobly said—
"Os homini sublime dedit, cœlumque tueri."
Our own Sir William Hamilton, in a few powerful words has condensed
what will ever be, we are thankful to suppose, the general idea of most men,
be they naturalists or not, that mind and soul have much to distinguish us
from every other animal:—
"What man holds of matter does not make up his personality. Man is not an
organism. He is an intelligence served by organs. They are his, not he."
As a mere specimen, we subjoin two or three anecdotes, although the
species, Homo sapiens, has supplied, and might supply, many volumes of
anecdotes touching on his whims and peculiarities. As a good example of
the Scottish variety, who is there that does not know Dean Ramsay's
"Reminiscences?" Surely each nation requires a similar judicious selection.
Mr Punch, especially when aided by his late admirable artist, John Leech,
shows seemingly that John Bull and his family are as distinct from the
French, as the French are from the Yankees.
Thomas Gainsborough the Artist, and the Tailor.
In this collection, like Linnæus, we begin with man as undoubtedly an
animal, as opposed to a vegetable or mineral. Like Professor Owen, we are
inclined to fancy he is well entitled to separate rank from even the Linnæan
order, Primates, and to have more systematic honour conferred on him than
what Cuvier allowed him. That great French naturalist placed man in a
section separate from his four-handed order, Quadrumana, and, from his
two hands and some other qualities, enrolled our race in an order, Bimana.
Surely the ancients surpassed many modern naturalists of the Lamarckian
school, who would derive him from an ourang, a chimpanzee, or a gorilla.
One of them has nobly said—
"Os homini sublime dedit, cœlumque tueri."
Our own Sir William Hamilton, in a few powerful words has condensed
what will ever be, we are thankful to suppose, the general idea of most men,
be they naturalists or not, that mind and soul have much to distinguish us
from every other animal:—
"What man holds of matter does not make up his personality. Man is not an
organism. He is an intelligence served by organs. They are his, not he."
As a mere specimen, we subjoin two or three anecdotes, although the
species, Homo sapiens, has supplied, and might supply, many volumes of
anecdotes touching on his whims and peculiarities. As a good example of
the Scottish variety, who is there that does not know Dean Ramsay's
"Reminiscences?" Surely each nation requires a similar judicious selection.
Mr Punch, especially when aided by his late admirable artist, John Leech,
shows seemingly that John Bull and his family are as distinct from the
French, as the French are from the Yankees.
Thomas Gainsborough the Artist, and the Tailor.
Page 21
Gainsborough, the painter, was very ready-witted. His biographer[2] records
the following anecdote of him as very likely to be authentic. The great artist
occasionally made sketches from an honest old tailor, of the name of
Fowler, who had a picturesque countenance and silver-gray locks. On the
chimney-piece of his painting-room, among other curiosities, was a
beautiful preparation of an infant cranium, presented to the painter by his
old friend, Surgeon Cruickshanks. Fowler, without moving his position,
continually peered at it askance with inquisitive eye. "Ah! Master Fowler,"
said the painter, "that is a mighty curiosity." "What might it be, sir, if I may
be so bold?" "A whale's eye," replied Gainsborough. "Oh! not so; never say
so, Muster Gainsborough. Laws! sir, it is a little child's skull!" "You have
hit upon it," said the wag. "Why, Fowler, you are a witch! But what will you
think when I tell you that it is the skull of Julius Cæsar when he was a little
boy?" "Do you say so!" exclaimed Fowler, "what a phenomenon!"
This reminds us of a similar story told of a countryman, who was shown the
so-called skull of Oliver Cromwell at the museum in Oxford, and expressed
his delight by saying how gratifying it was to see skulls of great men at
different ages, for he had just seen at Bath the skull of the Protector when a
youth!
Sir David Wilkie and the Baby.
A very popular novelist and author of the present day tells the following
anecdote of the simplicity of Sir David Wilkie, with regard to his
knowledge of infant human nature:—
On the birth of his first son, at the beginning of 1824, William Collins,[3]
the great artist, requested Sir David Wilkie to become one of the sponsors
for his child.[4] The painter's first criticism on his future godson is worth
recording from its simplicity. Sir David, whose studies of human nature
extended to everything but infant human nature, had evidently been
refreshing his faculties for the occasion, by taxing his boyish recollections
of puppies and kittens; for, after looking intently into the child's eyes as it
was held up for his inspection, he exclaimed to the father, with serious
astonishment and satisfaction, "He sees!"
the following anecdote of him as very likely to be authentic. The great artist
occasionally made sketches from an honest old tailor, of the name of
Fowler, who had a picturesque countenance and silver-gray locks. On the
chimney-piece of his painting-room, among other curiosities, was a
beautiful preparation of an infant cranium, presented to the painter by his
old friend, Surgeon Cruickshanks. Fowler, without moving his position,
continually peered at it askance with inquisitive eye. "Ah! Master Fowler,"
said the painter, "that is a mighty curiosity." "What might it be, sir, if I may
be so bold?" "A whale's eye," replied Gainsborough. "Oh! not so; never say
so, Muster Gainsborough. Laws! sir, it is a little child's skull!" "You have
hit upon it," said the wag. "Why, Fowler, you are a witch! But what will you
think when I tell you that it is the skull of Julius Cæsar when he was a little
boy?" "Do you say so!" exclaimed Fowler, "what a phenomenon!"
This reminds us of a similar story told of a countryman, who was shown the
so-called skull of Oliver Cromwell at the museum in Oxford, and expressed
his delight by saying how gratifying it was to see skulls of great men at
different ages, for he had just seen at Bath the skull of the Protector when a
youth!
Sir David Wilkie and the Baby.
A very popular novelist and author of the present day tells the following
anecdote of the simplicity of Sir David Wilkie, with regard to his
knowledge of infant human nature:—
On the birth of his first son, at the beginning of 1824, William Collins,[3]
the great artist, requested Sir David Wilkie to become one of the sponsors
for his child.[4] The painter's first criticism on his future godson is worth
recording from its simplicity. Sir David, whose studies of human nature
extended to everything but infant human nature, had evidently been
refreshing his faculties for the occasion, by taxing his boyish recollections
of puppies and kittens; for, after looking intently into the child's eyes as it
was held up for his inspection, he exclaimed to the father, with serious
astonishment and satisfaction, "He sees!"
Page 22
Man Defined Somewhat in the Linnæan Manner.
One who is partial to the Linnæan mode of characterising objects of natural
history has amused himself with drawing up the following definition of
man:—"Simia sine cauda; pedibus posticis ambulans; gregarius,
omnivorus, inquietus, mendax, furax, rapax, salax, pugnax, artium
variarum capax, animalium reliquorum hostis, sui ipsius inimicus
acerrimus."
Montgomery translated the description thus:—
"Man is an animal unfledged,
A monkey with his tail abridged;
A thing that walks on spindle legs,
With bones as brittle, sir, as eggs;
His body, flexible and limber,
And headed with a knob of timber;
A being frantic and unquiet,
And very fond of beef and riot;
Rapacious, lustful, rough, and martial,
To lies and lying scoundrels partial!
By nature form'd with splendid parts
To rise in science—shine in arts;
Yet so confounded cross and vicious,
A mortal foe to all his species!
His own best friend, and you must know,
His own worst enemy by being so!"[5]
Addison and Steele on some of the Peculiarities of the Natural
History Collectors of the day.
In one of the early volumes of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, there was a
very curious paper entitled "Nat Phin." Although considerably exaggerated,
no one who had the happiness of knowing the learned, amiable, and
excellent Dr Patrick Neill, could fail to recognise, in the transposed title, an
amusing description of his love of natural history pets, zoological and
botanical. The fun of the paper is that "Nat" gets married, and, coming
One who is partial to the Linnæan mode of characterising objects of natural
history has amused himself with drawing up the following definition of
man:—"Simia sine cauda; pedibus posticis ambulans; gregarius,
omnivorus, inquietus, mendax, furax, rapax, salax, pugnax, artium
variarum capax, animalium reliquorum hostis, sui ipsius inimicus
acerrimus."
Montgomery translated the description thus:—
"Man is an animal unfledged,
A monkey with his tail abridged;
A thing that walks on spindle legs,
With bones as brittle, sir, as eggs;
His body, flexible and limber,
And headed with a knob of timber;
A being frantic and unquiet,
And very fond of beef and riot;
Rapacious, lustful, rough, and martial,
To lies and lying scoundrels partial!
By nature form'd with splendid parts
To rise in science—shine in arts;
Yet so confounded cross and vicious,
A mortal foe to all his species!
His own best friend, and you must know,
His own worst enemy by being so!"[5]
Addison and Steele on some of the Peculiarities of the Natural
History Collectors of the day.
In one of the early volumes of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, there was a
very curious paper entitled "Nat Phin." Although considerably exaggerated,
no one who had the happiness of knowing the learned, amiable, and
excellent Dr Patrick Neill, could fail to recognise, in the transposed title, an
amusing description of his love of natural history pets, zoological and
botanical. The fun of the paper is that "Nat" gets married, and, coming
Page 23
home one day from his office, finds that his young wife has caused the
gardener to clear out his ponds of tadpoles and zoophytes.
Addison or Sir Richard Steele, or both of them, in the following paper of
the Tatler (No. 221, Sept. 7, 1710), has given one of those quietly satiric
pictures of many a well-known man of the day, some Petiver or Hans
Sloane. The widow Gimcrack's letter is peculiarly racy. Although old books,
the Tatler and Spectator still furnish rare material to many a popular
magazine writer of the day, who sometimes does little more than dilute a
paper in these and other rare repertories of the style and wit of a golden age.
We meditated offering various extracts from Swift and Daniel Defoe; but
our space limits us to one, and the following may for the present suffice.
"From my own Apartment, September 6.
"As I was this morning going out of my house, a little boy in a black coat
delivered me the following letter. Upon asking who he was, he told me that
he belonged to my Lady Gimcrack. I did not at first recollect the name, but,
upon inquiry, I found it to be the widow of Sir Nicholas, whose legacy I
lately gave some account of to the world. The letter ran thus:—
"'Mr Bickerstaff,—I hope you will not be surprised to receive a
letter from the widow Gimcrack. You know, sir, that I have
lately lost a very whimsical husband, who, I find, by one of your
last week's papers, was not altogether a stranger to you. When I
married this gentleman, he had a very handsome estate; but,
upon buying a set of microscopes, he was chosen a Fellow of the
Royal Society; from which time I do not remember ever to have
heard him speak as other people did, or talk in a manner that
any of his family could understand him. He used, however, to
pass away his time very innocently in conversation with several
members of that learned body: for which reason I never advised
him against their company for several years, until at last I found
his brain quite turned with their discourses. The first symptoms
which he discovered of his being a virtuoso, as you call him,
poor man! was about fifteen years ago; when he gave me
positive orders to turn off an old weeding woman, that had been
employed in the family for some years. He told me, at the same
gardener to clear out his ponds of tadpoles and zoophytes.
Addison or Sir Richard Steele, or both of them, in the following paper of
the Tatler (No. 221, Sept. 7, 1710), has given one of those quietly satiric
pictures of many a well-known man of the day, some Petiver or Hans
Sloane. The widow Gimcrack's letter is peculiarly racy. Although old books,
the Tatler and Spectator still furnish rare material to many a popular
magazine writer of the day, who sometimes does little more than dilute a
paper in these and other rare repertories of the style and wit of a golden age.
We meditated offering various extracts from Swift and Daniel Defoe; but
our space limits us to one, and the following may for the present suffice.
"From my own Apartment, September 6.
"As I was this morning going out of my house, a little boy in a black coat
delivered me the following letter. Upon asking who he was, he told me that
he belonged to my Lady Gimcrack. I did not at first recollect the name, but,
upon inquiry, I found it to be the widow of Sir Nicholas, whose legacy I
lately gave some account of to the world. The letter ran thus:—
"'Mr Bickerstaff,—I hope you will not be surprised to receive a
letter from the widow Gimcrack. You know, sir, that I have
lately lost a very whimsical husband, who, I find, by one of your
last week's papers, was not altogether a stranger to you. When I
married this gentleman, he had a very handsome estate; but,
upon buying a set of microscopes, he was chosen a Fellow of the
Royal Society; from which time I do not remember ever to have
heard him speak as other people did, or talk in a manner that
any of his family could understand him. He used, however, to
pass away his time very innocently in conversation with several
members of that learned body: for which reason I never advised
him against their company for several years, until at last I found
his brain quite turned with their discourses. The first symptoms
which he discovered of his being a virtuoso, as you call him,
poor man! was about fifteen years ago; when he gave me
positive orders to turn off an old weeding woman, that had been
employed in the family for some years. He told me, at the same
Page 24
time, that there was no such thing in nature as a weed, and that it
was his design to let his garden produce what it pleased; so that,
you may be sure, it makes a very pleasant show as it now lies.
About the same time he took a humour to ramble up and down
the country, and would often bring home with him his pockets
full of moss and pebbles. This, you may be sure, gave me a
heavy heart; though, at the same time, I must needs say, he had
the character of a very honest man, notwithstanding he was
reckoned a little weak, until he began to sell his estate, and buy
those strange baubles that you have taken notice of. Upon
midsummerday last, as he was walking with me in the fields, he
saw a very odd-coloured butterfly just before us. I observed that
he immediately changed colour, like a man that is surprised with
a piece of good luck; and telling me that it was what he had
looked for above these twelve years, he threw off his coat, and
followed it. I lost sight of them both in less than a quarter of an
hour; but my husband continued the chase over hedge and ditch
until about sunset; at which time, as I was afterwards told, he
caught the butterfly as she rested herself upon a cabbage, near
five miles from the place where he first put her up. He was here
lifted from the ground by some passengers in a very fainting
condition, and brought home to me about midnight. His violent
exercise threw him into a fever, which grew upon him by
degrees, and at last carried him off. In one of the intervals of his
distemper he called to me, and, after having excused himself for
running out his estate, he told me that he had always been more
industrious to improve his mind than his fortune, and that his
family must rather value themselves upon his memory as he was
a wise man than a rich one. He then told me that it was a custom
among the Romans for a man to give his slaves their liberty
when he lay upon his death-bed. I could not imagine what this
meant, until, after having a little composed himself, he ordered
me to bring him a flea which he had kept for several months in a
chain, with a design, as he said, to give it its manumission. This
was done accordingly. He then made the will, which I have since
seen printed in your works word for word. Only I must take
notice that you have omitted the codicil, in which he left a large
was his design to let his garden produce what it pleased; so that,
you may be sure, it makes a very pleasant show as it now lies.
About the same time he took a humour to ramble up and down
the country, and would often bring home with him his pockets
full of moss and pebbles. This, you may be sure, gave me a
heavy heart; though, at the same time, I must needs say, he had
the character of a very honest man, notwithstanding he was
reckoned a little weak, until he began to sell his estate, and buy
those strange baubles that you have taken notice of. Upon
midsummerday last, as he was walking with me in the fields, he
saw a very odd-coloured butterfly just before us. I observed that
he immediately changed colour, like a man that is surprised with
a piece of good luck; and telling me that it was what he had
looked for above these twelve years, he threw off his coat, and
followed it. I lost sight of them both in less than a quarter of an
hour; but my husband continued the chase over hedge and ditch
until about sunset; at which time, as I was afterwards told, he
caught the butterfly as she rested herself upon a cabbage, near
five miles from the place where he first put her up. He was here
lifted from the ground by some passengers in a very fainting
condition, and brought home to me about midnight. His violent
exercise threw him into a fever, which grew upon him by
degrees, and at last carried him off. In one of the intervals of his
distemper he called to me, and, after having excused himself for
running out his estate, he told me that he had always been more
industrious to improve his mind than his fortune, and that his
family must rather value themselves upon his memory as he was
a wise man than a rich one. He then told me that it was a custom
among the Romans for a man to give his slaves their liberty
when he lay upon his death-bed. I could not imagine what this
meant, until, after having a little composed himself, he ordered
me to bring him a flea which he had kept for several months in a
chain, with a design, as he said, to give it its manumission. This
was done accordingly. He then made the will, which I have since
seen printed in your works word for word. Only I must take
notice that you have omitted the codicil, in which he left a large
Page 25
concha veneris, as it is there called, to a Member of the Royal
Society, who was often with him in his sickness, and assisted
him in his will. And now, sir, I come to the chief business of my
letter, which is to desire your friendship and assistance in the
disposal of those many rarities and curiosities which lie upon
my hands. If you know any one that has an occasion for a parcel
of dried spiders, I will sell them a pennyworth. I could likewise
let any one have a bargain of cockle-shells. I would also desire
your advice whether I had best sell my beetles in a lump or by
retail. The gentleman above mentioned, who was my husband's
friend, would have me make an auction of all his goods, and is
now drawing up a catalogue of every particular for that purpose,
with the two following words in great letters over the head of
them, Auctio Gimcrackiana. But, upon talking with him, I begin
to suspect he is as mad as poor Sir Nicholas was. Your advice in
all these particulars will be a great piece of charity to, Sir, your
most humble servant,
"'Elizabeth Gimcrack.'
"I shall answer the foregoing letter, and give the widow my best advice, as
soon as I can find out chapmen for the wares which she has to put off."
Society, who was often with him in his sickness, and assisted
him in his will. And now, sir, I come to the chief business of my
letter, which is to desire your friendship and assistance in the
disposal of those many rarities and curiosities which lie upon
my hands. If you know any one that has an occasion for a parcel
of dried spiders, I will sell them a pennyworth. I could likewise
let any one have a bargain of cockle-shells. I would also desire
your advice whether I had best sell my beetles in a lump or by
retail. The gentleman above mentioned, who was my husband's
friend, would have me make an auction of all his goods, and is
now drawing up a catalogue of every particular for that purpose,
with the two following words in great letters over the head of
them, Auctio Gimcrackiana. But, upon talking with him, I begin
to suspect he is as mad as poor Sir Nicholas was. Your advice in
all these particulars will be a great piece of charity to, Sir, your
most humble servant,
"'Elizabeth Gimcrack.'
"I shall answer the foregoing letter, and give the widow my best advice, as
soon as I can find out chapmen for the wares which she has to put off."
Page 26
MONKEYS.
The Gorilla and its Story.
In the British Museum, in handsome glass cases, and on the floors of the
three first rooms at the top of the stairs, may be seen the largest collection
of the skins and skeletons of quadrupeds ever brought together. In the third,
or principal room, will be found a nearly complete series of the
Quadrumana or four-handed Mammalia. Monkeys are quadrumanous
mammalia. The resemblance of these animals to men is most conspicuous,
in the largest of them, such as the gorilla, orang-utan, chimpanzee, and the
long-armed or gibbous apes. Such resemblance is most distant in the
ferocious dog-faced baboons of Africa, the Cynocephali of the ancients. It is
softened off, but not effaced, in the pretty little countenances of those dwarf
pets from South America, the ouistities or marmosets, and other species of
new-world monkeys, some of which are not larger than a squirrel.
They are well called Monkeys, Monnikies, Mannikies—little men, "Simiæ
quasi bestiæ hominibus similes," "monkeys, as if beasts resembling man,"
or "mon," as the word man is pronounced in pure Doric Saxon, whether in
York or Peebles.
"Monkey! you very degraded little brute, how much you resemble us!" said
old Ennius, without ever fancying that the day would come when some men
would regard their own race as little better than highly-advanced monkeys.
Let us never for a moment rest in such fallacious theories, or accept the
belief of Darwin and Huxley, with a few active agitating disciples, that
animals, and even plants, may pass into each other.
"I think we are not wholly brain,
Magnetic mockeries; ...
Not only cunning casts in clay;
Let science prove we are, and then
What matters science unto men,
The Gorilla and its Story.
In the British Museum, in handsome glass cases, and on the floors of the
three first rooms at the top of the stairs, may be seen the largest collection
of the skins and skeletons of quadrupeds ever brought together. In the third,
or principal room, will be found a nearly complete series of the
Quadrumana or four-handed Mammalia. Monkeys are quadrumanous
mammalia. The resemblance of these animals to men is most conspicuous,
in the largest of them, such as the gorilla, orang-utan, chimpanzee, and the
long-armed or gibbous apes. Such resemblance is most distant in the
ferocious dog-faced baboons of Africa, the Cynocephali of the ancients. It is
softened off, but not effaced, in the pretty little countenances of those dwarf
pets from South America, the ouistities or marmosets, and other species of
new-world monkeys, some of which are not larger than a squirrel.
They are well called Monkeys, Monnikies, Mannikies—little men, "Simiæ
quasi bestiæ hominibus similes," "monkeys, as if beasts resembling man,"
or "mon," as the word man is pronounced in pure Doric Saxon, whether in
York or Peebles.
"Monkey! you very degraded little brute, how much you resemble us!" said
old Ennius, without ever fancying that the day would come when some men
would regard their own race as little better than highly-advanced monkeys.
Let us never for a moment rest in such fallacious theories, or accept the
belief of Darwin and Huxley, with a few active agitating disciples, that
animals, and even plants, may pass into each other.
"I think we are not wholly brain,
Magnetic mockeries; ...
Not only cunning casts in clay;
Let science prove we are, and then
What matters science unto men,
Page 27
At least to me! I would not stay:
Let him, the wiser man who springs
Hereafter, up from childhood shape
His action, like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things."
—In Memoriam, cxix.
Darwin and Huxley cannot change nature. They may change their minds
and opinions, as their fathers did before them. It is, we suspect, only the old
heathen materialism cropping out,—
"Our little systems have their day—
They have their day and cease to be.
They are but broken lights of Thee,
And Thou, O Lord! art more than they."
—In Memoriam.
No artists or authors have ever pictured or described monkeys like Sir
Edwin Landseer and his brother Thomas. Surely a new edition of the
Monkeyana is wanted for the rising generation. Oliver Goldsmith, that great
writer, who was most feeble in knowledge of natural history from almost
total ignorance of the subject, over which he threw the graces of his
charming style, noticed, as remarkable, that in countries "where the men are
barbarous and stupid, the brutes are the most active and sagacious." He
continues, that it is in the torrid tracts, inhabited by barbarians, that animals
are found with instinct so nearly approaching reason. Both in Africa and
America, accordingly, he tells us, "the savages suppose monkeys to be men;
idle, slothful, rational beings, capable of speech and conversation, but
obstinately dumb, for fear of being compelled to labour."
For the present, I shall suppose that the gorilla, largest of all the apes, can
not only speak, but write; and is speaking and writing to an orang-utan of
Borneo. Even a Lamarckian will allow this to be within the range of
possibility. Were it possible to get Gay or Cowper to write a new set of
fables, animals, in the days of postoffices and letters, would become, like
the age, epistolary. But a word on the imaginary correspondent.
Let him, the wiser man who springs
Hereafter, up from childhood shape
His action, like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things."
—In Memoriam, cxix.
Darwin and Huxley cannot change nature. They may change their minds
and opinions, as their fathers did before them. It is, we suspect, only the old
heathen materialism cropping out,—
"Our little systems have their day—
They have their day and cease to be.
They are but broken lights of Thee,
And Thou, O Lord! art more than they."
—In Memoriam.
No artists or authors have ever pictured or described monkeys like Sir
Edwin Landseer and his brother Thomas. Surely a new edition of the
Monkeyana is wanted for the rising generation. Oliver Goldsmith, that great
writer, who was most feeble in knowledge of natural history from almost
total ignorance of the subject, over which he threw the graces of his
charming style, noticed, as remarkable, that in countries "where the men are
barbarous and stupid, the brutes are the most active and sagacious." He
continues, that it is in the torrid tracts, inhabited by barbarians, that animals
are found with instinct so nearly approaching reason. Both in Africa and
America, accordingly, he tells us, "the savages suppose monkeys to be men;
idle, slothful, rational beings, capable of speech and conversation, but
obstinately dumb, for fear of being compelled to labour."
For the present, I shall suppose that the gorilla, largest of all the apes, can
not only speak, but write; and is speaking and writing to an orang-utan of
Borneo. Even a Lamarckian will allow this to be within the range of
possibility. Were it possible to get Gay or Cowper to write a new set of
fables, animals, in the days of postoffices and letters, would become, like
the age, epistolary. But a word on the imaginary correspondent.
Page 28
The orang, as the reader knows, is the great red-haired "Man of the Woods,"
as the name may be rendered in English. My old friend, Mr Alfred Wallace,
lately in New Guinea, and the adjoining parts, collecting natural history
subjects, and making all kinds of valuable observations and surveys, sent to
Europe most of the magnificent specimens of this "ugly beast" now in the
museum. He has detailed its habits and history in an able account, published
some years ago in "The Annals and Magazine of Natural History."
Its home seems to be the fine forests which cover many parts of the coast of
Borneo. The home of the gorilla and chimpanzee are in the tropical forests
of the coasts of Western Africa.
There would seem to be but three or four well established species of these
apes, though there are, as in man and most created beings, some marked or
decided varieties. These apes are altogether quadrupeds, adapted for a life
among trees. The late Charles Waterton, of Walton Hall, whom I deem it an
honour to have known for many years, personally and in his writings, has
well shown this in his "Essays on Natural History." Professor Owen, with
his osteologies, and old Tyson, with his anatomies, have each demonstrated
that—draw what inferences the followers of Mr Darwin may choose—
monkeys are not men, but quadrupeds.
The structure of chimpanzee, orang, and gorilla considerably resembles that
of man, but so more distantly does a frog's, so does Scheuchzer's fossil
amphibian in the museum, so does a squirrel's, so does a parrot's. Yet,
because parrots, squirrels, frogs, and asses have skulls, a pelvis, and fore-
arms, they are not men any more than fish are. Linnæus has given the real
specific, the real class, order, and generic character of man, unique as a
species, as a genus, as an order, or as a class, as even the greatest
comparative anatomist of England regards him; "Nosce teipsum:" "Γνωθι
σεαυτον"—KNOW THYSELF. Man alone expects a hereafter. He is
immortal, and anticipates, hopes for, or dreads a resurrection. Melancholy it
is that he alone, as an American writer curiously remarks, collects bodies of
men of one blood to fight with each other. He alone can become a drunkard.
The reader must leave rhapsody, and may now be reminded, in explanation
of allusions in the following letter, that the arm of Dr Livingstone, the
African traveller, was crushed and crunched by the bite and "chaw" of a
as the name may be rendered in English. My old friend, Mr Alfred Wallace,
lately in New Guinea, and the adjoining parts, collecting natural history
subjects, and making all kinds of valuable observations and surveys, sent to
Europe most of the magnificent specimens of this "ugly beast" now in the
museum. He has detailed its habits and history in an able account, published
some years ago in "The Annals and Magazine of Natural History."
Its home seems to be the fine forests which cover many parts of the coast of
Borneo. The home of the gorilla and chimpanzee are in the tropical forests
of the coasts of Western Africa.
There would seem to be but three or four well established species of these
apes, though there are, as in man and most created beings, some marked or
decided varieties. These apes are altogether quadrupeds, adapted for a life
among trees. The late Charles Waterton, of Walton Hall, whom I deem it an
honour to have known for many years, personally and in his writings, has
well shown this in his "Essays on Natural History." Professor Owen, with
his osteologies, and old Tyson, with his anatomies, have each demonstrated
that—draw what inferences the followers of Mr Darwin may choose—
monkeys are not men, but quadrupeds.
The structure of chimpanzee, orang, and gorilla considerably resembles that
of man, but so more distantly does a frog's, so does Scheuchzer's fossil
amphibian in the museum, so does a squirrel's, so does a parrot's. Yet,
because parrots, squirrels, frogs, and asses have skulls, a pelvis, and fore-
arms, they are not men any more than fish are. Linnæus has given the real
specific, the real class, order, and generic character of man, unique as a
species, as a genus, as an order, or as a class, as even the greatest
comparative anatomist of England regards him; "Nosce teipsum:" "Γνωθι
σεαυτον"—KNOW THYSELF. Man alone expects a hereafter. He is
immortal, and anticipates, hopes for, or dreads a resurrection. Melancholy it
is that he alone, as an American writer curiously remarks, collects bodies of
men of one blood to fight with each other. He alone can become a drunkard.
The reader must leave rhapsody, and may now be reminded, in explanation
of allusions in the following letter, that the arm of Dr Livingstone, the
African traveller, was crushed and crunched by the bite and "chaw" of a
Page 29
lion. He will also please to notice, that the skeleton of the gorilla in the
museum has the left arm broken by some dreadful accident. This injury may
possibly have been caused by a fall when young, or more probably by the
empoisoned bite of a larger gorilla, or of a tree-climbing Leopard. So much
may be premised before giving a letter, supposed to be intercepted on its
way between the Gaboon and London, and London and Borneo, opened at
St Martin's-le-Grand, and detained as unpaid.
"I was born in a large baobab tree, on the west coast of Africa, not very far
from Calabar. We gorillas are good time-keepers, rise early and go to bed
early, guided infallibly by the sun. But though our family has been in
existence at least six thousand years, we have no chronology, and care not a
straw about our grandfathers. I suppose I had a grandmother, but I never
took any interest in any but very close relationships.
"We never toiled for our daily food, and are not idle like these lazy black
fellows who hold their palavers near us, and whom I, for my part, heartily
despise. They cannot climb a tree, as we do, although they can talk to each
other, and make one another slaves. At least they so treat their countrymen
far off where the fine sweet plantains grow, and some other juicy tit-bits,
the memory of which makes my mouth water. These fellows have ugly
wives, not nearly so big-mouthed as ours, without our noble bony ridge,
small ears, and exalted presence. They are actually forced to walk erect, and
their fore-legs seldom touch the ground, except in the case of piccanninies.
These little creatures crawl on the ground, are much paler when born, and
are then perfectly helpless; and have no hair except on their heads, whereas
our beautiful young are fine and hairy, and can swing among the branches,
shortly after birth, nearly as well as their parents. When I was very young, I
could soon help myself to fruits which abound on our trees.
"Have you dates, plantains, and soursops—so sweet—at Sarawak, Master
Redhair? We have, and all kinds of them. I should like, for a variety, to taste
yours. Mind you send me some of the durian.[6] Make haste and send it, for
Wallace's description makes my mouth water.
"I have told you our little ones soon learn to help themselves, whereas I
have seen the piccaninnies of the blacks nursed by their mothers till many
rainy seasons had come and gone. I really think nothing of the talking
museum has the left arm broken by some dreadful accident. This injury may
possibly have been caused by a fall when young, or more probably by the
empoisoned bite of a larger gorilla, or of a tree-climbing Leopard. So much
may be premised before giving a letter, supposed to be intercepted on its
way between the Gaboon and London, and London and Borneo, opened at
St Martin's-le-Grand, and detained as unpaid.
"I was born in a large baobab tree, on the west coast of Africa, not very far
from Calabar. We gorillas are good time-keepers, rise early and go to bed
early, guided infallibly by the sun. But though our family has been in
existence at least six thousand years, we have no chronology, and care not a
straw about our grandfathers. I suppose I had a grandmother, but I never
took any interest in any but very close relationships.
"We never toiled for our daily food, and are not idle like these lazy black
fellows who hold their palavers near us, and whom I, for my part, heartily
despise. They cannot climb a tree, as we do, although they can talk to each
other, and make one another slaves. At least they so treat their countrymen
far off where the fine sweet plantains grow, and some other juicy tit-bits,
the memory of which makes my mouth water. These fellows have ugly
wives, not nearly so big-mouthed as ours, without our noble bony ridge,
small ears, and exalted presence. They are actually forced to walk erect, and
their fore-legs seldom touch the ground, except in the case of piccanninies.
These little creatures crawl on the ground, are much paler when born, and
are then perfectly helpless; and have no hair except on their heads, whereas
our beautiful young are fine and hairy, and can swing among the branches,
shortly after birth, nearly as well as their parents. When I was very young, I
could soon help myself to fruits which abound on our trees.
"Have you dates, plantains, and soursops—so sweet—at Sarawak, Master
Redhair? We have, and all kinds of them. I should like, for a variety, to taste
yours. Mind you send me some of the durian.[6] Make haste and send it, for
Wallace's description makes my mouth water.
"I have told you our little ones soon learn to help themselves, whereas I
have seen the piccaninnies of the blacks nursed by their mothers till many
rainy seasons had come and gone. I really think nothing of the talking
Page 30
blacks who live near us. They put on bits of coloured rags, not nearly so
bright, so regular, nor so contrasting as the feathers of our birds.
"Beautifully coloured are the green touraco and the purple plantain-eater, a
rascally bird! who eats some of our finest plantains, and has bitten holes in
many a one I thought to get entirely to myself. Why, our parrots beat these
West-African negroes to sticks! Even our common gray parrot, so prettily
scaled with gray, and with the red feathers under his tail, is more natural
than these blacks, with their dirty-white, yellow, blue, green, and red rags.
"Besides, that gray parrot beats them hollow both in its voice and in the
way it imitates. Do you know that when I have been giving my quick short
bark, to tell that I am not well pleased, I have heard one of these fellows
near me actually make me startle—its bark was so like to that of one of our
kind! I cannot bear the blacks! I have had a grudge against them since some
little urchins shot at me when I was young, and made my hand bleed. How
it bled! My mother, with whom I had been, kept out of the way of these
blackguards, but I was playing with another little gorilla, and forgot to keep
a look-out. I have kept a good look-out ever since I got that wound, I assure
you. I licked it often, and so did my mother with her delicious mouth. It
soon left off bleeding and healed. We gorillas have no brandy, no whisky,
no wine, not even small beer, to inflame our blood. We sleep, too, among
the trees, clear off the ground, where there are dangerous vapours, so that
we are free from all miasmata. West Africa is my lovely home, and I am big
and beautifully pot-bellied. It is the home of the large-eared chimpanzee, a
near relative of ours, though we never marry. He is an active fellow, with
rather large vulgar-looking ears; while mine, though I ought not to say so,
are beautifully small, and denote my more exalted birth. Master
Chimpanzee needs all his ears, for he is not so strong as I, and as you will
hear, we anthropoids have enemies in our trees, just as you perhaps have,
Master Redhair. We are both cautious of getting on the ground, and when
there, I assure you I keep a sharp look-out.
"I have told you of one adventure I had in my youth, and now listen to
another which I have not forgotten to this day. My left arm aches now as I
think of it.
bright, so regular, nor so contrasting as the feathers of our birds.
"Beautifully coloured are the green touraco and the purple plantain-eater, a
rascally bird! who eats some of our finest plantains, and has bitten holes in
many a one I thought to get entirely to myself. Why, our parrots beat these
West-African negroes to sticks! Even our common gray parrot, so prettily
scaled with gray, and with the red feathers under his tail, is more natural
than these blacks, with their dirty-white, yellow, blue, green, and red rags.
"Besides, that gray parrot beats them hollow both in its voice and in the
way it imitates. Do you know that when I have been giving my quick short
bark, to tell that I am not well pleased, I have heard one of these fellows
near me actually make me startle—its bark was so like to that of one of our
kind! I cannot bear the blacks! I have had a grudge against them since some
little urchins shot at me when I was young, and made my hand bleed. How
it bled! My mother, with whom I had been, kept out of the way of these
blackguards, but I was playing with another little gorilla, and forgot to keep
a look-out. I have kept a good look-out ever since I got that wound, I assure
you. I licked it often, and so did my mother with her delicious mouth. It
soon left off bleeding and healed. We gorillas have no brandy, no whisky,
no wine, not even small beer, to inflame our blood. We sleep, too, among
the trees, clear off the ground, where there are dangerous vapours, so that
we are free from all miasmata. West Africa is my lovely home, and I am big
and beautifully pot-bellied. It is the home of the large-eared chimpanzee, a
near relative of ours, though we never marry. He is an active fellow, with
rather large vulgar-looking ears; while mine, though I ought not to say so,
are beautifully small, and denote my more exalted birth. Master
Chimpanzee needs all his ears, for he is not so strong as I, and as you will
hear, we anthropoids have enemies in our trees, just as you perhaps have,
Master Redhair. We are both cautious of getting on the ground, and when
there, I assure you I keep a sharp look-out.
"I have told you of one adventure I had in my youth, and now listen to
another which I have not forgotten to this day. My left arm aches now as I
think of it.
Page 31
"As I was one day gambolling with another playfellow in a large tree, with
great branches standing out from the trunk, and at a good height from the
ground, my companion, another young gorilla, but with smaller mouth,
larger nose, and other features uglier than mine, suddenly shrieked, and
looked frightened and angry. No sooner had I noticed him than my whole
frame was shaken. I was seized by two paws in the small of my back—a
very painful part to be dug into—by ten hooked claws, nearly as long as
tenpenny nails, but horribly sharp and hooked.—Oh my arm!
"I tried to turn round, and there was a most ferocious leopard growling at
me. I tried to bite, and to scratch his eyes out, but the pain in the small of
my back made me quite giddy. The spotted scoundrel seized my left arm—
how it aches!—and gave me a crunch or two. I hear, I feel the teeth against
my bones as I write. My whole body is full of pain.
"My mother came and released me. She was large, handsome, and well-to-
do, with such long and strong arms, and with a magnificent bulging and
pouting mouth. In those days of my infancy I used to fancy I should like to
try to take as large a bite of a plantain as she could. I tried twice or thrice,
but could only squash a tenth of the juice of the fruit into my mouth. She
had glorious white teeth. Her grin clearly frightened the leopard, as well as
a pinch she gave him in the 'scruff' of the neck with one of her hands, while
with the other she caught hold of his tail and made him yell. How he
roared! He fell off the branch on to another; but soon, like all the cats,
recovered his hold and jumped down to the ground, when he skulked away
with his tail behind him.
"I must really leave off, warned both by my paper and your impatience.
Well, I grew stronger and bigger every day, and swung by one arm almost
as well as the rest did with their two. I got, in fact, so strong on my hind
feet, that my toes were actually in time thicker than those of any of my race.
It is well, my dear Orang, to use what you have left you, and to try as soon
as possible to forget what has been taken from you.
"... Look at my portrait, I am as strong, and as bony, and as bonnie, as any
gorilla. But I begin to boast, so I will leave off."
great branches standing out from the trunk, and at a good height from the
ground, my companion, another young gorilla, but with smaller mouth,
larger nose, and other features uglier than mine, suddenly shrieked, and
looked frightened and angry. No sooner had I noticed him than my whole
frame was shaken. I was seized by two paws in the small of my back—a
very painful part to be dug into—by ten hooked claws, nearly as long as
tenpenny nails, but horribly sharp and hooked.—Oh my arm!
"I tried to turn round, and there was a most ferocious leopard growling at
me. I tried to bite, and to scratch his eyes out, but the pain in the small of
my back made me quite giddy. The spotted scoundrel seized my left arm—
how it aches!—and gave me a crunch or two. I hear, I feel the teeth against
my bones as I write. My whole body is full of pain.
"My mother came and released me. She was large, handsome, and well-to-
do, with such long and strong arms, and with a magnificent bulging and
pouting mouth. In those days of my infancy I used to fancy I should like to
try to take as large a bite of a plantain as she could. I tried twice or thrice,
but could only squash a tenth of the juice of the fruit into my mouth. She
had glorious white teeth. Her grin clearly frightened the leopard, as well as
a pinch she gave him in the 'scruff' of the neck with one of her hands, while
with the other she caught hold of his tail and made him yell. How he
roared! He fell off the branch on to another; but soon, like all the cats,
recovered his hold and jumped down to the ground, when he skulked away
with his tail behind him.
"I must really leave off, warned both by my paper and your impatience.
Well, I grew stronger and bigger every day, and swung by one arm almost
as well as the rest did with their two. I got, in fact, so strong on my hind
feet, that my toes were actually in time thicker than those of any of my race.
It is well, my dear Orang, to use what you have left you, and to try as soon
as possible to forget what has been taken from you.
"... Look at my portrait, I am as strong, and as bony, and as bonnie, as any
gorilla. But I begin to boast, so I will leave off."
Page 32
No doubt that gorilla's injured arm affected its habits and its activity every
day of its life. The broken arm, never set by some gorilla surgeon of
celebrity, formed a highly important feature in its biography. Reader! when
next thou visitest the noble Museum in Bloomsbury, look at the skeleton of
that gorilla, whose probable story Arachnophilus hath tried to give thee, and
remember that both skin and skeleton were exhibited there before Du
Chaillu became "a lion."
The gorilla is a native of West Africa. It is closely allied to the chimpanzee,
but grows to a larger size, and has many striking anatomical characters and
external marks to distinguish it. It is certainly much dreaded by the natives
on the banks of the Gaboon, and, doubtless, dreads them equally. Dr Gray
procured a large specimen in a tub from that district. It was skinned and set
up by Mr Bartlett. I have seen photographs in the hands of my excellent old
friend—that admirable natural history and anatomical draughtsman—Mr
George Ford of Hatton Garden. These photographs were taken from its truly
ugly face as it was pulled out of the stinking brine. Life in death, or death in
life, it was most repulsive.
Professor Owen read a most elaborate paper on the gorilla before the
Zoological Society. The great comparative anatomist and zoologist shows
that it may have been the very species whose skins were brought by Hanno
to Carthage, in times before the Christian era, as the skins of hairy wild
men. The historian refers to them as "gorullai" (γωριλλαι.)
The natives of West Africa name it "N'Geena."
The stuffed specimen at the Museum is a young male. Its preparation does
great credit to Mr Bartlett's care and knowledge, for the hair over nearly all
the body was in patches among the spirit—thoroughly corrupted in its
alcoholic strength by animal matter. The peculiarly anthropoid and
morbidly-disagreeable look that even the face of the young gorilla had was,
of course, perfect in the photograph. In the Leisure Hour, a tolerably good
cut of it was given, but the artist did not copy the label accurately, for on the
photograph from which that cut was derived, another name was rendered
day of its life. The broken arm, never set by some gorilla surgeon of
celebrity, formed a highly important feature in its biography. Reader! when
next thou visitest the noble Museum in Bloomsbury, look at the skeleton of
that gorilla, whose probable story Arachnophilus hath tried to give thee, and
remember that both skin and skeleton were exhibited there before Du
Chaillu became "a lion."
The gorilla is a native of West Africa. It is closely allied to the chimpanzee,
but grows to a larger size, and has many striking anatomical characters and
external marks to distinguish it. It is certainly much dreaded by the natives
on the banks of the Gaboon, and, doubtless, dreads them equally. Dr Gray
procured a large specimen in a tub from that district. It was skinned and set
up by Mr Bartlett. I have seen photographs in the hands of my excellent old
friend—that admirable natural history and anatomical draughtsman—Mr
George Ford of Hatton Garden. These photographs were taken from its truly
ugly face as it was pulled out of the stinking brine. Life in death, or death in
life, it was most repulsive.
Professor Owen read a most elaborate paper on the gorilla before the
Zoological Society. The great comparative anatomist and zoologist shows
that it may have been the very species whose skins were brought by Hanno
to Carthage, in times before the Christian era, as the skins of hairy wild
men. The historian refers to them as "gorullai" (γωριλλαι.)
The natives of West Africa name it "N'Geena."
The stuffed specimen at the Museum is a young male. Its preparation does
great credit to Mr Bartlett's care and knowledge, for the hair over nearly all
the body was in patches among the spirit—thoroughly corrupted in its
alcoholic strength by animal matter. The peculiarly anthropoid and
morbidly-disagreeable look that even the face of the young gorilla had was,
of course, perfect in the photograph. In the Leisure Hour, a tolerably good
cut of it was given, but the artist did not copy the label accurately, for on the
photograph from which that cut was derived, another name was rendered
Page 33
by that sun, who pays no compliments and tells no lies. Professor Owen,
the greatest of comparative anatomists, has made the subject of anthropoid
apes his own, by the perfection of his researches, continued and continuous.
He would have liked, at least I may venture, I believe, to say so (if the
matter gave him more than a moment's thought), that the name of Dr Gray
had been on that label.
Letter from C. Waterton, Esq., mentioning a young gorilla.
Walton Hall, Feb. 4, 1856.
"Dear Sir,—As your favour of the 28th did not seem to require an
immediate answer I put it aside for a while, having a multiplicity of
business then on hand, and being obliged to be from home for a couple of
days.
"I beg to enclose you the letter to which you allude.
"Pray do not suppose that for one single moment I should be illiberal
enough to undervalue a 'closet naturalist.' 'Non cuivis homini contingit adire
corinthum.' It does not fall to every one's lot to range through the forests of
Guiana, still, a gentleman given to natural history may do wonders for it in
his own apartments on his native soil; and had Audubon, Swainson,
Jameson, &c., not attacked me in all the pride of pompous self-conceit, I
should have been the last man in the world to expose their gross ignorance.
"You ask me 'If we are to have another volume of essays?' I beg to answer,
no. Last year, Mrs Loudon (to whom I made a present of the essays) wrote
to me, and asked for a few papers to be inserted in a forthcoming edition. I
answered, that as I had had some strange and awful adventures since the
'Autobiography' made its appearance, I would tack them on to it. But from
that time to this, I have never had a line, either from Mrs Loudon or from
her publishers. But some months ago, having made a present of a superb
case of preserved specimens in natural history to the Jesuits' College in
Lancashire, I gave directions to my stationer at Wakefield to procure me
from London the fourth or last edition of the essays; and I made references
to it accordingly. But, lo and behold, when I had opened this supposed
fourth edition, I saw printed on the title page 'a new edition.' Better had they
printed a fifth edition. This threw all my references wrong. Should you be
the greatest of comparative anatomists, has made the subject of anthropoid
apes his own, by the perfection of his researches, continued and continuous.
He would have liked, at least I may venture, I believe, to say so (if the
matter gave him more than a moment's thought), that the name of Dr Gray
had been on that label.
Letter from C. Waterton, Esq., mentioning a young gorilla.
Walton Hall, Feb. 4, 1856.
"Dear Sir,—As your favour of the 28th did not seem to require an
immediate answer I put it aside for a while, having a multiplicity of
business then on hand, and being obliged to be from home for a couple of
days.
"I beg to enclose you the letter to which you allude.
"Pray do not suppose that for one single moment I should be illiberal
enough to undervalue a 'closet naturalist.' 'Non cuivis homini contingit adire
corinthum.' It does not fall to every one's lot to range through the forests of
Guiana, still, a gentleman given to natural history may do wonders for it in
his own apartments on his native soil; and had Audubon, Swainson,
Jameson, &c., not attacked me in all the pride of pompous self-conceit, I
should have been the last man in the world to expose their gross ignorance.
"You ask me 'If we are to have another volume of essays?' I beg to answer,
no. Last year, Mrs Loudon (to whom I made a present of the essays) wrote
to me, and asked for a few papers to be inserted in a forthcoming edition. I
answered, that as I had had some strange and awful adventures since the
'Autobiography' made its appearance, I would tack them on to it. But from
that time to this, I have never had a line, either from Mrs Loudon or from
her publishers. But some months ago, having made a present of a superb
case of preserved specimens in natural history to the Jesuits' College in
Lancashire, I gave directions to my stationer at Wakefield to procure me
from London the fourth or last edition of the essays; and I made references
to it accordingly. But, lo and behold, when I had opened this supposed
fourth edition, I saw printed on the title page 'a new edition.' Better had they
printed a fifth edition. This threw all my references wrong. Should you be
Page 34
passing by Messrs Longman, perhaps you will have the goodness to ask
when this 'new edition' was printed.
"I am sorry you did not show me your drawing of the chimpanzee before it
was engraved. The artist has not done justice to it. He has made the ears far
too large.[7] The little brown chimpanzee has very small ears; fully as small
in proportion as those of a genuine negro. I am half inclined to give to the
world a little treatise on the monkey tribe. I am prepared to show that
Linnæus, Buffon, and all our hosts of naturalists who have copied the
remarks of these celebrated naturalists, are perfectly in the dark with regard
to the true character of all the monkey tribe. Yesterday, I sent up to the
Gardener's Chronicle a few notes on the woodpecker.—Believe me, dear
sir, very truly yours,
Charles Waterton.
"P.S.—Many thanks for your nice little treatise on the chimpanzee."
Mr Waterton enclosed me a copy of the following letter, which he published
in a Yorkshire newspaper:—
To Mrs Wombwell.
"Madam,—I am truly sorry that the inclemency of the weather has
prevented the inhabitants of this renowned watering-place from visiting
your wonderful gorilla, or brown orang-outang.
"I have passed two hours in its company, and I have been gratified beyond
expression.
"Would that all lovers of natural history could get a sight of it, as, possibly,
they may never see another of the same species in this country.
"It differs widely in one respect from all other orang-outangs which have
been exhibited in England—namely, that, when on the ground, it never
walks on the soles of its fore-feet, but on the knuckles of the toes of those
feet; and those toes are doubled up like the closed fist of a man. This must
be a painful position; and, to relieve itself, the animal catches hold of
visitors, and clings caressingly to Miss Bright, who exhibits it. Here then, it
when this 'new edition' was printed.
"I am sorry you did not show me your drawing of the chimpanzee before it
was engraved. The artist has not done justice to it. He has made the ears far
too large.[7] The little brown chimpanzee has very small ears; fully as small
in proportion as those of a genuine negro. I am half inclined to give to the
world a little treatise on the monkey tribe. I am prepared to show that
Linnæus, Buffon, and all our hosts of naturalists who have copied the
remarks of these celebrated naturalists, are perfectly in the dark with regard
to the true character of all the monkey tribe. Yesterday, I sent up to the
Gardener's Chronicle a few notes on the woodpecker.—Believe me, dear
sir, very truly yours,
Charles Waterton.
"P.S.—Many thanks for your nice little treatise on the chimpanzee."
Mr Waterton enclosed me a copy of the following letter, which he published
in a Yorkshire newspaper:—
To Mrs Wombwell.
"Madam,—I am truly sorry that the inclemency of the weather has
prevented the inhabitants of this renowned watering-place from visiting
your wonderful gorilla, or brown orang-outang.
"I have passed two hours in its company, and I have been gratified beyond
expression.
"Would that all lovers of natural history could get a sight of it, as, possibly,
they may never see another of the same species in this country.
"It differs widely in one respect from all other orang-outangs which have
been exhibited in England—namely, that, when on the ground, it never
walks on the soles of its fore-feet, but on the knuckles of the toes of those
feet; and those toes are doubled up like the closed fist of a man. This must
be a painful position; and, to relieve itself, the animal catches hold of
visitors, and clings caressingly to Miss Bright, who exhibits it. Here then, it
Page 35
is at rest, with the toes of the fore-feet performing their natural functions,
which they never do when the animal is on the ground.
"Hence I draw the conclusion that this singular quadruped, like the sloth, is
not a walker on the ground of its own free-will, but by accident only.
"No doubt whatever it is born, and lives, and dies aloft, amongst the trees in
the forests of Africa.
"Put it on a tree, and then it will immediately have the full use of the toes of
its fore-feet. Place it on the ground, and then you will see that the toes of
the fore-feet become useless, as I have already described.
"That it may retain its health, and thus remunerate you for the large sum
which you have expended in the purchase of it, is, madam, the sincere hope
of your obedient servant and well-wisher,
Charles Waterton."
Scarborough Cliff, No. 1, Nov. 1, 1855.
"P.S.—You are quite at liberty to make what use you choose of this letter. I
have written it for your own benefit, and for the good of natural history."[8]
Mr Mitchell on a Young Chimpanzee.
The writer of a most readable article on the acclimatisation of animals in the
Edinburgh Review,[9] gives an amusing recital of the arrival of a
chimpanzee at the Zoological Gardens. It was related to him by the late Mr
Mitchell, who was long the active secretary of the society, and who did
much to improve the Gardens. "One damp November evening, just before
dusk, there arrived a French traveller from Senegal, with a companion
closely muffled up in a burnoose at his side. On going, at his earnest
request, to speak to him at the gate, he communicated to me the interesting
fact that the stranger in the burnoose was a young chim, who had resided in
his family in Senegal for some twelve months, and who had accompanied
him to England. The animal was in perfect health; but from the state of the
atmosphere required good lodging, and more tender care than could be
found in a hotel. He proposed to sell his friend. I was hard; did not like
which they never do when the animal is on the ground.
"Hence I draw the conclusion that this singular quadruped, like the sloth, is
not a walker on the ground of its own free-will, but by accident only.
"No doubt whatever it is born, and lives, and dies aloft, amongst the trees in
the forests of Africa.
"Put it on a tree, and then it will immediately have the full use of the toes of
its fore-feet. Place it on the ground, and then you will see that the toes of
the fore-feet become useless, as I have already described.
"That it may retain its health, and thus remunerate you for the large sum
which you have expended in the purchase of it, is, madam, the sincere hope
of your obedient servant and well-wisher,
Charles Waterton."
Scarborough Cliff, No. 1, Nov. 1, 1855.
"P.S.—You are quite at liberty to make what use you choose of this letter. I
have written it for your own benefit, and for the good of natural history."[8]
Mr Mitchell on a Young Chimpanzee.
The writer of a most readable article on the acclimatisation of animals in the
Edinburgh Review,[9] gives an amusing recital of the arrival of a
chimpanzee at the Zoological Gardens. It was related to him by the late Mr
Mitchell, who was long the active secretary of the society, and who did
much to improve the Gardens. "One damp November evening, just before
dusk, there arrived a French traveller from Senegal, with a companion
closely muffled up in a burnoose at his side. On going, at his earnest
request, to speak to him at the gate, he communicated to me the interesting
fact that the stranger in the burnoose was a young chim, who had resided in
his family in Senegal for some twelve months, and who had accompanied
him to England. The animal was in perfect health; but from the state of the
atmosphere required good lodging, and more tender care than could be
found in a hotel. He proposed to sell his friend. I was hard; did not like
Page 36
pulmonic property[10] at that period of the year, having already two of the
race in moderate health, but could not refrain from an offer of hospitality
during Chim's residence in London. Chim was to go to Paris if I did not buy
him. So we carried him, burnoose and all, into the house where the lady
chims were, and liberated him in the doorway. They had taken tea, and were
beginning to think of their early couch. When the Senegal Adonis caught
sight of them, he assumed a jaunty air and advanced with politeness, as if to
offer them the last news from Africa. A yell of surprise burst from each
chimpanzella as they successively recognised the unexpected arrival. One
would have supposed that all the Billingsgate of Chimpanzeedom rolled
from the voluble tongues of these unsophisticated and hitherto
unimpressible young ladies; but probably their gesticulations, their shrill
exclamations, their shrinkings, their threats, were but well-mannered
expressions of welcome to a countryman thus abruptly revealed in the
foreign land of their captivity. Sir Chim advanced undaunted, and with the
composure of a high-caste pongo; if he had had a hat he would have doffed
it incontinently, as it was, he only slid out of his burnoose and ascended into
the apartment which adjoined his countrywomen with agile grace, and then,
through the transparent separation, he took a closer view. Juliana yelled
afresh. Paquita crossed her hands, and sat silently with face about three
quarters averted. Sir Chim uttered what may have been a tranquillising
phrase, expressive of the great happiness he felt on thus being suddenly
restored to the presence of kinswomen in the moment of his deepest
bereavement. Juliana calmed. Paquita diminished her angle of aversion, and
then Sir Chim, advancing quite close to the division, began what appeared
to be a recollection of a minuet. He executed marvellous gestures with a
precision and aplomb which were quite enchanting, and when at last he
broke out into a quick movement with loud smacking stamps, the ladies
were completely carried away, and gave him all attention. Friendship was
established, refreshments were served, notwithstanding the previous tea,
and everybody was apparently satisfied, especially the stranger. Upon
asking the Senegal proprietor what the dance meant, he told me that the
animal had voluntarily taken to that imitation of his slaves, who used to
dance every evening in the courtyard."
So far Mr Mitchell's narrative; the reviewer relates how a chimpanzee,
placed for a short time in the society of the children of his owner in this
race in moderate health, but could not refrain from an offer of hospitality
during Chim's residence in London. Chim was to go to Paris if I did not buy
him. So we carried him, burnoose and all, into the house where the lady
chims were, and liberated him in the doorway. They had taken tea, and were
beginning to think of their early couch. When the Senegal Adonis caught
sight of them, he assumed a jaunty air and advanced with politeness, as if to
offer them the last news from Africa. A yell of surprise burst from each
chimpanzella as they successively recognised the unexpected arrival. One
would have supposed that all the Billingsgate of Chimpanzeedom rolled
from the voluble tongues of these unsophisticated and hitherto
unimpressible young ladies; but probably their gesticulations, their shrill
exclamations, their shrinkings, their threats, were but well-mannered
expressions of welcome to a countryman thus abruptly revealed in the
foreign land of their captivity. Sir Chim advanced undaunted, and with the
composure of a high-caste pongo; if he had had a hat he would have doffed
it incontinently, as it was, he only slid out of his burnoose and ascended into
the apartment which adjoined his countrywomen with agile grace, and then,
through the transparent separation, he took a closer view. Juliana yelled
afresh. Paquita crossed her hands, and sat silently with face about three
quarters averted. Sir Chim uttered what may have been a tranquillising
phrase, expressive of the great happiness he felt on thus being suddenly
restored to the presence of kinswomen in the moment of his deepest
bereavement. Juliana calmed. Paquita diminished her angle of aversion, and
then Sir Chim, advancing quite close to the division, began what appeared
to be a recollection of a minuet. He executed marvellous gestures with a
precision and aplomb which were quite enchanting, and when at last he
broke out into a quick movement with loud smacking stamps, the ladies
were completely carried away, and gave him all attention. Friendship was
established, refreshments were served, notwithstanding the previous tea,
and everybody was apparently satisfied, especially the stranger. Upon
asking the Senegal proprietor what the dance meant, he told me that the
animal had voluntarily taken to that imitation of his slaves, who used to
dance every evening in the courtyard."
So far Mr Mitchell's narrative; the reviewer relates how a chimpanzee,
placed for a short time in the society of the children of his owner in this
Page 37
country, not only throve in an extraordinary manner, was perfectly docile
and good-tempered, but learnt to imitate them. When the eldest little boy
wished to tease his playfellow, he used, childlike, to make faces at him.
Chim soon outdid him, and one of the funniest things imaginable was to see
him blown at and blowing in return; his protrusible lips converted
themselves into a trumpet-shaped instrument, which reminded one
immediately of some of the devils of Albert Dürer, or those incredible forms
which the old painters used to delight in piling together in their temptations
of Saint Anthony.
Lady Anne Barnard pleads for the Baboons.
Lady Anne Barnard, whose name as the writer of "Auld Robin Gray" is
familiar to every one who knows that most pathetic ballad, spent five years
with her husband at the Cape (1797-1802). Her journal letters to her sisters
are most amusing, and full of interesting observations.[11] After describing
"Musquito-hunting" with her husband, she writes:—"In return, I
endeavoured to effect a treaty of peace for the baboons, who are apt to
come down from the mountain in little troops to pillage our garden of the
fruit with which the trees are loaded. I told him he would be worse than
Don Carlos if he refused the children of the sun and the soil the use of what
had descended from ouran-outang to ouran-outang; but, alas! I could not
succeed. He had pledged himself to the gardener,[12] to the slaves, and all
the dogs, not to baulk them of their sport; so he shot a superb man-of-the-
mountain one morning, who was marauding, and electrified himself the
same moment, so shocked was he at the groan given by the poor creature as
he limped off the ground. I do not think I shall hear of another falling a
sacrifice to Barnard's gun; they come too near the human race" (p. 408).
In another letter she says (p. 391), "The best way to get rid of them is to
catch one, whip him, and turn him loose; he skips off chattering to his
comrades, and is extremely angry, but none of them return the season this is
done. I have given orders, however, that there may be no whipping."
S. Bisset and his Trained Monkeys.
and good-tempered, but learnt to imitate them. When the eldest little boy
wished to tease his playfellow, he used, childlike, to make faces at him.
Chim soon outdid him, and one of the funniest things imaginable was to see
him blown at and blowing in return; his protrusible lips converted
themselves into a trumpet-shaped instrument, which reminded one
immediately of some of the devils of Albert Dürer, or those incredible forms
which the old painters used to delight in piling together in their temptations
of Saint Anthony.
Lady Anne Barnard pleads for the Baboons.
Lady Anne Barnard, whose name as the writer of "Auld Robin Gray" is
familiar to every one who knows that most pathetic ballad, spent five years
with her husband at the Cape (1797-1802). Her journal letters to her sisters
are most amusing, and full of interesting observations.[11] After describing
"Musquito-hunting" with her husband, she writes:—"In return, I
endeavoured to effect a treaty of peace for the baboons, who are apt to
come down from the mountain in little troops to pillage our garden of the
fruit with which the trees are loaded. I told him he would be worse than
Don Carlos if he refused the children of the sun and the soil the use of what
had descended from ouran-outang to ouran-outang; but, alas! I could not
succeed. He had pledged himself to the gardener,[12] to the slaves, and all
the dogs, not to baulk them of their sport; so he shot a superb man-of-the-
mountain one morning, who was marauding, and electrified himself the
same moment, so shocked was he at the groan given by the poor creature as
he limped off the ground. I do not think I shall hear of another falling a
sacrifice to Barnard's gun; they come too near the human race" (p. 408).
In another letter she says (p. 391), "The best way to get rid of them is to
catch one, whip him, and turn him loose; he skips off chattering to his
comrades, and is extremely angry, but none of them return the season this is
done. I have given orders, however, that there may be no whipping."
S. Bisset and his Trained Monkeys.
Page 38
We have elsewhere referred to S. Bisset as a trainer of animals. Among the
earliest of his trials, this Scotchman took two monkeys as pupils. One of
these he taught to dance and tumble on the rope, whilst the other held a
candle with one paw for his companion, and with the other played a barrel
organ. These animals he also instructed to play several fanciful tricks, such
as drinking to the company, riding and tumbling upon a horse's back, and
going through several regular dances with a dog. The horse and dog
referred to, were the first animals on which this ingenious person tried his
skill. Although Bisset lived in the last century, few persons seem to have
surpassed him in his power of teaching the lower animals. We have seen a
man in Charlotte Square, in 1865, make a new-world monkey go through a
series of tricks, ringing a bell, firing a pea-gun, and such like. Poor Jacko
was to be pitied. His want of heart in his labours was very evident. Poor
fellow, no time for reflection was allowed him. Like some of the masters in
the Old High School,—such cruelty dates back more than thirty years,—a
ferule, or a pair of tawse kept Jacko to his work. It was play to the
onlookers, but no sport to master Cebus. Had he possessed memory and
reflection, how his thoughts must have wandered from Edinburgh to the
forests of the Amazon!
Lord Byron's Pets.
Beside horses and dogs, the poet Byron, like his own Don Juan, had a kind
of inclination, or weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, live
animals.
Captain Medwin records, in one of his conversations, that the poet
remarked that it was troublesome to travel about with so much live and
dead stock as he did, and adds—"I don't like to leave behind me any of my
pets, that have been accumulating since I came on the Continent. One
cannot trust to strangers to take care of them. You will see at the farmer's
some of my pea-fowls en pension. Fletcher tells me that they are almost as
bad fellow-travellers as the monkey, which I will show you." Here he led
the way to a room where he played with and caressed the creature for some
time. He afterwards bought another monkey in Pisa, because he saw it ill-
used.[13]
earliest of his trials, this Scotchman took two monkeys as pupils. One of
these he taught to dance and tumble on the rope, whilst the other held a
candle with one paw for his companion, and with the other played a barrel
organ. These animals he also instructed to play several fanciful tricks, such
as drinking to the company, riding and tumbling upon a horse's back, and
going through several regular dances with a dog. The horse and dog
referred to, were the first animals on which this ingenious person tried his
skill. Although Bisset lived in the last century, few persons seem to have
surpassed him in his power of teaching the lower animals. We have seen a
man in Charlotte Square, in 1865, make a new-world monkey go through a
series of tricks, ringing a bell, firing a pea-gun, and such like. Poor Jacko
was to be pitied. His want of heart in his labours was very evident. Poor
fellow, no time for reflection was allowed him. Like some of the masters in
the Old High School,—such cruelty dates back more than thirty years,—a
ferule, or a pair of tawse kept Jacko to his work. It was play to the
onlookers, but no sport to master Cebus. Had he possessed memory and
reflection, how his thoughts must have wandered from Edinburgh to the
forests of the Amazon!
Lord Byron's Pets.
Beside horses and dogs, the poet Byron, like his own Don Juan, had a kind
of inclination, or weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, live
animals.
Captain Medwin records, in one of his conversations, that the poet
remarked that it was troublesome to travel about with so much live and
dead stock as he did, and adds—"I don't like to leave behind me any of my
pets, that have been accumulating since I came on the Continent. One
cannot trust to strangers to take care of them. You will see at the farmer's
some of my pea-fowls en pension. Fletcher tells me that they are almost as
bad fellow-travellers as the monkey, which I will show you." Here he led
the way to a room where he played with and caressed the creature for some
time. He afterwards bought another monkey in Pisa, because he saw it ill-
used.[13]
Page 39
Lord Byron's travelling equipage to Pisa in the autumn of 1821, consisted,
inter cætera, of nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog, and a mastiff, two cats,
three pea-fowls, and some hens.[14]
The Ettrick Shepherd's Monkey.
(From the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," Dec. 1825.[15])
Shepherd. I wish that you but saw my monkey, Mr North. He would make
you hop the twig in a guffaw. I ha'e got a pole erected for him, o' about
some 150 feet high, on a knowe ahint Mount Benger; and the way the cretur
rins up to the knob, looking ower the shouther o' him, and twisting his tail
roun' the pole for fear o' playin' thud on the grun', is comical past a'
endurance.
North. Think you, James, that he is a link?
Shepherd. A link in creation? Not he, indeed. He is merely a monkey. Only
to see him on his observatory, beholding the sunrise! or weeping, like a
Laker, at the beauty o' the moon and stars!
North. Is he a bit of a poet?
Shepherd. Gin he could but speak and write, there can be nae manner o'
doubt that he would be a gran' poet. Safe us! what een in the head o' him!
Wee, clear, red, fiery, watery, malignant-lookin een, fu' o' inspiration.
Tickler. You should have him stuffed.
Shepherd. Stuffed, man! say, rather, embalmed. But he's no likely to dee for
years to come—indeed, the cretur's engaged to be married; although he's no
in the secret himsel yet. The bawns are published.
Tickler. Why really, James, marriage I think ought to be simply a civil
contract.
Shepherd. A civil contract! I wuss it was. But, oh! Mr Tickler, to see the
cretur sittin wi' a pen in 's hand, and pipe in 's mouth, jotting down a sonnet,
or odd, or lyrical ballad! Sometimes I put that black velvet cap ye gied me
on his head, and ane o' the bairns's auld big-coats on his back; and then,
inter cætera, of nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog, and a mastiff, two cats,
three pea-fowls, and some hens.[14]
The Ettrick Shepherd's Monkey.
(From the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," Dec. 1825.[15])
Shepherd. I wish that you but saw my monkey, Mr North. He would make
you hop the twig in a guffaw. I ha'e got a pole erected for him, o' about
some 150 feet high, on a knowe ahint Mount Benger; and the way the cretur
rins up to the knob, looking ower the shouther o' him, and twisting his tail
roun' the pole for fear o' playin' thud on the grun', is comical past a'
endurance.
North. Think you, James, that he is a link?
Shepherd. A link in creation? Not he, indeed. He is merely a monkey. Only
to see him on his observatory, beholding the sunrise! or weeping, like a
Laker, at the beauty o' the moon and stars!
North. Is he a bit of a poet?
Shepherd. Gin he could but speak and write, there can be nae manner o'
doubt that he would be a gran' poet. Safe us! what een in the head o' him!
Wee, clear, red, fiery, watery, malignant-lookin een, fu' o' inspiration.
Tickler. You should have him stuffed.
Shepherd. Stuffed, man! say, rather, embalmed. But he's no likely to dee for
years to come—indeed, the cretur's engaged to be married; although he's no
in the secret himsel yet. The bawns are published.
Tickler. Why really, James, marriage I think ought to be simply a civil
contract.
Shepherd. A civil contract! I wuss it was. But, oh! Mr Tickler, to see the
cretur sittin wi' a pen in 's hand, and pipe in 's mouth, jotting down a sonnet,
or odd, or lyrical ballad! Sometimes I put that black velvet cap ye gied me
on his head, and ane o' the bairns's auld big-coats on his back; and then,
Page 40
sure aneugh, when he takes his stroll in the avenue, he is a heathenish
Christian.
North. Why, James, by this time he must be quite like one of the family?
Shepherd. He's a capital flee-fisher. I never saw a monkey throw a lighter
line in my life.... Then, for rowing a boat!
Tickler. Why don't you bring him to Ambrose's?
Shepherd. He's sae bashfu'. He never shines in company; and the least thing
in the world will make him blush.
The Findhorn Fisherman and the Monkey.
Sir Thomas Dick Lauder[16] records the adventures of a monkey in
Morayshire, whose wanderings sadly alarmed the inhabitants who saw him,
all unused as they were to the sight of such an exotic stranger.
"We knew a large monkey, which escaped from his chain, and was abroad
in Morayshire for some eight or ten days. Wherever he appeared he spread
terror among the peasantry. A poor fisherman on the banks of the Findhorn
was sitting with his wife and family at their frugal meal, when a hairy little
man, as they in their ignorance conceived him to be, appeared on the
window sill and grinned, and chattered through the casement what seemed
to them to be the most horrible incantations. Horror-struck, the poor people
crowded together on their knees on the floor, and began to exorcise him
with prayers most vehemently, until some external cause of alarm made
their persecutor vanish. The neighbours found the family half dead with
fear, and could with difficulty extract from them the cause. 'Oh! worthy
neebours!' at last exclaimed the goodman with a groan, 'we ha'e seen the
Enemy glowrin' at us through that vera wundow there. Lord keep us a'!!' He
next alarmed a little hamlet near the hills; appearing and disappearing to
various individuals in a most mysterious manner; till at last a clown, with a
few grains of more courage than the rest, loaded his gun and put a sixpence
into it, with the intention of stealing upon him as he sat most mysteriously
chattering on the top of a cairn of stones, and then shooting him with silver,
which is known never to fail in finishing the imps of the Evil One. And
Christian.
North. Why, James, by this time he must be quite like one of the family?
Shepherd. He's a capital flee-fisher. I never saw a monkey throw a lighter
line in my life.... Then, for rowing a boat!
Tickler. Why don't you bring him to Ambrose's?
Shepherd. He's sae bashfu'. He never shines in company; and the least thing
in the world will make him blush.
The Findhorn Fisherman and the Monkey.
Sir Thomas Dick Lauder[16] records the adventures of a monkey in
Morayshire, whose wanderings sadly alarmed the inhabitants who saw him,
all unused as they were to the sight of such an exotic stranger.
"We knew a large monkey, which escaped from his chain, and was abroad
in Morayshire for some eight or ten days. Wherever he appeared he spread
terror among the peasantry. A poor fisherman on the banks of the Findhorn
was sitting with his wife and family at their frugal meal, when a hairy little
man, as they in their ignorance conceived him to be, appeared on the
window sill and grinned, and chattered through the casement what seemed
to them to be the most horrible incantations. Horror-struck, the poor people
crowded together on their knees on the floor, and began to exorcise him
with prayers most vehemently, until some external cause of alarm made
their persecutor vanish. The neighbours found the family half dead with
fear, and could with difficulty extract from them the cause. 'Oh! worthy
neebours!' at last exclaimed the goodman with a groan, 'we ha'e seen the
Enemy glowrin' at us through that vera wundow there. Lord keep us a'!!' He
next alarmed a little hamlet near the hills; appearing and disappearing to
various individuals in a most mysterious manner; till at last a clown, with a
few grains of more courage than the rest, loaded his gun and put a sixpence
into it, with the intention of stealing upon him as he sat most mysteriously
chattering on the top of a cairn of stones, and then shooting him with silver,
which is known never to fail in finishing the imps of the Evil One. And
Page 41
lucky indeed was it for pug that he chanced, through whim, to abscond from
that quarter; for if he had not so disappeared, he might have died by the
lead, if not by the silver. As it was, the bold peasant laid claim to the full
glory of compelling this dreaded goblin to flee."
Sir Thomas Lauder kept several pets in his beautiful seat at the Grange,
long occupied by the Messrs Dalgleish of Dreghorn Castle as a genteel
boarding-school, and now by the Misses Mouatt as one for young ladies.
We have often seen the tombstones to his dogs, which were buried to the
south of that mansion, in which Principal Robertson the historian died, and
where Lord Brougham, his relation, used to go when a boy at the High
School.
The French Marquis and his Monkey.
Dr John Moore, the father of General Moore, who fell at Corunna, in one of
the graphic sketches of a Frenchman which he gives in his work on Italy,
records a visit he paid to the Marquis de F—— at Besançon. After many
questions, he says, "Before I could make any answer, I chanced to turn my
eyes upon a person whom I had not before observed, who sat very gravely
upon a chair in a corner of the room, with a large periwig in full dress upon
his head. The marquis, seeing my surprise at the sight of this unknown
person, after a very hearty fit of laughter, begged pardon for not having
introduced me sooner to that gentleman (who was no other than a large
monkey), and then told me, he had the honour of being attended by a
physician, who had the reputation of possessing the greatest skill, and who
certainly wore the largest periwigs of any doctor in the province. That one
morning, while he was writing a prescription at his bedside, this same
monkey had catched hold of his periwig by one of the knots, and instantly
made the best of his way out at the window to the roof of a neighbouring
house, from which post he could not be dislodged, till the doctor, having
lost patience, had sent home for another wig, and never after could be
prevailed on to accept of this, which had been so much disgraced. That,
enfin, his valet, to whom the monkey belonged, had, ever since that
adventure, obliged the culprit by way of punishment to sit quietly, for an
hour every morning, with the periwig on his head.—Et pendant ces
moments de tranquillité je suis honoré de la société du venerable personage.
that quarter; for if he had not so disappeared, he might have died by the
lead, if not by the silver. As it was, the bold peasant laid claim to the full
glory of compelling this dreaded goblin to flee."
Sir Thomas Lauder kept several pets in his beautiful seat at the Grange,
long occupied by the Messrs Dalgleish of Dreghorn Castle as a genteel
boarding-school, and now by the Misses Mouatt as one for young ladies.
We have often seen the tombstones to his dogs, which were buried to the
south of that mansion, in which Principal Robertson the historian died, and
where Lord Brougham, his relation, used to go when a boy at the High
School.
The French Marquis and his Monkey.
Dr John Moore, the father of General Moore, who fell at Corunna, in one of
the graphic sketches of a Frenchman which he gives in his work on Italy,
records a visit he paid to the Marquis de F—— at Besançon. After many
questions, he says, "Before I could make any answer, I chanced to turn my
eyes upon a person whom I had not before observed, who sat very gravely
upon a chair in a corner of the room, with a large periwig in full dress upon
his head. The marquis, seeing my surprise at the sight of this unknown
person, after a very hearty fit of laughter, begged pardon for not having
introduced me sooner to that gentleman (who was no other than a large
monkey), and then told me, he had the honour of being attended by a
physician, who had the reputation of possessing the greatest skill, and who
certainly wore the largest periwigs of any doctor in the province. That one
morning, while he was writing a prescription at his bedside, this same
monkey had catched hold of his periwig by one of the knots, and instantly
made the best of his way out at the window to the roof of a neighbouring
house, from which post he could not be dislodged, till the doctor, having
lost patience, had sent home for another wig, and never after could be
prevailed on to accept of this, which had been so much disgraced. That,
enfin, his valet, to whom the monkey belonged, had, ever since that
adventure, obliged the culprit by way of punishment to sit quietly, for an
hour every morning, with the periwig on his head.—Et pendant ces
moments de tranquillité je suis honoré de la société du venerable personage.
Page 42
Then, addressing himself to the monkey, "Adieu, mon ami, pour aujourdhui
—au plaisir de vous revoir;" and the servant immediately carried Monsieur
le Médicin out of the room.[17]
This is a most characteristic bit, which could scarcely have occurred out of
France, where monkeys and dogs are petted as we never saw them petted
elsewhere. These things were so when we knew Paris under Louis-Philippe.
Frenchmen, surely, have not much changed under Louis Napoleon.
The Mandrill and George the Fourth.
One of the attractive sights of Mr Cross's menagerie, some forty years or so
ago, was a full-grown baboon, to which had been given the name of "Happy
Jerry." He was conspicuous from the finely-coloured rib-like ridges on each
side of his cheeks, the clear blue and scarlet hue of which, on such a
hideous long face and muzzle, with its small, deeply-sunk malicious eyes,
and projecting brow and cheeks, seemed almost as if beauty and bestiality
were here combined. But Jerry had a habit which would have made Father
Matthew loathe him and those who encouraged him. He had been taught to
sit in an armchair and to drink porter out of a pot, like a thirsty brickmaker;
and, as an addition to his accomplishments, he could also smoke a pipe, like
a trained pupil of Sir Walter Raleigh. This rib-nosed baboon, or mandrill, as
he is often called, obtained great renown; and among other distinguished
personages who wished to see him was his late majesty King George the
Fourth. As that king seldom during his reign frequented places of public
resort, Mr Cross was invited to bring Jerry to Windsor or Brighton, to
display the talents of his redoubtable baboon. I have heard Mr Cross say,
that the king placed his hands on the arm of one of the ladies of the Court,
at which Jerry began to show such unmistakable signs of ferocity, that the
mild, kind menagerist was glad to get Jerry removed, or at least the king
and his courtiers to withdraw. He showed his great teeth and grinned and
growled, as a baboon in a rage is apt to do. Jerry was a powerful beast,
especially in his fore-legs or arms. When he died, Mr Cross presented his
skin to the British Museum, where it has been long preserved. The mandrill
is a native of West Africa, where he is much dreaded by the negroes.
—au plaisir de vous revoir;" and the servant immediately carried Monsieur
le Médicin out of the room.[17]
This is a most characteristic bit, which could scarcely have occurred out of
France, where monkeys and dogs are petted as we never saw them petted
elsewhere. These things were so when we knew Paris under Louis-Philippe.
Frenchmen, surely, have not much changed under Louis Napoleon.
The Mandrill and George the Fourth.
One of the attractive sights of Mr Cross's menagerie, some forty years or so
ago, was a full-grown baboon, to which had been given the name of "Happy
Jerry." He was conspicuous from the finely-coloured rib-like ridges on each
side of his cheeks, the clear blue and scarlet hue of which, on such a
hideous long face and muzzle, with its small, deeply-sunk malicious eyes,
and projecting brow and cheeks, seemed almost as if beauty and bestiality
were here combined. But Jerry had a habit which would have made Father
Matthew loathe him and those who encouraged him. He had been taught to
sit in an armchair and to drink porter out of a pot, like a thirsty brickmaker;
and, as an addition to his accomplishments, he could also smoke a pipe, like
a trained pupil of Sir Walter Raleigh. This rib-nosed baboon, or mandrill, as
he is often called, obtained great renown; and among other distinguished
personages who wished to see him was his late majesty King George the
Fourth. As that king seldom during his reign frequented places of public
resort, Mr Cross was invited to bring Jerry to Windsor or Brighton, to
display the talents of his redoubtable baboon. I have heard Mr Cross say,
that the king placed his hands on the arm of one of the ladies of the Court,
at which Jerry began to show such unmistakable signs of ferocity, that the
mild, kind menagerist was glad to get Jerry removed, or at least the king
and his courtiers to withdraw. He showed his great teeth and grinned and
growled, as a baboon in a rage is apt to do. Jerry was a powerful beast,
especially in his fore-legs or arms. When he died, Mr Cross presented his
skin to the British Museum, where it has been long preserved. The mandrill
is a native of West Africa, where he is much dreaded by the negroes.
Page 43
In Cross's menagerie at Walworth, nearly twenty years ago, there was
generally a fine mandrill. We remember the sulky ferocity of that restless
eye. How angry the mild menagerist used to be at the ladies in the monkey-
room with their parasols! These appendages were the feelers with which
some of the softer sex used to touch Cross's monkeys, and, as the old
gentleman used to insist, helped to kill them. Parasols were freely used to
touch the boas and other snakes feeding in the same warm room. No doubt
a boa-constrictor could not live comfortably if his soft, muscular sides got
fifty pokes a day from as many sticks or parasols. Edward Cross, mild,
gentle, gentlemanly, Prince of show-keepers, used to be very indignant at
the inquisitorial desire possessed, especially by some of the fairer sex, to try
the relative hardness and softness of serpents and monkeys, and other
mammals and creatures. This story of the mandrill may excuse this pendant
of an episode.
The Young Lady's Pet Monkey and her Parrot.
Horace Walpole tells an anecdote of a fine young French lady, a Madame de
Choiseul. She longed for a parrot that should be a miracle of eloquence. A
parrot was soon found for her in Paris. She also became enamoured of
General Jacko, a celebrated monkey, at Astley's. But the possessor was so
exorbitant in his demand for Jacko, that the General did not change
proprietors. Another monkey was soon heard of, who had been brought up
by a cook in a kitchen, where he had learned to pluck fowls with inimitable
dexterity. This accomplished pet was bought and presented to Madame,
who accepted him. The first time she went out, the two animals were locked
up in her bed-chamber. When the lady returned, the monkey was alone to be
seen. Search, was made for Pretty Poll, and to her horror she was found at
last under bed, shivering and cowering, and without a feather. It seems that
the two pets had been presented by rival lovers of Madame. Poll's presenter
concluded that his rival had given the monkey with that very view,
challenged him; they fought, and both were wounded: and a heroic
adventure it was![18]
Monkeys Poor Relations.
generally a fine mandrill. We remember the sulky ferocity of that restless
eye. How angry the mild menagerist used to be at the ladies in the monkey-
room with their parasols! These appendages were the feelers with which
some of the softer sex used to touch Cross's monkeys, and, as the old
gentleman used to insist, helped to kill them. Parasols were freely used to
touch the boas and other snakes feeding in the same warm room. No doubt
a boa-constrictor could not live comfortably if his soft, muscular sides got
fifty pokes a day from as many sticks or parasols. Edward Cross, mild,
gentle, gentlemanly, Prince of show-keepers, used to be very indignant at
the inquisitorial desire possessed, especially by some of the fairer sex, to try
the relative hardness and softness of serpents and monkeys, and other
mammals and creatures. This story of the mandrill may excuse this pendant
of an episode.
The Young Lady's Pet Monkey and her Parrot.
Horace Walpole tells an anecdote of a fine young French lady, a Madame de
Choiseul. She longed for a parrot that should be a miracle of eloquence. A
parrot was soon found for her in Paris. She also became enamoured of
General Jacko, a celebrated monkey, at Astley's. But the possessor was so
exorbitant in his demand for Jacko, that the General did not change
proprietors. Another monkey was soon heard of, who had been brought up
by a cook in a kitchen, where he had learned to pluck fowls with inimitable
dexterity. This accomplished pet was bought and presented to Madame,
who accepted him. The first time she went out, the two animals were locked
up in her bed-chamber. When the lady returned, the monkey was alone to be
seen. Search, was made for Pretty Poll, and to her horror she was found at
last under bed, shivering and cowering, and without a feather. It seems that
the two pets had been presented by rival lovers of Madame. Poll's presenter
concluded that his rival had given the monkey with that very view,
challenged him; they fought, and both were wounded: and a heroic
adventure it was![18]
Monkeys Poor Relations.
Page 44
One of Luttrell's sayings, recorded by Sydney Smith, was,—
"I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind me so of poor relations." Here
follows a fine passage of Sydney Smith, which he might have written after
hearing the lectures of Professor Huxley.[19] "I confess I feel myself so
much at my ease about the superiority of mankind,—I have such a marked
and decided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have yet
seen,—I feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in
poetry, painting, and music,—that I see no reason whatever why justice
may not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of understanding,
which they may really possess. I have sometimes, perhaps, felt a little
uneasy at Exeter 'Change, from contrasting the monkeys with the 'prentice
boys who are teasing them; but a few pages of Locke, or a few lines of
Milton, have always restored my tranquillity, and convinced me that the
superiority of man had nothing to fear."[20]
Mrs Colin Mackenzie observes Apes at Simla.[21]
The monkey she alludes to seems to be the Semnopithecus Entellus, a
black-faced, light-haired monkey, with long legs and tail, much venerated
by the Hindoos.
"Mrs L. and I were very much amused, early this morning (July 5), by
watching numbers of huge apes, the size of human beings, with white hair
all round their faces, and down their backs and chests, who were disporting
themselves and feeding on the green leaves, on the sides of the precipice
close to the house. Many of them had one or two little ones—the most
amusing, indefatigable little creatures imaginable—who were incessantly
running up small trees, jumping down again, and performing all sorts of
antics, till one felt quite wearied with their perpetual activity. When the
mother wished to fly, she clutched the little one under her arm, where,
clinging round her body with all its arms, it remained in safety, while she
made leaps of from thirty to forty feet, and ran at a most astonishing rate
down the khad, catching at any tree or twig that offered itself to any one of
her four arms. There were two old grave apes of enormous size sitting
together on the branch of a tree, and deliberately catching the fleas in each
other's shaggy coats. The patient sat perfectly still, while his brother ape
"I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind me so of poor relations." Here
follows a fine passage of Sydney Smith, which he might have written after
hearing the lectures of Professor Huxley.[19] "I confess I feel myself so
much at my ease about the superiority of mankind,—I have such a marked
and decided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have yet
seen,—I feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in
poetry, painting, and music,—that I see no reason whatever why justice
may not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of understanding,
which they may really possess. I have sometimes, perhaps, felt a little
uneasy at Exeter 'Change, from contrasting the monkeys with the 'prentice
boys who are teasing them; but a few pages of Locke, or a few lines of
Milton, have always restored my tranquillity, and convinced me that the
superiority of man had nothing to fear."[20]
Mrs Colin Mackenzie observes Apes at Simla.[21]
The monkey she alludes to seems to be the Semnopithecus Entellus, a
black-faced, light-haired monkey, with long legs and tail, much venerated
by the Hindoos.
"Mrs L. and I were very much amused, early this morning (July 5), by
watching numbers of huge apes, the size of human beings, with white hair
all round their faces, and down their backs and chests, who were disporting
themselves and feeding on the green leaves, on the sides of the precipice
close to the house. Many of them had one or two little ones—the most
amusing, indefatigable little creatures imaginable—who were incessantly
running up small trees, jumping down again, and performing all sorts of
antics, till one felt quite wearied with their perpetual activity. When the
mother wished to fly, she clutched the little one under her arm, where,
clinging round her body with all its arms, it remained in safety, while she
made leaps of from thirty to forty feet, and ran at a most astonishing rate
down the khad, catching at any tree or twig that offered itself to any one of
her four arms. There were two old grave apes of enormous size sitting
together on the branch of a tree, and deliberately catching the fleas in each
other's shaggy coats. The patient sat perfectly still, while his brother ape
Page 45
divided and thoroughly searched his beard and hair, lifted up one arm and
then the other, and turned him round as he thought fit; and then the patient
undertook to perform the same office for his friend."
The Aye-Aye (Chiromys Madagascariensis).
Zoologists used to know a very curious animal from Madagascar, by name,
or by an indifferent specimen preserved in the Paris Museum. Sonnerat, the
naturalist, obtained it from that great island so well known to geographical
boys in former days by its being, so they were told, the largest island in the
world. This strange quadruped was named by a word which meant "handed-
mouse," for such is the signification of chiromys, or cheiromys, as it used to
be spelled. This creature, when its history was better known, was believed
to be not far removed in the system from the lemurs and loris. Its soft fur,
long tail, large eyes, and other features and habits connected it with these
quadrumana, while its rodent dentition seemed to refer it to the group
containing our squirrels, hares, and mice. It has been the subject of a
profound memoir by Professor Owen, our greatest comparative anatomist;
and I remember, with pleasure, the last time I saw him at the Museum he
was engaged in its dissection. I may here refer to one of the Professor's
lighter productions—a lecture at Exeter Hall on some instances of the
"power of God as manifested in His animal creation"—for a very nice
notice of this curious quadruped. In one of the French journals, there was an
excellent account given of the peculiar habits of the little nocturnal creature.
In those tropical countries the trees are tenanted by countless varieties of
created things. Their wood affords rich feeding to the large, fat, pulpy grubs
of beetles of the families Buprestidæ, Dynastidæ, Passalidæ, and, above all,
that glorious group the Longicornia. These beetles worm their way into the
wood, making often long tunnels, feeding as they work, and leaving their
ejecta in the shape of agglomerated sawdust. It is into the long holes drilled
by these beetles that the Aye-Aye searches with his long fingers, one of
which, on the fore-hand, is specially thin, slender, and skeleton-like. It
looks like the tool of some lock-picker. Our large-eyed little friend, like the
burglar, comes out at night and finds these holes on the trees where he slept
during the day. His sensitive thin ears, made to hear every scratch, can
detect the rasping of the retired grub, feasting in apparent security below.
Naturalists sometimes hear at night, so Samouelle once told me, the grubs
then the other, and turned him round as he thought fit; and then the patient
undertook to perform the same office for his friend."
The Aye-Aye (Chiromys Madagascariensis).
Zoologists used to know a very curious animal from Madagascar, by name,
or by an indifferent specimen preserved in the Paris Museum. Sonnerat, the
naturalist, obtained it from that great island so well known to geographical
boys in former days by its being, so they were told, the largest island in the
world. This strange quadruped was named by a word which meant "handed-
mouse," for such is the signification of chiromys, or cheiromys, as it used to
be spelled. This creature, when its history was better known, was believed
to be not far removed in the system from the lemurs and loris. Its soft fur,
long tail, large eyes, and other features and habits connected it with these
quadrumana, while its rodent dentition seemed to refer it to the group
containing our squirrels, hares, and mice. It has been the subject of a
profound memoir by Professor Owen, our greatest comparative anatomist;
and I remember, with pleasure, the last time I saw him at the Museum he
was engaged in its dissection. I may here refer to one of the Professor's
lighter productions—a lecture at Exeter Hall on some instances of the
"power of God as manifested in His animal creation"—for a very nice
notice of this curious quadruped. In one of the French journals, there was an
excellent account given of the peculiar habits of the little nocturnal creature.
In those tropical countries the trees are tenanted by countless varieties of
created things. Their wood affords rich feeding to the large, fat, pulpy grubs
of beetles of the families Buprestidæ, Dynastidæ, Passalidæ, and, above all,
that glorious group the Longicornia. These beetles worm their way into the
wood, making often long tunnels, feeding as they work, and leaving their
ejecta in the shape of agglomerated sawdust. It is into the long holes drilled
by these beetles that the Aye-Aye searches with his long fingers, one of
which, on the fore-hand, is specially thin, slender, and skeleton-like. It
looks like the tool of some lock-picker. Our large-eyed little friend, like the
burglar, comes out at night and finds these holes on the trees where he slept
during the day. His sensitive thin ears, made to hear every scratch, can
detect the rasping of the retired grub, feasting in apparent security below.
Naturalists sometimes hear at night, so Samouelle once told me, the grubs
Page 46
of moths munching the dewy leaves. Our aye-aye is no collector, but he has
eyes, ears, and fingers too, that see, hear, and get larvæ that, when grown
and changed into beetles, are the valued prizes of entomologists. Into that
tunnelled hole he inserts his long finger, and squash it goes into a large,
pulpy, fat, sweet grub. It takes but a moment to draw it out; and if it be a
pupa near the bark, so much the better for the aye-aye, so much the worse
for the beetle or cossus. I might dilate on this subject, but prefer referring
the reader to Professor Owen's memoir, and to his lecture.[22] The aye-aye,
in every point of its structure, like every created thing, is full of design. Its
curious fingers, especially the skeleton-like chopstick of a digit referred to,
attract especial notice, from their evident adaptation to the condition of its
situation and existence, as one of the works of an omnipotent and
beneficent Creator.
eyes, ears, and fingers too, that see, hear, and get larvæ that, when grown
and changed into beetles, are the valued prizes of entomologists. Into that
tunnelled hole he inserts his long finger, and squash it goes into a large,
pulpy, fat, sweet grub. It takes but a moment to draw it out; and if it be a
pupa near the bark, so much the better for the aye-aye, so much the worse
for the beetle or cossus. I might dilate on this subject, but prefer referring
the reader to Professor Owen's memoir, and to his lecture.[22] The aye-aye,
in every point of its structure, like every created thing, is full of design. Its
curious fingers, especially the skeleton-like chopstick of a digit referred to,
attract especial notice, from their evident adaptation to the condition of its
situation and existence, as one of the works of an omnipotent and
beneficent Creator.
Page 47
BATS.
A highly curious, if not the strangest, order of the class are these flying
creatures called bats. It is evident from Noel Paton's fairy pictures that he
has closely studied their often fantastic faces. The writer could commend to
his attention an African bat, lately figured by his friend Mr Murray.[23] Its
enormous head, or rather muzzle, compared with its other parts, gives it an
outrageously hideous look. In the late excellent Dr Horsfield's work on the
animals of Java, there are some engravings of bats by Mr Taylor, who
acquired among engravers the title of "Bat Taylor," so wonderfully has he
rendered the exquisite pileage or fur of these creatures. It is wonderful how
numerous the researches of naturalists, such as Mr Tomes, of Welford, near
Stratford, have shown the order Cheiroptera to be in genera and species.
Their profiles and full faces, even in outline, are often most bizarre and
strange. Their interfemoral membranes, we may add, are actual
"unreticulated" nets, with which they catch and detain flies as they skim
through the air. They pick these out of this bag with their mouths, and
"make no bones" of any prey, so sharp and pointed are their pretty
insectivorous teeth. Their flying membranes, stretched on the elongated
finger-bones of their fore-legs, are wonderful adaptations of Divine
wisdom, a capital subject for the natural theologian to select.
Our poet-laureate must be a close observer of natural history. In his "In
Memoriam," xciv., he distinctly alludes to some very curious West African
bats first described by the late amiable Edward T. Bennett, long the much-
valued secretary of the Zoological Society. These bats are closely related to
the fox bats, and form a genus which is named, from their shoulder and
breast appendages, Epomophorus:—
"Bats went round in fragrant skies,
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes,
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes."
A highly curious, if not the strangest, order of the class are these flying
creatures called bats. It is evident from Noel Paton's fairy pictures that he
has closely studied their often fantastic faces. The writer could commend to
his attention an African bat, lately figured by his friend Mr Murray.[23] Its
enormous head, or rather muzzle, compared with its other parts, gives it an
outrageously hideous look. In the late excellent Dr Horsfield's work on the
animals of Java, there are some engravings of bats by Mr Taylor, who
acquired among engravers the title of "Bat Taylor," so wonderfully has he
rendered the exquisite pileage or fur of these creatures. It is wonderful how
numerous the researches of naturalists, such as Mr Tomes, of Welford, near
Stratford, have shown the order Cheiroptera to be in genera and species.
Their profiles and full faces, even in outline, are often most bizarre and
strange. Their interfemoral membranes, we may add, are actual
"unreticulated" nets, with which they catch and detain flies as they skim
through the air. They pick these out of this bag with their mouths, and
"make no bones" of any prey, so sharp and pointed are their pretty
insectivorous teeth. Their flying membranes, stretched on the elongated
finger-bones of their fore-legs, are wonderful adaptations of Divine
wisdom, a capital subject for the natural theologian to select.
Our poet-laureate must be a close observer of natural history. In his "In
Memoriam," xciv., he distinctly alludes to some very curious West African
bats first described by the late amiable Edward T. Bennett, long the much-
valued secretary of the Zoological Society. These bats are closely related to
the fox bats, and form a genus which is named, from their shoulder and
breast appendages, Epomophorus:—
"Bats went round in fragrant skies,
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes,
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes."
Page 48
The species Mr Bennett named E. Whitei, after the good Rev. Gilbert White,
that well-known worthy who wrote "The Natural History of Selborne,"
wherein are many notices of bats.
Captain Cook's Sailor and His Description of a Fox-Bat.
It is curious, now that Australia is almost as civilised, and in parts nearly as
populous, as much of Europe, to read "Lieutenant Cook's Voyage Round the
World," in vol. iii. of Hawkesworth's quartos, detailing the discoveries of
June, July, and August 1770—that is close upon a century ago. What
progress has the world made since that period! We do not require long
periods of ages to alter, to adapt, to develop the customs and knowledge of
man. At p. 156 we get an account of a large bat. On the 23d June 1770 Cook
says:—"This day almost everybody had seen the animal which the pigeon-
shooters had brought an account of the day before; and one of the seamen,
who had been rambling in the woods, told us, at his return, that he verily
believed he had seen the devil. We naturally inquired in what form he had
appeared, and his answer was in so singular a style that I shall set down his
own words. 'He was,' says John, 'as large as a one-gallon keg, and very like
it; he had horns and wings, yet he crept so slowly through the grass, that if I
had not been afeared I might have touched him.' This formidable apparition
we afterwards discovered to have been a bat, and the bats here must be
acknowledged to have a frightful appearance, for they are nearly black, and
full as large as a partridge; they have indeed no horns, but the fancy of a
man who thought he saw the devil might easily supply that defect."
Having seen some of the very curious fox-bats alive, and given some
condensed information about them in Dr Hamilton's series of volumes
called "Excelsior," the writer may extract the account, with some slight
additions, especially as the article is illustrated with a truly admirable figure
of a fox-bat, from a living specimen by Mr Wolf. In Sir Emerson Tennent's
"Sketches of the Natural History of Ceylon," p. 14, Mr Wolf has represented
a whole colony of the "flying-foxes," as they are called.
that well-known worthy who wrote "The Natural History of Selborne,"
wherein are many notices of bats.
Captain Cook's Sailor and His Description of a Fox-Bat.
It is curious, now that Australia is almost as civilised, and in parts nearly as
populous, as much of Europe, to read "Lieutenant Cook's Voyage Round the
World," in vol. iii. of Hawkesworth's quartos, detailing the discoveries of
June, July, and August 1770—that is close upon a century ago. What
progress has the world made since that period! We do not require long
periods of ages to alter, to adapt, to develop the customs and knowledge of
man. At p. 156 we get an account of a large bat. On the 23d June 1770 Cook
says:—"This day almost everybody had seen the animal which the pigeon-
shooters had brought an account of the day before; and one of the seamen,
who had been rambling in the woods, told us, at his return, that he verily
believed he had seen the devil. We naturally inquired in what form he had
appeared, and his answer was in so singular a style that I shall set down his
own words. 'He was,' says John, 'as large as a one-gallon keg, and very like
it; he had horns and wings, yet he crept so slowly through the grass, that if I
had not been afeared I might have touched him.' This formidable apparition
we afterwards discovered to have been a bat, and the bats here must be
acknowledged to have a frightful appearance, for they are nearly black, and
full as large as a partridge; they have indeed no horns, but the fancy of a
man who thought he saw the devil might easily supply that defect."
Having seen some of the very curious fox-bats alive, and given some
condensed information about them in Dr Hamilton's series of volumes
called "Excelsior," the writer may extract the account, with some slight
additions, especially as the article is illustrated with a truly admirable figure
of a fox-bat, from a living specimen by Mr Wolf. In Sir Emerson Tennent's
"Sketches of the Natural History of Ceylon," p. 14, Mr Wolf has represented
a whole colony of the "flying-foxes," as they are called.
Page 49
Fox-Bats (Pteropus).
Page 50
Flying Fox. (Pteropus ruficollis.)
In this country that bat is deemed a large one whose wings, when measured
from tip to tip, exceed twelve inches, or whose body is above that of a small
mouse in bulk. In some parts of the world, however, there are members of
this well-marked family, the wings of which, when stretched and measured
from one extremity to the other, are five feet and upwards in extent, and
their bodies large in proportion. These are the fox-bats, a pair of which were
lately procured for the Zoological Gardens. It is from one of this pair that
the very characteristic figure of Mr Wolf has been derived.[24] There is
something very odd in the appearance of such an animal, suspended as it is
In this country that bat is deemed a large one whose wings, when measured
from tip to tip, exceed twelve inches, or whose body is above that of a small
mouse in bulk. In some parts of the world, however, there are members of
this well-marked family, the wings of which, when stretched and measured
from one extremity to the other, are five feet and upwards in extent, and
their bodies large in proportion. These are the fox-bats, a pair of which were
lately procured for the Zoological Gardens. It is from one of this pair that
the very characteristic figure of Mr Wolf has been derived.[24] There is
something very odd in the appearance of such an animal, suspended as it is
Page 51
during the day head downwards, in a position the very sight of which
suggests to the looker-on ideas of nightmare and apoplexy. As the head
peers out from the membrane, contracted about the body and investing it as
in a bag, and the strange creature chews a piece of apple presented by its
keeper, the least curious observer must be struck with the peculiarity of the
position, and cannot fail to admire the velvety softness and great elasticity
of the membrane which forms its wings. It must have been from an
exaggerated account of the fox-bats of the Eastern Islands that the ancients
derived their ideas of the dreaded Harpies, those fabulous winged monsters
sent out by the relentless Juno, and whose names are synonymous with
rapine and cruelty.
Some of these bats, before they were thoroughly known, frightened British
sailors not a little when they met with them. We have given an anecdote,
illustrative of this, in a preceding page.
Dr Forster, who accompanied Captain Cook on the voyage round the world
from 1772 to 1775, observed fox-bats at the Friendly Islands, where they
were seen in large groups of hundreds. Our traveller even notices that some
of them flew about the whole day, doubtless from being disturbed by the
wandering crews of the British discovery ships. He saw a Casuarina tree of
large size, the branches of which were festooned with at least five hundred
of these pendent Cheiroptera in various attitudes of ease, according to the
habits and notions of the bat tribes, who can hang either by the hind or by
the fore-feet. He noticed that they skimmed over the water with wonderful
facility, and he saw one in the act of swimming, though he cannot say that it
did so with either ease or expertness; they are known, however, to frequent
the water in order to wash themselves from any impurities on their fur and
wings, as well as to get rid of the vermin which may be infesting them.
Captain Lort Stokes found the red-necked species to be very abundant,
during his survey of the north coast of Australia in H.M.S. Beagle. As the
boats were engaged in the survey, flights of these bats kept hovering over
them, uttering a disagreeable screeching noise and filling the air with a faint
mildewy odour, far from agreeable to the smell. The sailors gave these bats
the name of "monkey-birds," without being aware that naturalists in their
system consider them as following closely the order which contains these
four-handed lovers of trees. Captain Stokes observes that the leathern wings
suggests to the looker-on ideas of nightmare and apoplexy. As the head
peers out from the membrane, contracted about the body and investing it as
in a bag, and the strange creature chews a piece of apple presented by its
keeper, the least curious observer must be struck with the peculiarity of the
position, and cannot fail to admire the velvety softness and great elasticity
of the membrane which forms its wings. It must have been from an
exaggerated account of the fox-bats of the Eastern Islands that the ancients
derived their ideas of the dreaded Harpies, those fabulous winged monsters
sent out by the relentless Juno, and whose names are synonymous with
rapine and cruelty.
Some of these bats, before they were thoroughly known, frightened British
sailors not a little when they met with them. We have given an anecdote,
illustrative of this, in a preceding page.
Dr Forster, who accompanied Captain Cook on the voyage round the world
from 1772 to 1775, observed fox-bats at the Friendly Islands, where they
were seen in large groups of hundreds. Our traveller even notices that some
of them flew about the whole day, doubtless from being disturbed by the
wandering crews of the British discovery ships. He saw a Casuarina tree of
large size, the branches of which were festooned with at least five hundred
of these pendent Cheiroptera in various attitudes of ease, according to the
habits and notions of the bat tribes, who can hang either by the hind or by
the fore-feet. He noticed that they skimmed over the water with wonderful
facility, and he saw one in the act of swimming, though he cannot say that it
did so with either ease or expertness; they are known, however, to frequent
the water in order to wash themselves from any impurities on their fur and
wings, as well as to get rid of the vermin which may be infesting them.
Captain Lort Stokes found the red-necked species to be very abundant,
during his survey of the north coast of Australia in H.M.S. Beagle. As the
boats were engaged in the survey, flights of these bats kept hovering over
them, uttering a disagreeable screeching noise and filling the air with a faint
mildewy odour, far from agreeable to the smell. The sailors gave these bats
the name of "monkey-birds," without being aware that naturalists in their
system consider them as following closely the order which contains these
four-handed lovers of trees. Captain Stokes observes that the leathern wings
Page 52
have a singular heavy flap, and that a flight of bats would suddenly alight
on a bamboo and bend it to the ground with their weight. Each individual
struggles on alighting to settle on the same spot, and like rooks or men in
similar circumstances, they do not succeed in fixing themselves without
making a great deal of noise. When first they clung to the bamboo, they did
so by means of the claw on the outer edge of the flying membrane, and then
they gradually settled.
Among the wild and varied scenery of those groups of islands called the
Friendly Islands, the Feejees, and the Navigators, species of fox-bat form
one of the characteristics of the place to the observant eye; while, if the
traveller should happen to be blind, their presence among the otherwise
fragrant forests would be readily perceived from the strong odour which
taints the atmosphere, and which, says the Naturalist of the United States
Exploring Expedition, "will always be remembered by persons who have
visited the regions inhabited by these animals." Mr Titian Peale mentions
that a specimen of the fox-bat was kept in Philadelphia for several years;
and like most creatures, winged as well as wingless, was amiable to those
persons who were constantly near it, while it showed clearly and
unmistakably its dislike to strangers.
On its voyage, this strange passenger was fed on boiled rice, sweetened
with sugar; while at the Museum, it was solaced and fed during its captivity
chiefly on fruit, and now and then appeared to enjoy the picking from the
bones of a boiled fowl. The fox-bat is but seldom brought alive to this
country. The late Mr Cross of the Surrey Zoological Gardens kept one for a
short time, and deemed it one of his greatest rarities; and, till the arrival
lately of the pair alluded to at the Gardens in the Regent's Park, we have not
heard of other specimens having been exhibited in this country. They are
difficult to keep, and seem to feel very sensibly the changes of our climate,
while it is a hard thing to get for them the food on which they live when in a
state of liberty.
Mr Macgillivray discovered a new species of fox-bat on Fitzroy Island, off
the coast of Australia, when he was naturalist of H.M.S. Rattlesnake.[25] He
fell in with this large fruit-eating bat (Pteropus conspicillatus) on the
wooded slope of a hill. They were in prodigious numbers, and presented the
appearance, as they flew along in the bright sunshine, of a large flock of
on a bamboo and bend it to the ground with their weight. Each individual
struggles on alighting to settle on the same spot, and like rooks or men in
similar circumstances, they do not succeed in fixing themselves without
making a great deal of noise. When first they clung to the bamboo, they did
so by means of the claw on the outer edge of the flying membrane, and then
they gradually settled.
Among the wild and varied scenery of those groups of islands called the
Friendly Islands, the Feejees, and the Navigators, species of fox-bat form
one of the characteristics of the place to the observant eye; while, if the
traveller should happen to be blind, their presence among the otherwise
fragrant forests would be readily perceived from the strong odour which
taints the atmosphere, and which, says the Naturalist of the United States
Exploring Expedition, "will always be remembered by persons who have
visited the regions inhabited by these animals." Mr Titian Peale mentions
that a specimen of the fox-bat was kept in Philadelphia for several years;
and like most creatures, winged as well as wingless, was amiable to those
persons who were constantly near it, while it showed clearly and
unmistakably its dislike to strangers.
On its voyage, this strange passenger was fed on boiled rice, sweetened
with sugar; while at the Museum, it was solaced and fed during its captivity
chiefly on fruit, and now and then appeared to enjoy the picking from the
bones of a boiled fowl. The fox-bat is but seldom brought alive to this
country. The late Mr Cross of the Surrey Zoological Gardens kept one for a
short time, and deemed it one of his greatest rarities; and, till the arrival
lately of the pair alluded to at the Gardens in the Regent's Park, we have not
heard of other specimens having been exhibited in this country. They are
difficult to keep, and seem to feel very sensibly the changes of our climate,
while it is a hard thing to get for them the food on which they live when in a
state of liberty.
Mr Macgillivray discovered a new species of fox-bat on Fitzroy Island, off
the coast of Australia, when he was naturalist of H.M.S. Rattlesnake.[25] He
fell in with this large fruit-eating bat (Pteropus conspicillatus) on the
wooded slope of a hill. They were in prodigious numbers, and presented the
appearance, as they flew along in the bright sunshine, of a large flock of
Page 53
rooks. As they were approached, a strong musky odour became apparent,
and a loud incessant chattering was heard. He describes the branches of
some of the trees as bending beneath the loads of bats which clung to them.
Some of these were in a state of inactivity, sleeping or composing
themselves to sleep, while many specimens scrambled along among the
boughs and took to flight on being disturbed. He shot several specimens,
three or four at a time, as they hung in clusters. Unless they were killed
outright, they continued suspended for some time; when wounded they are
difficult to handle, as they bite severely, and at such times their cry
resembles somewhat the squalling of a child. The flesh of these bats is
described to be excellent, and no wonder, when they feed on the sweetest
fruits; the natives regard it as nutritious food, and travellers in Australia,
like the adventurous Leichhardt on his journey to Port Essington,
sometimes are furnished with a welcome meal from the fruit-eating fox-bats
which fall in their way. Even the polished French, in the Isle of Bourbon, as
they used to call the Mauritius, sometimes stewed a Pteropus, in their
bouillon or broth to give it a relish.
Travellers observe that in a state of nature the fox-bats only eat the ripest
and the best fruit, and in their search for it they climb with great facility
along the under side of the branches. In Java, as Dr Horsfield observes,
these creatures, from their numbers and fruit-eating propensities, occasion
incalculable mischief, as they attack every kind that grows there, from the
cocoa-nut to the rarer and more delicate productions, which are cultivated
with care in the gardens of princes and persons of rank. The doctor
observes, that "delicate fruits, as they approach to maturity, are ingeniously
secured by means of a loose net or basket, skilfully constructed of split
bamboo. Without this precaution little valuable fruit would escape the
ravages of the kalong."
We have mentioned that the fox-bats are occasionally eaten in Australia.
Colonel Sykes alludes to the native Portuguese in Western India eating the
flesh of another species of Pteropus; and it would seem that but for
prejudice, their flesh, like that of the young of the South American
monkeys, is extremely delicate; the colonel says, writing of the Pteropus
medius, a species found in India, "I can personally testify that their flesh is
delicate and without disagreeable flavour."
and a loud incessant chattering was heard. He describes the branches of
some of the trees as bending beneath the loads of bats which clung to them.
Some of these were in a state of inactivity, sleeping or composing
themselves to sleep, while many specimens scrambled along among the
boughs and took to flight on being disturbed. He shot several specimens,
three or four at a time, as they hung in clusters. Unless they were killed
outright, they continued suspended for some time; when wounded they are
difficult to handle, as they bite severely, and at such times their cry
resembles somewhat the squalling of a child. The flesh of these bats is
described to be excellent, and no wonder, when they feed on the sweetest
fruits; the natives regard it as nutritious food, and travellers in Australia,
like the adventurous Leichhardt on his journey to Port Essington,
sometimes are furnished with a welcome meal from the fruit-eating fox-bats
which fall in their way. Even the polished French, in the Isle of Bourbon, as
they used to call the Mauritius, sometimes stewed a Pteropus, in their
bouillon or broth to give it a relish.
Travellers observe that in a state of nature the fox-bats only eat the ripest
and the best fruit, and in their search for it they climb with great facility
along the under side of the branches. In Java, as Dr Horsfield observes,
these creatures, from their numbers and fruit-eating propensities, occasion
incalculable mischief, as they attack every kind that grows there, from the
cocoa-nut to the rarer and more delicate productions, which are cultivated
with care in the gardens of princes and persons of rank. The doctor
observes, that "delicate fruits, as they approach to maturity, are ingeniously
secured by means of a loose net or basket, skilfully constructed of split
bamboo. Without this precaution little valuable fruit would escape the
ravages of the kalong."
We have mentioned that the fox-bats are occasionally eaten in Australia.
Colonel Sykes alludes to the native Portuguese in Western India eating the
flesh of another species of Pteropus; and it would seem that but for
prejudice, their flesh, like that of the young of the South American
monkeys, is extremely delicate; the colonel says, writing of the Pteropus
medius, a species found in India, "I can personally testify that their flesh is
delicate and without disagreeable flavour."
Page 54
The Javanese fox-bat occasionally affords amusement to the colonists as
well as natives, who chase it, according to Dr Horsfield, "during the
moonlight nights, which, in the latitude of Java, are uncommonly serene.
He is watched in his descent to the fruit-trees, and a discharge of small shot
readily brings him to the ground. By this means I frequently obtained four
or five individuals in the course of an hour." The natives of New Caledonia,
according to Dr Forster, use the hair of these great bats in ropes, and in the
tassels to their clubs, while they interweave the hair among the threads of
the Cyperus squarrosus, a grassy-looking plant which they employ for that
purpose.
William Dampier,[26] in 1687, observed the habits of a fox-bat on one of the
Philippine Islands, though he has exaggerated its size when he judged "that
the wings stretched out in length, could not be less asunder than seven or
eight foot from tip to tip." He records that "in the evening, as soon as the
sun was set, these creatures would begin to take their flight from this island
in swarms like bees, directing their flight over to the main island. Thus we
should see them rising up from the island till night hindered our sight; and
in the morning, as soon as it was light, we should see them returning again
like a cloud to the small island till sunrising. This course they kept
constantly while we lay here, affording us every morning and evening an
hour's diversion in gazing at them and talking about them." Dr Horsfield
describes the species, which is abundant in the lower parts of Java, as
having the same habit. During the day it retreats to the branches of a tree of
the genus Ficus, where it passes the greater portion of the day in sleep,
"hanging motionless, ranged in succession, and often in close contact, they
have little resemblance to living beings, and by a person not accustomed to
their economy, are readily mistaken for a part of the tree, or for a fruit of
uncommon size suspended from its branches." The doctor describes their
society as being generally silent during the day, except when a contention
arises among them to get out of the influence of the sun, when they utter a
sharp piercing shriek. Their claws are so sharp, and their attachment is
consequently so strong, that they cannot readily leave their hold without the
assistance of their wings, and if shot when in this position, they remain
suspended.
Dr Mayerne and His Balsam of Bats.
well as natives, who chase it, according to Dr Horsfield, "during the
moonlight nights, which, in the latitude of Java, are uncommonly serene.
He is watched in his descent to the fruit-trees, and a discharge of small shot
readily brings him to the ground. By this means I frequently obtained four
or five individuals in the course of an hour." The natives of New Caledonia,
according to Dr Forster, use the hair of these great bats in ropes, and in the
tassels to their clubs, while they interweave the hair among the threads of
the Cyperus squarrosus, a grassy-looking plant which they employ for that
purpose.
William Dampier,[26] in 1687, observed the habits of a fox-bat on one of the
Philippine Islands, though he has exaggerated its size when he judged "that
the wings stretched out in length, could not be less asunder than seven or
eight foot from tip to tip." He records that "in the evening, as soon as the
sun was set, these creatures would begin to take their flight from this island
in swarms like bees, directing their flight over to the main island. Thus we
should see them rising up from the island till night hindered our sight; and
in the morning, as soon as it was light, we should see them returning again
like a cloud to the small island till sunrising. This course they kept
constantly while we lay here, affording us every morning and evening an
hour's diversion in gazing at them and talking about them." Dr Horsfield
describes the species, which is abundant in the lower parts of Java, as
having the same habit. During the day it retreats to the branches of a tree of
the genus Ficus, where it passes the greater portion of the day in sleep,
"hanging motionless, ranged in succession, and often in close contact, they
have little resemblance to living beings, and by a person not accustomed to
their economy, are readily mistaken for a part of the tree, or for a fruit of
uncommon size suspended from its branches." The doctor describes their
society as being generally silent during the day, except when a contention
arises among them to get out of the influence of the sun, when they utter a
sharp piercing shriek. Their claws are so sharp, and their attachment is
consequently so strong, that they cannot readily leave their hold without the
assistance of their wings, and if shot when in this position, they remain
suspended.
Dr Mayerne and His Balsam of Bats.
Page 55
Dr Mayerne, a learned English physician, who died, aged eighty-two, in
1655, showed by his prescriptions that his enlightenment was not more than
that of the prevailing ignorance of the period. The chief ingredient in his
gout-powder was "raspings of a human skull unburied;" "but," writes Mr
Jeaffreson,[27] "his sweetest compound was his 'balsam of bats,' strongly
recommended as an unguent for hypochondriacal persons, into which
entered adders, bats, sucking whelps, earth-worms, hogs' grease, the
marrow of a stag, and the thigh-bone of an ox."
No doubt the doctor imagined that a combination of the virulence,
flightiness, swiftness, strength, and other qualities of all these animals
would in some mysterious way be communicated to his melancholy patient;
and, indeed, by acting on the imagination of such persons a favourable
direction is given to their thoughts, and in this way their severe malady may
at times have been removed.
1655, showed by his prescriptions that his enlightenment was not more than
that of the prevailing ignorance of the period. The chief ingredient in his
gout-powder was "raspings of a human skull unburied;" "but," writes Mr
Jeaffreson,[27] "his sweetest compound was his 'balsam of bats,' strongly
recommended as an unguent for hypochondriacal persons, into which
entered adders, bats, sucking whelps, earth-worms, hogs' grease, the
marrow of a stag, and the thigh-bone of an ox."
No doubt the doctor imagined that a combination of the virulence,
flightiness, swiftness, strength, and other qualities of all these animals
would in some mysterious way be communicated to his melancholy patient;
and, indeed, by acting on the imagination of such persons a favourable
direction is given to their thoughts, and in this way their severe malady may
at times have been removed.
Page 56
HEDGEHOG.
This well-armed genus of insect-eating quadruped has sometimes given to
describing zoologists, at least so it is said, an opportunity of paying a sly
compliment, concealing an allusion to the touchy or supposed irritable
disposition of the party after whom the species has been named. When
Southey wrote the following paragraph, he happily expressed what is too
commonly the meaning and wish of critics and criticised. If my readers look
into any system of mammalia of recent date, under the article Erinaceus, he
will see one or more instances of concealed allusions to touchiness of
disposition in the persons of the naturalists, honoured by the seeming
compliment. The hedgehog is itself a very useful and very harmless
quadruped. It is of great use in a garden, and also in a kitchen frequented by
crickets or black-beetles. Its food is chiefly grubs, insects, worms, and such
like. The creature is easily tamed, and becomes a lovable and not a touchy
pet. It is eminently nocturnal.
Southey and his Critics.
Robert Southey ("Common-Place Book," 4th series, p.44) writes:—
"I intend to be a hedgehog, and roll myself up in my own prickles: all I
regret is that I am not a porcupine, and endowed with the property of
shooting them to annoy the beasts who come near enough to annoy me."
This well-armed genus of insect-eating quadruped has sometimes given to
describing zoologists, at least so it is said, an opportunity of paying a sly
compliment, concealing an allusion to the touchy or supposed irritable
disposition of the party after whom the species has been named. When
Southey wrote the following paragraph, he happily expressed what is too
commonly the meaning and wish of critics and criticised. If my readers look
into any system of mammalia of recent date, under the article Erinaceus, he
will see one or more instances of concealed allusions to touchiness of
disposition in the persons of the naturalists, honoured by the seeming
compliment. The hedgehog is itself a very useful and very harmless
quadruped. It is of great use in a garden, and also in a kitchen frequented by
crickets or black-beetles. Its food is chiefly grubs, insects, worms, and such
like. The creature is easily tamed, and becomes a lovable and not a touchy
pet. It is eminently nocturnal.
Southey and his Critics.
Robert Southey ("Common-Place Book," 4th series, p.44) writes:—
"I intend to be a hedgehog, and roll myself up in my own prickles: all I
regret is that I am not a porcupine, and endowed with the property of
shooting them to annoy the beasts who come near enough to annoy me."
Page 57
MOLE.
This is perhaps the most remarkable of all our quadrupeds. Its subterranean
haunts and curious aptitudes for a life below the surface of the ground are
peculiarly worthy of study. The little hillocks it turns up in its excavations
are noticed by every one. Its pursuit of worms and grubs, its nest, its soft
plush-like fur, the pointed nose, the strong digging fore-feet, the small all
but hidden eyes, and hundreds of other properties, render it a noticeable
creature. The following passage from Lord Macaulay's latest writings,
although rather long, may interest some in the story of this curious creature:
—
The Mole and King William.
"A fly, if it had God's message, could choke a king."[28] I never knew till the
9th January 1862, when reading vol. v. of Macaulay's England, that a horse,
stumbling on a mole-hill, was the immediate cause of the death of the great
William III.
Lady Trevelyan, the sister of Macaulay, published vol. v. of her brother's
work, and added an account of the death of the illustrious Dutchman, who
did so much for our religious and civil liberties. The historian was very
partial to William, and the account of that monarch's last days is Macaulay's
last finished piece: it is here quoted in full from the history:[29]—
"Meanwhile reports about the state of the king's health were constantly
becoming more and more alarming. His medical advisers, both English and
Dutch, were at the end of their resources. He had consulted by letter all the
most eminent physicians of Europe; and, as he was apprehensive that they
might return flattering answers if they knew who he was, he had written
under feigned names. To Fagon he had described himself as a parish priest.
Fagon replied, somewhat bluntly, that such symptoms could have only one
meaning, and that the only advice which he had to give to the sick man was
to prepare himself for death. Having obtained this plain answer, William
This is perhaps the most remarkable of all our quadrupeds. Its subterranean
haunts and curious aptitudes for a life below the surface of the ground are
peculiarly worthy of study. The little hillocks it turns up in its excavations
are noticed by every one. Its pursuit of worms and grubs, its nest, its soft
plush-like fur, the pointed nose, the strong digging fore-feet, the small all
but hidden eyes, and hundreds of other properties, render it a noticeable
creature. The following passage from Lord Macaulay's latest writings,
although rather long, may interest some in the story of this curious creature:
—
The Mole and King William.
"A fly, if it had God's message, could choke a king."[28] I never knew till the
9th January 1862, when reading vol. v. of Macaulay's England, that a horse,
stumbling on a mole-hill, was the immediate cause of the death of the great
William III.
Lady Trevelyan, the sister of Macaulay, published vol. v. of her brother's
work, and added an account of the death of the illustrious Dutchman, who
did so much for our religious and civil liberties. The historian was very
partial to William, and the account of that monarch's last days is Macaulay's
last finished piece: it is here quoted in full from the history:[29]—
"Meanwhile reports about the state of the king's health were constantly
becoming more and more alarming. His medical advisers, both English and
Dutch, were at the end of their resources. He had consulted by letter all the
most eminent physicians of Europe; and, as he was apprehensive that they
might return flattering answers if they knew who he was, he had written
under feigned names. To Fagon he had described himself as a parish priest.
Fagon replied, somewhat bluntly, that such symptoms could have only one
meaning, and that the only advice which he had to give to the sick man was
to prepare himself for death. Having obtained this plain answer, William
Page 58
consulted Fagon again without disguise, and obtained some prescriptions
which were thought to have a little retarded the approach of the inevitable
hour. But the great king's days were numbered. Headaches and shivering
fits returned on him almost daily. He still rode, and even hunted; but he had
no longer that firm seat, or that perfect command of the bridle, for which he
had once been renowned. Still all his care was for the future. The filial
respect and tenderness of Albemarle had been almost a necessary of life to
him. But it was of importance that Heinsius should be fully informed both
as to the whole plan of the next campaign, and as to the state of the
preparations. Albemarle was in full possession of the king's views on these
subjects. He was therefore sent to the Hague. Heinsius was at that time
suffering from indisposition, which was indeed a trifle when compared with
the maladies under which William was sinking. But in the nature of William
there was none of that selfishness which is the too common vice of invalids.
On the 20th of February he sent to Heinsius a letter, in which he did not
even allude to his own sufferings and infirmities. 'I am,' he said, 'infinitely
concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite re-established. May God
be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good
friend, William.' These were the last lines of that long correspondence.
"On the 20th of February, William was ambling on a favourite horse named
Sorrel through the park of Hampton Court. He urged his horse to strike into
a gallop just at the spot where a mole had been at work. Sorrel stumbled on
the mole-hill, and went down on his knees. The king fell off, and broke his
collar-bone. The bone was set, and he returned to Kensington in his coach.
The jolting of the rough roads of that time made it necessary to reduce the
fracture again. To a young and vigorous man such an accident would have
been a trifle; but the frame of William was not in a condition to bear even
the slightest shock. He felt that his time was short, and grieved, with a grief
such as only noble spirits feel, to think that he must leave his work but half
finished. It was possible that he might still live until one of his plans should
be carried into execution. He had long known that the relation in which
England and Scotland stood to each other was at best precarious, and often
unfriendly, and that it might be doubted whether, in an estimate of the
British power, the resources of the smaller country ought not to be deducted
from those of the larger. Recent events had proved that without doubt the
two kingdoms could not possibly continue for another year to be on the
which were thought to have a little retarded the approach of the inevitable
hour. But the great king's days were numbered. Headaches and shivering
fits returned on him almost daily. He still rode, and even hunted; but he had
no longer that firm seat, or that perfect command of the bridle, for which he
had once been renowned. Still all his care was for the future. The filial
respect and tenderness of Albemarle had been almost a necessary of life to
him. But it was of importance that Heinsius should be fully informed both
as to the whole plan of the next campaign, and as to the state of the
preparations. Albemarle was in full possession of the king's views on these
subjects. He was therefore sent to the Hague. Heinsius was at that time
suffering from indisposition, which was indeed a trifle when compared with
the maladies under which William was sinking. But in the nature of William
there was none of that selfishness which is the too common vice of invalids.
On the 20th of February he sent to Heinsius a letter, in which he did not
even allude to his own sufferings and infirmities. 'I am,' he said, 'infinitely
concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite re-established. May God
be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good
friend, William.' These were the last lines of that long correspondence.
"On the 20th of February, William was ambling on a favourite horse named
Sorrel through the park of Hampton Court. He urged his horse to strike into
a gallop just at the spot where a mole had been at work. Sorrel stumbled on
the mole-hill, and went down on his knees. The king fell off, and broke his
collar-bone. The bone was set, and he returned to Kensington in his coach.
The jolting of the rough roads of that time made it necessary to reduce the
fracture again. To a young and vigorous man such an accident would have
been a trifle; but the frame of William was not in a condition to bear even
the slightest shock. He felt that his time was short, and grieved, with a grief
such as only noble spirits feel, to think that he must leave his work but half
finished. It was possible that he might still live until one of his plans should
be carried into execution. He had long known that the relation in which
England and Scotland stood to each other was at best precarious, and often
unfriendly, and that it might be doubted whether, in an estimate of the
British power, the resources of the smaller country ought not to be deducted
from those of the larger. Recent events had proved that without doubt the
two kingdoms could not possibly continue for another year to be on the
Page 59
terms on which they had been during the preceding century, and that there
must be between them either absolute union or deadly enmity. Their enmity
would bring frightful calamities, not on themselves alone, but on all the
civilised world. Their union would be the best security for the prosperity of
both, for the internal tranquillity of the island, for the just balance of power
among European states, and for the immunities of all Protestant countries.
On the 28th of February, the Commons listened, with uncovered heads, to
the last message that bore William's sign-manual. An unhappy accident, he
told them, had forced him to make to them in writing a communication
which he would gladly have made from the throne. He had, in the first year
of his reign, expressed his desire to see a union accomplished between
England and Scotland. He was convinced that nothing could more conduce
to the safety and happiness of both. He should think it his peculiar felicity
if, before the close of his reign, some happy expedient could be devised for
making the two kingdoms one; and he, in the most earnest manner,
recommended the question to the consideration of the Houses. It was
resolved that the message should be taken into consideration on Saturday
the 7th of March.
"But, on the 1st of March, humours of menacing appearance showed
themselves in the king's knee. On the 4th of March he was attacked by
fever; on the 5th, his strength failed greatly; and on the 6th he was scarcely
kept alive by cordials. The Abjuration Bill and a money bill were awaiting
his assent. That assent he felt that he should not be able to give in person.
He therefore ordered a commission to be prepared for his signature. His
hand was now too weak to form the letters of his name, and it was
suggested that a stamp should be prepared. On the 7th of March the stamp
was ready. The Lord Keeper and the Clerks of the Parliament came,
according to usage, to witness the signing of the commission. But they were
detained some hours in the ante-chamber while he was in one of the
paroxysms of his malady. Meanwhile the Houses were sitting. It was
Saturday the 7th, the day on which the Commons had resolved to take into
consideration the question of the union with Scotland. But that subject was
not mentioned. It was known that the king had but a few hours to live; and
the members asked each other anxiously whether it was likely that the
Abjuration and money bills would be passed before he died. After sitting
long in the expectation of a message, the Commons adjourned till six in the
must be between them either absolute union or deadly enmity. Their enmity
would bring frightful calamities, not on themselves alone, but on all the
civilised world. Their union would be the best security for the prosperity of
both, for the internal tranquillity of the island, for the just balance of power
among European states, and for the immunities of all Protestant countries.
On the 28th of February, the Commons listened, with uncovered heads, to
the last message that bore William's sign-manual. An unhappy accident, he
told them, had forced him to make to them in writing a communication
which he would gladly have made from the throne. He had, in the first year
of his reign, expressed his desire to see a union accomplished between
England and Scotland. He was convinced that nothing could more conduce
to the safety and happiness of both. He should think it his peculiar felicity
if, before the close of his reign, some happy expedient could be devised for
making the two kingdoms one; and he, in the most earnest manner,
recommended the question to the consideration of the Houses. It was
resolved that the message should be taken into consideration on Saturday
the 7th of March.
"But, on the 1st of March, humours of menacing appearance showed
themselves in the king's knee. On the 4th of March he was attacked by
fever; on the 5th, his strength failed greatly; and on the 6th he was scarcely
kept alive by cordials. The Abjuration Bill and a money bill were awaiting
his assent. That assent he felt that he should not be able to give in person.
He therefore ordered a commission to be prepared for his signature. His
hand was now too weak to form the letters of his name, and it was
suggested that a stamp should be prepared. On the 7th of March the stamp
was ready. The Lord Keeper and the Clerks of the Parliament came,
according to usage, to witness the signing of the commission. But they were
detained some hours in the ante-chamber while he was in one of the
paroxysms of his malady. Meanwhile the Houses were sitting. It was
Saturday the 7th, the day on which the Commons had resolved to take into
consideration the question of the union with Scotland. But that subject was
not mentioned. It was known that the king had but a few hours to live; and
the members asked each other anxiously whether it was likely that the
Abjuration and money bills would be passed before he died. After sitting
long in the expectation of a message, the Commons adjourned till six in the
Page 60
afternoon. By that time William had recovered himself sufficiently to put
the stamp on the parchment which authorised his commissioners to act for
him. In the evening, when the Houses had assembled, Black Rod knocked.
The Commons were summoned to the bar of the Lords; the commission
was read, the Abjuration Bill and the Malt Bill became law, and both
Houses adjourned till nine o'clock in the morning of the following day. The
following day was Sunday. But there was little chance that William would
live through the night. It was of the highest importance that, within the
shortest possible time after his decease, the successor designated by the Bill
of Rights and the Act of Succession should receive the homage of the
Estates of the Realm, and be publicly proclaimed in the Council: and the
most rigid Pharisee in the Society for the Reformation of Manners could
hardly deny that it was lawful to save the state, even on the Sabbath.
"The king meanwhile was sinking fast. Albemarle had arrived at
Kensington from the Hague, exhausted by rapid travelling. His master
kindly bade him go to rest for some hours, and then summoned him to make
his report. That report was in all respects satisfactory. The States General
were in the best temper; the troops, the provisions, and the magazines were
in the best order. Everything was in readiness for an early campaign.
William received the intelligence with the calmness of a man whose work
was done. He was under no illusion as to his danger. 'I am fast drawing,' he
said, 'to my end.' His end was worthy of his life. His intellect was not for a
moment clouded. His fortitude was the more admirable because he was not
willing to die. He had very lately said to one of those whom he most loved,
'You know that I never feared death; there have been times when I should
have wished it, but, now that this great new prospect is opening before me, I
do wish to stay here a little longer.' Yet no weakness, no querulousness
disgraced the noble close of that noble career. To the physicians the king
returned his thanks graciously and gently. 'I know that you have done all
that skill and learning could do for me, but the case is beyond your art; and
I submit.' From the words which escaped him he seemed to be frequently
engaged in mental prayer. Burnet and Tenison remained many hours in the
sick-room. He professed to them his firm belief in the truth of the Christian
religion, and received the sacrament from their hands with great
seriousness. The antechambers were crowded all night with lords and privy-
councillors. He ordered several of them to be called in, and exerted himself
the stamp on the parchment which authorised his commissioners to act for
him. In the evening, when the Houses had assembled, Black Rod knocked.
The Commons were summoned to the bar of the Lords; the commission
was read, the Abjuration Bill and the Malt Bill became law, and both
Houses adjourned till nine o'clock in the morning of the following day. The
following day was Sunday. But there was little chance that William would
live through the night. It was of the highest importance that, within the
shortest possible time after his decease, the successor designated by the Bill
of Rights and the Act of Succession should receive the homage of the
Estates of the Realm, and be publicly proclaimed in the Council: and the
most rigid Pharisee in the Society for the Reformation of Manners could
hardly deny that it was lawful to save the state, even on the Sabbath.
"The king meanwhile was sinking fast. Albemarle had arrived at
Kensington from the Hague, exhausted by rapid travelling. His master
kindly bade him go to rest for some hours, and then summoned him to make
his report. That report was in all respects satisfactory. The States General
were in the best temper; the troops, the provisions, and the magazines were
in the best order. Everything was in readiness for an early campaign.
William received the intelligence with the calmness of a man whose work
was done. He was under no illusion as to his danger. 'I am fast drawing,' he
said, 'to my end.' His end was worthy of his life. His intellect was not for a
moment clouded. His fortitude was the more admirable because he was not
willing to die. He had very lately said to one of those whom he most loved,
'You know that I never feared death; there have been times when I should
have wished it, but, now that this great new prospect is opening before me, I
do wish to stay here a little longer.' Yet no weakness, no querulousness
disgraced the noble close of that noble career. To the physicians the king
returned his thanks graciously and gently. 'I know that you have done all
that skill and learning could do for me, but the case is beyond your art; and
I submit.' From the words which escaped him he seemed to be frequently
engaged in mental prayer. Burnet and Tenison remained many hours in the
sick-room. He professed to them his firm belief in the truth of the Christian
religion, and received the sacrament from their hands with great
seriousness. The antechambers were crowded all night with lords and privy-
councillors. He ordered several of them to be called in, and exerted himself
Page 61
to take leave of them with a few kind and cheerful words. Among the
English who were admitted to his bedside were Devonshire and Ormond.
But there were in the crowd those who felt as no Englishman could feel,
friends of his youth, who had been true to him, and to whom he had been
true, through all vicissitudes of fortune; who had served him with
unalterable fidelity when his Secretaries of State, his Treasury, and his
Admiralty had betrayed him; who had never on any field of battle, or in an
atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly disease, shrunk from placing
their own lives in jeopardy to save his, and whose truth he had at the cost of
his own popularity rewarded with bounteous munificence. He strained his
feeble voice to thank Auverquerque for the affectionate and loyal services
of thirty years. To Albemarle he gave the keys of his closet and of his
private drawers. 'You know,' he said, 'what to do with them.' By this time he
could scarcely respire. 'Can this,' he said to the physicians, 'last long?' He
was told that the end was approaching. He swallowed a cordial, and asked
for Bentinck. Those were his last articulate words. Bentinck instantly came
to the bedside, bent down, and placed his ear close to the king's mouth. The
lips of the dying man moved, but nothing could be heard. The king took the
hand of his earliest friend, and pressed it tenderly to his heart. In that
moment, no doubt, all that had cast a slight passing cloud over their long
and pure friendship was forgotten. It was now between seven and eight in
the morning. He closed his eyes, and gasped for breath. The bishops knelt
down and read the commendatory prayer. When it ended William was no
more!"
It was assuredly the stumbling of his horse against a mole-hill that led more
immediately to the death of this great monarch. It is but one link in the
chain of many providences affecting his life. We all remember the
schoolboy ditty—
"For want of a nail the shoe was lost;
For want of a shoe the rider was lost;
For want of the rider the battle was lost;
For want of the battle the kingdom was lost."
How much the death of King William retarded progress in Great Britain can
never be judged or determined. His appointed hour had come. It was no
bullet with its billet on the banks of the Boyne that laid the Dutchman low,
English who were admitted to his bedside were Devonshire and Ormond.
But there were in the crowd those who felt as no Englishman could feel,
friends of his youth, who had been true to him, and to whom he had been
true, through all vicissitudes of fortune; who had served him with
unalterable fidelity when his Secretaries of State, his Treasury, and his
Admiralty had betrayed him; who had never on any field of battle, or in an
atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly disease, shrunk from placing
their own lives in jeopardy to save his, and whose truth he had at the cost of
his own popularity rewarded with bounteous munificence. He strained his
feeble voice to thank Auverquerque for the affectionate and loyal services
of thirty years. To Albemarle he gave the keys of his closet and of his
private drawers. 'You know,' he said, 'what to do with them.' By this time he
could scarcely respire. 'Can this,' he said to the physicians, 'last long?' He
was told that the end was approaching. He swallowed a cordial, and asked
for Bentinck. Those were his last articulate words. Bentinck instantly came
to the bedside, bent down, and placed his ear close to the king's mouth. The
lips of the dying man moved, but nothing could be heard. The king took the
hand of his earliest friend, and pressed it tenderly to his heart. In that
moment, no doubt, all that had cast a slight passing cloud over their long
and pure friendship was forgotten. It was now between seven and eight in
the morning. He closed his eyes, and gasped for breath. The bishops knelt
down and read the commendatory prayer. When it ended William was no
more!"
It was assuredly the stumbling of his horse against a mole-hill that led more
immediately to the death of this great monarch. It is but one link in the
chain of many providences affecting his life. We all remember the
schoolboy ditty—
"For want of a nail the shoe was lost;
For want of a shoe the rider was lost;
For want of the rider the battle was lost;
For want of the battle the kingdom was lost."
How much the death of King William retarded progress in Great Britain can
never be judged or determined. His appointed hour had come. It was no
bullet with its billet on the banks of the Boyne that laid the Dutchman low,
Page 62
but the cast-up earth of a specimen of a little insectivorous quadruped called
the mole, which laid him on that bed from which he never arose.
the mole, which laid him on that bed from which he never arose.
Page 63
BEARS.
A most comfortably clad set of plantigrade creatures, as fond, most of them,
of fruits as they are of flesh. No creatures are more amusing in zoological
gardens to children, who wonder at their climbing powers. Who is so
heartless as not to have pitied the roving polar bear, caged, on a sultry July
day, in a small paddock with a puddle, and wandering about restlessly in his
few feet of ground, as the well-dressed mob lounged to hear the military
band performing in the Regent's Park Zoological Gardens? Even young
bears have an adult kind of look about them. The writer remembers the
manner of one, disappointed at its bread sap, most of the milk of which had
been absorbed. A little girl standing by, not two years old, perfectly
understood what the little creature was searching for, and, looking up, said
"milka," or something closely resembling it. We recently saw a little brown
bear, on board a Russian ship at Leith. He acted as a capital guard. The little
creature had a grown-up face, more easily observed than described.
Bear hams, we speak from rare experience, are truly excellent. Bears, in our
early London days, were kept by many hairdressers and perfumers. The
anecdote or passage from Dickens's "Humphrey's Clock" is very
characteristic.
In one of Wilkie's pictures the brown bear is figured on its way with its
owners to the parish beadle's "house of detention." We remember the very
bear and its owners. A fine chapter might be written on the animals that
used to be led about the country by wandering foreigners. Our first sight of
guinea-pigs, our first view of the black-bellied hamster, our first sight of the
camel and dromedary, with a monkey on his neck, and our first bear, were
seen in this way. Boys and girls in those days seldom saw menageries. A
muzzled bear on its hind legs in Nicolson Street, or at the Sciennes, was an
exotic sight seldom witnessed, and not easily forgotten. The last we saw
was in Bernard Street, Leith, in 1869. That very day, the police were
hunting for Bruin and its leaders all over Edinburgh. Bears are now
debarred from parading our streets.
A most comfortably clad set of plantigrade creatures, as fond, most of them,
of fruits as they are of flesh. No creatures are more amusing in zoological
gardens to children, who wonder at their climbing powers. Who is so
heartless as not to have pitied the roving polar bear, caged, on a sultry July
day, in a small paddock with a puddle, and wandering about restlessly in his
few feet of ground, as the well-dressed mob lounged to hear the military
band performing in the Regent's Park Zoological Gardens? Even young
bears have an adult kind of look about them. The writer remembers the
manner of one, disappointed at its bread sap, most of the milk of which had
been absorbed. A little girl standing by, not two years old, perfectly
understood what the little creature was searching for, and, looking up, said
"milka," or something closely resembling it. We recently saw a little brown
bear, on board a Russian ship at Leith. He acted as a capital guard. The little
creature had a grown-up face, more easily observed than described.
Bear hams, we speak from rare experience, are truly excellent. Bears, in our
early London days, were kept by many hairdressers and perfumers. The
anecdote or passage from Dickens's "Humphrey's Clock" is very
characteristic.
In one of Wilkie's pictures the brown bear is figured on its way with its
owners to the parish beadle's "house of detention." We remember the very
bear and its owners. A fine chapter might be written on the animals that
used to be led about the country by wandering foreigners. Our first sight of
guinea-pigs, our first view of the black-bellied hamster, our first sight of the
camel and dromedary, with a monkey on his neck, and our first bear, were
seen in this way. Boys and girls in those days seldom saw menageries. A
muzzled bear on its hind legs in Nicolson Street, or at the Sciennes, was an
exotic sight seldom witnessed, and not easily forgotten. The last we saw
was in Bernard Street, Leith, in 1869. That very day, the police were
hunting for Bruin and its leaders all over Edinburgh. Bears are now
debarred from parading our streets.
Page 64
An Austrian General and a Bear.[30]
Mr Paget was told an excellent story of a bear hunt, which took place in the
mountains of Transylvania, and in the presence of the gentleman who told
him the story.
"General V——, the Austrian commander of the forces in this district, had
come to Cronstadt to inspect the troops, and had been invited by our friend,
in compliment to his rank, to join him in a bear hunt. Now, the general,
though more accustomed to drilling than hunting, accepted the invitation,
and appeared in due time in a cocked hat and long gray greatcoat, the
uniform of an Austrian general. When they had taken up their places, the
general, with half a dozen rifles arrayed before him, paid such devoted
attention to a bottle of spirits he had brought with him, that he quite forgot
the object of his coming. At last, however, a huge bear burst suddenly from
the cover of the pine forest, directly in front of him. At that moment the
bottle was raised so high that it quite obscured the general's vision, and he
did not perceive the intruder till he was close upon him. Down went the
bottle, up jumped the astonished soldier, and, forgetful of his guns, off he
started, with the bear clutching at the tails of his greatcoat as he ran away.
What strange confusion of ideas was muddling the general's intellect at the
moment it is difficult to say, but I suspect he had some notion that the attack
was an act of insubordination on the part of Bruin, for he called out most
lustily, as he ran along, 'Back, rascal! back! I am a general!' Luckily, a poor
Wallack peasant had more respect for the epaulettes than the bear, and,
throwing himself in the way, with nothing but a spear for his defence, he
kept the enemy at bay till our friend and the jägers came up, and finished
the contest with their rifles."
Byron's Bear at Cambridge.
When at Trinity College, Cambridge, Lord Byron had a strange pet. He
"brought up a bear for a degree." He said to Captain Medwyn,[31] "I had a
great hatred of college rules, and contempt for academical honours. How
many of their wranglers have ever distinguished themselves in the world?
There was, by the by, rather a witty satire founded on my bear. A friend of
Shelley's made an ourang-outang (Oran Hanton, Esq.) the hero of a novel
Mr Paget was told an excellent story of a bear hunt, which took place in the
mountains of Transylvania, and in the presence of the gentleman who told
him the story.
"General V——, the Austrian commander of the forces in this district, had
come to Cronstadt to inspect the troops, and had been invited by our friend,
in compliment to his rank, to join him in a bear hunt. Now, the general,
though more accustomed to drilling than hunting, accepted the invitation,
and appeared in due time in a cocked hat and long gray greatcoat, the
uniform of an Austrian general. When they had taken up their places, the
general, with half a dozen rifles arrayed before him, paid such devoted
attention to a bottle of spirits he had brought with him, that he quite forgot
the object of his coming. At last, however, a huge bear burst suddenly from
the cover of the pine forest, directly in front of him. At that moment the
bottle was raised so high that it quite obscured the general's vision, and he
did not perceive the intruder till he was close upon him. Down went the
bottle, up jumped the astonished soldier, and, forgetful of his guns, off he
started, with the bear clutching at the tails of his greatcoat as he ran away.
What strange confusion of ideas was muddling the general's intellect at the
moment it is difficult to say, but I suspect he had some notion that the attack
was an act of insubordination on the part of Bruin, for he called out most
lustily, as he ran along, 'Back, rascal! back! I am a general!' Luckily, a poor
Wallack peasant had more respect for the epaulettes than the bear, and,
throwing himself in the way, with nothing but a spear for his defence, he
kept the enemy at bay till our friend and the jägers came up, and finished
the contest with their rifles."
Byron's Bear at Cambridge.
When at Trinity College, Cambridge, Lord Byron had a strange pet. He
"brought up a bear for a degree." He said to Captain Medwyn,[31] "I had a
great hatred of college rules, and contempt for academical honours. How
many of their wranglers have ever distinguished themselves in the world?
There was, by the by, rather a witty satire founded on my bear. A friend of
Shelley's made an ourang-outang (Oran Hanton, Esq.) the hero of a novel
Page 65
('Melincourt'), had him created a baronet, and returned for the borough of
One Vote."
Charles Dickens on Bears' Grease and its Producers.
Any one who has been long resident in London, or who has passed through
Fenchurch Street, or Everett Street, Russell Square, must have been struck
with the way in which "bears' grease" is or used to be advertised in these
localities. Dickens makes Mr Samuel Weller tell of an enthusiastic
tradesman of this description.[32]
"His whole delight was in his trade. He spent all his money in bears, and
run in debt for 'em besides, and there they wos a growling away in the front
cellar all day long and ineffectually gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o'
their relations and friends wos being retailed in gallipots in the shop above,
and the first floor winder wos ornamented with their heads; not to speak o'
the dreadful aggrawation it must have been to 'em to see a man always a
walkin' up and down the pavement outside, with the portrait of a bear in his
last agonies, and underneath, in large letters, 'Another fine animal was
slaughtered yesterday at Jenkinson's!' Hous'ever, there they wos, and there
Jenkinson wos, till he was took very ill with some inward disorder, lost the
use of his legs, and wos confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time;
but sich wos his pride in his profession even then, that wenever he wos
worse than usual the doctor used to go down-stairs, and say, 'Jenkinson's
wery low this mornin', we must give the bears a stir;' and as sure as ever
they stirred 'em up a bit, and made 'em roar, Jenkinson opens his eyes, if he
wos ever so bad, calls out, 'There's the bears!' and rewives agin."
The author of a most amusing article in the seventy-seventh volume of the
Edinburgh Review, on the modern system of advertising, records that, in his
puff, the first vendor of bears' grease cautioned his customers to wash their
hands in warm water after using it, to prevent them from assuming the hairy
appearance of a paw.
A Bearable Pun.
One Vote."
Charles Dickens on Bears' Grease and its Producers.
Any one who has been long resident in London, or who has passed through
Fenchurch Street, or Everett Street, Russell Square, must have been struck
with the way in which "bears' grease" is or used to be advertised in these
localities. Dickens makes Mr Samuel Weller tell of an enthusiastic
tradesman of this description.[32]
"His whole delight was in his trade. He spent all his money in bears, and
run in debt for 'em besides, and there they wos a growling away in the front
cellar all day long and ineffectually gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o'
their relations and friends wos being retailed in gallipots in the shop above,
and the first floor winder wos ornamented with their heads; not to speak o'
the dreadful aggrawation it must have been to 'em to see a man always a
walkin' up and down the pavement outside, with the portrait of a bear in his
last agonies, and underneath, in large letters, 'Another fine animal was
slaughtered yesterday at Jenkinson's!' Hous'ever, there they wos, and there
Jenkinson wos, till he was took very ill with some inward disorder, lost the
use of his legs, and wos confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time;
but sich wos his pride in his profession even then, that wenever he wos
worse than usual the doctor used to go down-stairs, and say, 'Jenkinson's
wery low this mornin', we must give the bears a stir;' and as sure as ever
they stirred 'em up a bit, and made 'em roar, Jenkinson opens his eyes, if he
wos ever so bad, calls out, 'There's the bears!' and rewives agin."
The author of a most amusing article in the seventy-seventh volume of the
Edinburgh Review, on the modern system of advertising, records that, in his
puff, the first vendor of bears' grease cautioned his customers to wash their
hands in warm water after using it, to prevent them from assuming the hairy
appearance of a paw.
A Bearable Pun.
Page 66
An illiterate vendor of beer wrote over his door at Harrowgate, "Bear sold
here." "He spells the word quite correctly," said Theodore Hook, "if he
means to apprise us that the article is his own Bruin."[33]
Polar Bear. (Thalassarctos maritimus.)
Shaved Bear.
Robert Southey ("Common-Place Book," 4th ser., p. 359) says:—"At
Bristol I saw a shaved monkey shown for a fairy; and a shaved bear, in a
check waistcoat and trousers, sitting in a great chair as an Ethiopian savage.
This was the most cruel fraud I ever saw. The unnatural position of the
beast, and the damnable brutality of the woman-keeper, who sat upon his
knee, put her arm round his neck, called him husband and sweetheart, and
kissed him, made it the most disgusting spectacle I ever witnessed. Cottle
was with me."
He also tells of a fellow exhibiting a dragon-fly under a magnifier at a
country fair, and calling it the great High German "Heiter-Keiter."
The Polar Bear.
here." "He spells the word quite correctly," said Theodore Hook, "if he
means to apprise us that the article is his own Bruin."[33]
Polar Bear. (Thalassarctos maritimus.)
Shaved Bear.
Robert Southey ("Common-Place Book," 4th ser., p. 359) says:—"At
Bristol I saw a shaved monkey shown for a fairy; and a shaved bear, in a
check waistcoat and trousers, sitting in a great chair as an Ethiopian savage.
This was the most cruel fraud I ever saw. The unnatural position of the
beast, and the damnable brutality of the woman-keeper, who sat upon his
knee, put her arm round his neck, called him husband and sweetheart, and
kissed him, made it the most disgusting spectacle I ever witnessed. Cottle
was with me."
He also tells of a fellow exhibiting a dragon-fly under a magnifier at a
country fair, and calling it the great High German "Heiter-Keiter."
The Polar Bear.
Page 67
(Thalassarctos maritimus.[34])
Notwithstanding ice and snow, and the darkness of a nine months' winter,
the Arctic regions are tenanted by several mammalia. Some of these are
constant residents, the rest are migratory visitors. Of the former division,
one of the most conspicuous, as it is certainly the most formidable, is the
polar bear,—a creature between eight and nine feet in length, which,
shuffling along the snow at a very quick pace, and being an excellent
swimmer besides, cannot fail to inspire dread. The large wide head and
fearfully armed jaws are united by a strong neck to powerful shoulders,
from which spring the thick and muscular fore-legs. The paws, both of the
fore and of the hind feet, are broad and admirably adapted, with their long
hairy covering, to keep the polar bear from sinking in the snow. Although
the creature has an appearance of clumsiness, it is the reverse of inactive.
Every one who knows the boundless spaces it has to traverse, when in a
state of liberty and the "monarch of all it surveys," cannot but pity it as a
prisoner in the Regent's Park, where a tolerably capacious den, supplied
with a bath of water of very limited dimension, affords the restless creature
less liberty than a squirrel has in its round-about, or a poor lark in its cage.
Voyagers to the Arctic regions describe it as wandering over the fields of
ice, mounting the hummocks,[35] and looking around for prey. With
outstretched head, its little but keen eye directed to the various points of a
wide horizon, the polar bear looks out for seals; or scents with its quick
nostrils the luscious smell of some stinking whale-blubber or half-putrid
whale-flesh. Dr Scoresby relates[36] that a piece of the kreng of a whale
thrown into the fire drew a bear to a ship from the distance of miles.
Captain Beechey mentions, that his party in 1818, as they were off the coast
of Spitzbergen, by setting on fire some fat of the walrus, soon attracted a
bear to their close vicinity. This polar Bruin was evidently unaccustomed to
the sight of masts, and, when approaching, occasionally hesitated, and
seemed half inclined to turn round and be off. So agreeable a smell as
burning walrus fat dispelled all distrust, and brought him within musket-
shot. On receiving the first ball, he sprang round, growled terrifically, and
half raised himself on his hind-legs, as if expecting to seize the object
which had caused so much pain; woe to any one who had at that moment
been within reach of his merciless paws! Although a second and third ball
Notwithstanding ice and snow, and the darkness of a nine months' winter,
the Arctic regions are tenanted by several mammalia. Some of these are
constant residents, the rest are migratory visitors. Of the former division,
one of the most conspicuous, as it is certainly the most formidable, is the
polar bear,—a creature between eight and nine feet in length, which,
shuffling along the snow at a very quick pace, and being an excellent
swimmer besides, cannot fail to inspire dread. The large wide head and
fearfully armed jaws are united by a strong neck to powerful shoulders,
from which spring the thick and muscular fore-legs. The paws, both of the
fore and of the hind feet, are broad and admirably adapted, with their long
hairy covering, to keep the polar bear from sinking in the snow. Although
the creature has an appearance of clumsiness, it is the reverse of inactive.
Every one who knows the boundless spaces it has to traverse, when in a
state of liberty and the "monarch of all it surveys," cannot but pity it as a
prisoner in the Regent's Park, where a tolerably capacious den, supplied
with a bath of water of very limited dimension, affords the restless creature
less liberty than a squirrel has in its round-about, or a poor lark in its cage.
Voyagers to the Arctic regions describe it as wandering over the fields of
ice, mounting the hummocks,[35] and looking around for prey. With
outstretched head, its little but keen eye directed to the various points of a
wide horizon, the polar bear looks out for seals; or scents with its quick
nostrils the luscious smell of some stinking whale-blubber or half-putrid
whale-flesh. Dr Scoresby relates[36] that a piece of the kreng of a whale
thrown into the fire drew a bear to a ship from the distance of miles.
Captain Beechey mentions, that his party in 1818, as they were off the coast
of Spitzbergen, by setting on fire some fat of the walrus, soon attracted a
bear to their close vicinity. This polar Bruin was evidently unaccustomed to
the sight of masts, and, when approaching, occasionally hesitated, and
seemed half inclined to turn round and be off. So agreeable a smell as
burning walrus fat dispelled all distrust, and brought him within musket-
shot. On receiving the first ball, he sprang round, growled terrifically, and
half raised himself on his hind-legs, as if expecting to seize the object
which had caused so much pain; woe to any one who had at that moment
been within reach of his merciless paws! Although a second and third ball
Page 68
laid him writhing on the ice, he was not mastered; and on the butt end of a
musket directed at his head breaking short off, the bear quickly seized the
thigh of his assailant, and, but for the immediate assistance of two or three
of his shipmates, the man would have been seriously injured. In these very
seas—nearly fifty years before—the hero of Trafalgar encountered this
Arctic tyrant, and, when missed from his ship, was discovered with a
comrade attacking a large specimen, separated from them by a chasm in the
ice. On being reprimanded by his captain for his foolhardiness, "Sir," said
the young middy, pouting his lips, as he used to do when excited, "I wished
to kill the bear that I might carry the skin to my father."[37]
Barentz, in his celebrated voyage in 1595, had two of his men killed by "a
great leane white beare." In these early days, so unused were polar bears to
man, that though thirty of their comrades attempted a rescue, the prey was
not abandoned. The purser, "stepping somewhat farther forward, and seeing
the beare to be within the length of a shot, presently levelled his peece, and
discharging it at the beare, shot her into the head, betweene both the eyes,
and yet shee held the man still fast by the necke, and lifted up her head with
the man in her mouth, but shee beganne somewhat to stagger; wherewith
the purser and a Scottishman drew out their courtlaxes (cutlasses), and
stroke at her so hard, that their courtlaxes burst, and yet shee would not
leave the man. At last Wm. Geysen went to them, and with all his might
stroke the beare upon the snowt with his peece, at which time the beare fell
to the ground, making a great noyse, and Wm. Geysen leaping upon her cut
her throat. The 7th of September wee buried the dead bodies of our men in
the States Island, and having fleaed the beare, carryed her skinne to
Amsterdam."
This is about the earliest record of an encounter with this formidable
creature; sailors now find that they can be attacked with most advantage in
the water. When in this element, they try to escape by swimming to the ice,
and when the ice is in the form of loose and detached small floes, Dr
Sutherland has seen them dive underneath, and appear on the opposite side.
Scoresby records, that when shot at a distance, and able to escape, the bear
has been observed to retire to the shelter of a hummock, and, as if aware of
the styptical effect of cold, apply snow to the wound.
musket directed at his head breaking short off, the bear quickly seized the
thigh of his assailant, and, but for the immediate assistance of two or three
of his shipmates, the man would have been seriously injured. In these very
seas—nearly fifty years before—the hero of Trafalgar encountered this
Arctic tyrant, and, when missed from his ship, was discovered with a
comrade attacking a large specimen, separated from them by a chasm in the
ice. On being reprimanded by his captain for his foolhardiness, "Sir," said
the young middy, pouting his lips, as he used to do when excited, "I wished
to kill the bear that I might carry the skin to my father."[37]
Barentz, in his celebrated voyage in 1595, had two of his men killed by "a
great leane white beare." In these early days, so unused were polar bears to
man, that though thirty of their comrades attempted a rescue, the prey was
not abandoned. The purser, "stepping somewhat farther forward, and seeing
the beare to be within the length of a shot, presently levelled his peece, and
discharging it at the beare, shot her into the head, betweene both the eyes,
and yet shee held the man still fast by the necke, and lifted up her head with
the man in her mouth, but shee beganne somewhat to stagger; wherewith
the purser and a Scottishman drew out their courtlaxes (cutlasses), and
stroke at her so hard, that their courtlaxes burst, and yet shee would not
leave the man. At last Wm. Geysen went to them, and with all his might
stroke the beare upon the snowt with his peece, at which time the beare fell
to the ground, making a great noyse, and Wm. Geysen leaping upon her cut
her throat. The 7th of September wee buried the dead bodies of our men in
the States Island, and having fleaed the beare, carryed her skinne to
Amsterdam."
This is about the earliest record of an encounter with this formidable
creature; sailors now find that they can be attacked with most advantage in
the water. When in this element, they try to escape by swimming to the ice,
and when the ice is in the form of loose and detached small floes, Dr
Sutherland has seen them dive underneath, and appear on the opposite side.
Scoresby records, that when shot at a distance, and able to escape, the bear
has been observed to retire to the shelter of a hummock, and, as if aware of
the styptical effect of cold, apply snow to the wound.
Page 69
In common with nearly every animal, this huge despot of the North is
strongly attached to its young. Captain Inglefield, on his return home from
Baffin's Bay in 1852, pursued three bears, as he was anxious to get a supply
of fresh meat for his Esquimaux dogs. The trio were evidently a mother and
twins. The captain was anxious to secure the cubs alive as trophies, and was
cautious in shooting at the mother. All three fell, and were brought on board
the Isabel. He records that it was quite heartrending to see the affection that
existed between them. When the cubs saw their mother was wounded, they
commenced licking her wounds, regardless of their own sufferings. At
length the mother began to eat the snow, a sure sign that she was mortally
wounded. "Even then her care for the cubs did not cease, as she kept
continually turning her head from one to the other, and, though roaring with
pain, she seemed to warn them to escape if possible. Their attachment was
as great as hers, and I was thus obliged to destroy them all. It went much
against my feelings, but the memory of my starving dogs reconciled me to
the necessity."
The female bear when pursued carries or pushes her cubs forwards, and the
little creatures are described as placing themselves across her path to be
shoved forwards. Scoresby mentions an instance where, when projected
some yards in advance, the cubs ran on until she overtook them, when they
alternately adjusted themselves for a second throw.
It is chiefly on the seal that this bear feeds, and it displays great cunning in
catching them as they sleep on the ice, or come to the holes in the ice to
breathe, when it destroys them with one blow of its formidable and heavy
paw. For its mode of getting the walrus we refer the reader to "Excelsior,"
vol. i. p. 37. Notwithstanding his strength and ferocity, the Esquimaux
frequently kill the polar bear, as they esteem its flesh and fat, and highly
prize its skin. The flesh is not so prized by Saxons, whether they be
European or American. Dr Kane's opinion would differ but little from that
of Arctic voyagers on our side of the Atlantic. The surgeon to the "Grinnell
Expedition" in search of Sir John Franklin thus characterises its flesh: "Bear
is strong, very strong, and withal most capricious meat; you cannot tell
where to find him. One day he is quite beefy and bearable; another, hircine,
hippuric, and detestable."
strongly attached to its young. Captain Inglefield, on his return home from
Baffin's Bay in 1852, pursued three bears, as he was anxious to get a supply
of fresh meat for his Esquimaux dogs. The trio were evidently a mother and
twins. The captain was anxious to secure the cubs alive as trophies, and was
cautious in shooting at the mother. All three fell, and were brought on board
the Isabel. He records that it was quite heartrending to see the affection that
existed between them. When the cubs saw their mother was wounded, they
commenced licking her wounds, regardless of their own sufferings. At
length the mother began to eat the snow, a sure sign that she was mortally
wounded. "Even then her care for the cubs did not cease, as she kept
continually turning her head from one to the other, and, though roaring with
pain, she seemed to warn them to escape if possible. Their attachment was
as great as hers, and I was thus obliged to destroy them all. It went much
against my feelings, but the memory of my starving dogs reconciled me to
the necessity."
The female bear when pursued carries or pushes her cubs forwards, and the
little creatures are described as placing themselves across her path to be
shoved forwards. Scoresby mentions an instance where, when projected
some yards in advance, the cubs ran on until she overtook them, when they
alternately adjusted themselves for a second throw.
It is chiefly on the seal that this bear feeds, and it displays great cunning in
catching them as they sleep on the ice, or come to the holes in the ice to
breathe, when it destroys them with one blow of its formidable and heavy
paw. For its mode of getting the walrus we refer the reader to "Excelsior,"
vol. i. p. 37. Notwithstanding his strength and ferocity, the Esquimaux
frequently kill the polar bear, as they esteem its flesh and fat, and highly
prize its skin. The flesh is not so prized by Saxons, whether they be
European or American. Dr Kane's opinion would differ but little from that
of Arctic voyagers on our side of the Atlantic. The surgeon to the "Grinnell
Expedition" in search of Sir John Franklin thus characterises its flesh: "Bear
is strong, very strong, and withal most capricious meat; you cannot tell
where to find him. One day he is quite beefy and bearable; another, hircine,
hippuric, and detestable."
Page 70
It is but fair to say that Captain Parry[38] regards the flesh of the polar bear
to be as wholesome as any other, though not quite so palatable. His men
suffered from indigestion after eating it; but this he attributes to the
quantity, and not to the quality, of the meat they had eaten.
There seems to be little doubt that the liver is highly deleterious. Some of
the sailors of Barentz, who made a meal of it, were very sick, "and we
verily thought we should have lost them, for all their skins came off from
the foot to the head."
The skin of the bear is covered with long yellowish white hair, which, is
very close, and forms a wonderful defence against the cold, and against the
tusk of the animals on which it feeds. We heard of another use of this hair
from an officer on one of the late Arctic searching expeditions. A bear was
seen to come down a tolerably high and steep declivity by sliding down on
its hinder quarters, in an attitude known, in more than one part of the British
Islands, by the expressive name of "katy-hunkers;" the shaggy hair with
which it was covered serving like a thick mat to protect the creature from
injury. The Esquimaux prepare the skin sometimes without ripping it up,
and turning the hairy side inward a warm sack-like bed is formed, into
which they creep, and lie very comfortably. Otho Fabricius, in his "Fauna
Grænlandica" (p. 24), informs us that the tendons are converted into sewing
threads. The female bear has one or two, and sometimes three, cubs at a
time. They are born in the winter, and the mother generally digs for them
and for herself a snug nestling-place in the snow. The males in the winter
time leave the coast, and go out on the ice-fields, to the edge of the open
water after seals.—Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Nelson and the Polar Bear.
In 1773, Captain Phipps, afterwards Lord Mulgrave, sailed on a voyage of
discovery towards the North Pole. In this expedition sailed two Norfolk
young men, one in his twenty-third year, the other a mere lad in his fifteenth
year. The former sailed from a spirit of curiosity, and being sorely distressed
by sea-sickness was landed in Norway. He afterwards became famous in the
British Parliament, and the speeches of the Right Hon. William Windham,
Secretary at War, are often referred to even now. The younger man was
to be as wholesome as any other, though not quite so palatable. His men
suffered from indigestion after eating it; but this he attributes to the
quantity, and not to the quality, of the meat they had eaten.
There seems to be little doubt that the liver is highly deleterious. Some of
the sailors of Barentz, who made a meal of it, were very sick, "and we
verily thought we should have lost them, for all their skins came off from
the foot to the head."
The skin of the bear is covered with long yellowish white hair, which, is
very close, and forms a wonderful defence against the cold, and against the
tusk of the animals on which it feeds. We heard of another use of this hair
from an officer on one of the late Arctic searching expeditions. A bear was
seen to come down a tolerably high and steep declivity by sliding down on
its hinder quarters, in an attitude known, in more than one part of the British
Islands, by the expressive name of "katy-hunkers;" the shaggy hair with
which it was covered serving like a thick mat to protect the creature from
injury. The Esquimaux prepare the skin sometimes without ripping it up,
and turning the hairy side inward a warm sack-like bed is formed, into
which they creep, and lie very comfortably. Otho Fabricius, in his "Fauna
Grænlandica" (p. 24), informs us that the tendons are converted into sewing
threads. The female bear has one or two, and sometimes three, cubs at a
time. They are born in the winter, and the mother generally digs for them
and for herself a snug nestling-place in the snow. The males in the winter
time leave the coast, and go out on the ice-fields, to the edge of the open
water after seals.—Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Nelson and the Polar Bear.
In 1773, Captain Phipps, afterwards Lord Mulgrave, sailed on a voyage of
discovery towards the North Pole. In this expedition sailed two Norfolk
young men, one in his twenty-third year, the other a mere lad in his fifteenth
year. The former sailed from a spirit of curiosity, and being sorely distressed
by sea-sickness was landed in Norway. He afterwards became famous in the
British Parliament, and the speeches of the Right Hon. William Windham,
Secretary at War, are often referred to even now. The younger man was
Page 71
Horatio Nelson, cockswain under Captain Lutwidge, who was killed at the
battle of Trafalgar, thirty-two years after his Polar expedition, and left a
name which is synonymous with the glory of the British navy.
Southey, in his admirable life,[39] records an instance of his hardihood on
this expedition:—"One night, during the mid-watch, he stole from the ship
with one of his comrades, taking advantage of a rising fog, and set off over
the ice in pursuit of a bear. It was not long before they were missed. The fog
thickened, and Captain Lutwidge and his officers became exceedingly
alarmed for their safety. Between three and four in the morning the weather
cleared, and the two adventurers were seen at a considerable distance from
the ship attacking a huge bear. The signal for them to return was
immediately made; Nelsons' comrade called upon him to obey it, but in
vain; his musket had flashed in the pan; their ammunition was expended;
and a chasm in the ice, which divided him from the bear, probably
preserved his life. 'Never mind,' he cried; 'do but let me get a blow at this
devil with the butt-end of my musket, and we shall have him.' Captain
Lutwidge, however, seeing his danger, fired a gun, which had the desired
effect of frightening the beast; and the boy then returned, somewhat afraid
of the consequences of his trespass. The captain reprimanded him sternly
for conduct so unworthy of the office which he filled, and desired to know
what motive he could have for hunting a bear. 'Sir,' said he, pouting his lip,
as he was wont to do when agitated, 'I wished to kill the bear, that I might
carry the skin to my father.'"
A Clever Polar Bear.
Mr Markham,[40] when the ship Assistance was in the Wellington Channel,
observed several bears prowling about in search of seals. "On one
occasion," he writes, "I saw a bear swimming across a lane of water, and
pushing a large piece of ice before him. Landing on the floe, he advanced
stealthily towards a couple of seals, which were basking in the sun at some
little distance, still holding the ice in front to hide his black muzzle; but this
most sagacious of bears was for once outwitted, for the seals dived into a
pool of water before he could get within reach. On another occasion, a
female Bruin having been shot from the deck of the Intrepid, her
affectionate cub, an animal about the size of a large Newfoundland dog,
battle of Trafalgar, thirty-two years after his Polar expedition, and left a
name which is synonymous with the glory of the British navy.
Southey, in his admirable life,[39] records an instance of his hardihood on
this expedition:—"One night, during the mid-watch, he stole from the ship
with one of his comrades, taking advantage of a rising fog, and set off over
the ice in pursuit of a bear. It was not long before they were missed. The fog
thickened, and Captain Lutwidge and his officers became exceedingly
alarmed for their safety. Between three and four in the morning the weather
cleared, and the two adventurers were seen at a considerable distance from
the ship attacking a huge bear. The signal for them to return was
immediately made; Nelsons' comrade called upon him to obey it, but in
vain; his musket had flashed in the pan; their ammunition was expended;
and a chasm in the ice, which divided him from the bear, probably
preserved his life. 'Never mind,' he cried; 'do but let me get a blow at this
devil with the butt-end of my musket, and we shall have him.' Captain
Lutwidge, however, seeing his danger, fired a gun, which had the desired
effect of frightening the beast; and the boy then returned, somewhat afraid
of the consequences of his trespass. The captain reprimanded him sternly
for conduct so unworthy of the office which he filled, and desired to know
what motive he could have for hunting a bear. 'Sir,' said he, pouting his lip,
as he was wont to do when agitated, 'I wished to kill the bear, that I might
carry the skin to my father.'"
A Clever Polar Bear.
Mr Markham,[40] when the ship Assistance was in the Wellington Channel,
observed several bears prowling about in search of seals. "On one
occasion," he writes, "I saw a bear swimming across a lane of water, and
pushing a large piece of ice before him. Landing on the floe, he advanced
stealthily towards a couple of seals, which were basking in the sun at some
little distance, still holding the ice in front to hide his black muzzle; but this
most sagacious of bears was for once outwitted, for the seals dived into a
pool of water before he could get within reach. On another occasion, a
female Bruin having been shot from the deck of the Intrepid, her
affectionate cub, an animal about the size of a large Newfoundland dog,
Page 72
remained resolutely by the side of its mother, and on the approach of the
commander of the Intrepid with part of his crew, a sort of tournament
ensued, in which the youthful bear, although belaboured most savagely,
showed a gallant resistance, and at length rushing between the legs of the
corporal of marines, laid him prostrate on the ice, floored another man, who
had seized hold of his tail, and effected his escape."
Captain Ommaney and the Polar Bear.
Captain Ommaney,[41] who led one of the travelling parties in 1851 sent out
from the ships under Austin in search of Franklin on the 12th of June, the
day before he arrived at the ships, met with a laughable accident, although it
might have had a serious termination. They had all of them but just got into
their blanket bags, when a peculiar noise, as if something was rubbing up
the snow, was heard outside. The gallant captain instantly divined its cause,
seized, loaded, and cocked his gun, and ordered the tent door to be opened,
upon which a huge bear was seen outside. Captain Ommaney fired at the
animal, but, whether from the benumbed state of his limbs, or the dim
glimmering light, he unfortunately missed him, and shot away the rope that
supported the tent instead. The enraged monster then poked his head against
the poles, and the tent fell upon its terrified inmates, and embraced them in
its folds. Their confusion and dismay can more easily be imagined than
described, but at length one man, with more self-possession than the rest,
slipped out of his bag, scrambled from under the prostrate tent, and ran to
the sledge for another gun; and it was well that he did so, for no sooner had
he vacated his sleeping sack than Bruin seized it between his teeth, and
shook it violently, with the evident intention of wreaking his vengeance on
its inmate. He was, however, speedily despatched by a well-aimed shot
from the man, the tent was repitched, and tranquillity restored.
commander of the Intrepid with part of his crew, a sort of tournament
ensued, in which the youthful bear, although belaboured most savagely,
showed a gallant resistance, and at length rushing between the legs of the
corporal of marines, laid him prostrate on the ice, floored another man, who
had seized hold of his tail, and effected his escape."
Captain Ommaney and the Polar Bear.
Captain Ommaney,[41] who led one of the travelling parties in 1851 sent out
from the ships under Austin in search of Franklin on the 12th of June, the
day before he arrived at the ships, met with a laughable accident, although it
might have had a serious termination. They had all of them but just got into
their blanket bags, when a peculiar noise, as if something was rubbing up
the snow, was heard outside. The gallant captain instantly divined its cause,
seized, loaded, and cocked his gun, and ordered the tent door to be opened,
upon which a huge bear was seen outside. Captain Ommaney fired at the
animal, but, whether from the benumbed state of his limbs, or the dim
glimmering light, he unfortunately missed him, and shot away the rope that
supported the tent instead. The enraged monster then poked his head against
the poles, and the tent fell upon its terrified inmates, and embraced them in
its folds. Their confusion and dismay can more easily be imagined than
described, but at length one man, with more self-possession than the rest,
slipped out of his bag, scrambled from under the prostrate tent, and ran to
the sledge for another gun; and it was well that he did so, for no sooner had
he vacated his sleeping sack than Bruin seized it between his teeth, and
shook it violently, with the evident intention of wreaking his vengeance on
its inmate. He was, however, speedily despatched by a well-aimed shot
from the man, the tent was repitched, and tranquillity restored.
Page 73
RACCOON.
A strikingly pretty, well-clad, and pleasingly coloured North American
quadruped, of which many zoological anecdotes might be given. Linnæus
named it Ursu lotor, or the Washer, from its curious habit of putting any
food offered to it, at least when in confinement, into water, before
attempting to eat it.
"A Gone Coon."
An American phrase for "the last extremity," or, "it's all up." They say that a
Major, or Colonel, or General Scott "down South" was notorious as a dead
shot. Once on a time, when out with his gun, he espied a raccoon on a lofty
tree. The poor raccoon, noticing the gun pointed at him, cried to the dead
shot, "Air you General Scott?"—"I air."—"Then wait, I air a comin' down,
for I air a gone coon."
A strikingly pretty, well-clad, and pleasingly coloured North American
quadruped, of which many zoological anecdotes might be given. Linnæus
named it Ursu lotor, or the Washer, from its curious habit of putting any
food offered to it, at least when in confinement, into water, before
attempting to eat it.
"A Gone Coon."
An American phrase for "the last extremity," or, "it's all up." They say that a
Major, or Colonel, or General Scott "down South" was notorious as a dead
shot. Once on a time, when out with his gun, he espied a raccoon on a lofty
tree. The poor raccoon, noticing the gun pointed at him, cried to the dead
shot, "Air you General Scott?"—"I air."—"Then wait, I air a comin' down,
for I air a gone coon."
Page 74
BADGER.
The badger, or brock, as it is called in Scotland, is yearly becoming more
and more rare. In a few years, this curious and powerful member of the
feræ, will figure, like the bear and beaver, as among the extinct quadrupeds
of these islands. Naturalists will be recording that in the days of Robert
Burns it must have been not at all uncommon, and not rare in those of Hugh
Miller, since low dram-shops kept them for the entertainment of their
guests. The Ayrshire bard makes the Newfoundland dog, Cæsar, say to his
comrade Luath, the collie, when, speaking of most of the gentry of his day
—
"They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinking brock."[42]
The author of "Old Red Sandstone" and "My Schools and Schoolmasters,"
has recorded in the latter work the history of his employment as a hewer of
great stones under the branching foliage of the elm and chestnut trees of
Niddry Park, near Edinburgh, and how, in the course of a strike among the
masons, he marched into town with several of them to a meeting on the
Links, where, conspicuous from the deep red hue of their clothes and
aprons, they were cheered as a reinforcement from a distance. On
adjourning, Hugh Miller, in his racy style, gives the following account of a
badger-baiting more than forty years ago:—
Hugh Miller and the Badger-Baiting in the Canongate.
"My comrades proposed that we should pass the time until the hour of
meeting in a public-house, and, desirous of securing a glimpse of the sort of
enjoyment for which they sacrificed so much, I accompanied them. Passing
not a few more inviting-looking places, we entered a low tavern in the
upper part of the Canongate, kept in an old half-ruinous building, which has
since disappeared. We passed on through a narrow passage to a low-roofed
room in the centre of the erection, into which the light of day never
penetrated, and in which the gas was burning dimly in a close, sluggish
The badger, or brock, as it is called in Scotland, is yearly becoming more
and more rare. In a few years, this curious and powerful member of the
feræ, will figure, like the bear and beaver, as among the extinct quadrupeds
of these islands. Naturalists will be recording that in the days of Robert
Burns it must have been not at all uncommon, and not rare in those of Hugh
Miller, since low dram-shops kept them for the entertainment of their
guests. The Ayrshire bard makes the Newfoundland dog, Cæsar, say to his
comrade Luath, the collie, when, speaking of most of the gentry of his day
—
"They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinking brock."[42]
The author of "Old Red Sandstone" and "My Schools and Schoolmasters,"
has recorded in the latter work the history of his employment as a hewer of
great stones under the branching foliage of the elm and chestnut trees of
Niddry Park, near Edinburgh, and how, in the course of a strike among the
masons, he marched into town with several of them to a meeting on the
Links, where, conspicuous from the deep red hue of their clothes and
aprons, they were cheered as a reinforcement from a distance. On
adjourning, Hugh Miller, in his racy style, gives the following account of a
badger-baiting more than forty years ago:—
Hugh Miller and the Badger-Baiting in the Canongate.
"My comrades proposed that we should pass the time until the hour of
meeting in a public-house, and, desirous of securing a glimpse of the sort of
enjoyment for which they sacrificed so much, I accompanied them. Passing
not a few more inviting-looking places, we entered a low tavern in the
upper part of the Canongate, kept in an old half-ruinous building, which has
since disappeared. We passed on through a narrow passage to a low-roofed
room in the centre of the erection, into which the light of day never
penetrated, and in which the gas was burning dimly in a close, sluggish
Page 75
atmosphere, rendered still more stifling by tobacco-smoke, and a strong
smell of ardent spirits. In the middle of the crazy floor there was a trap-
door, which lay open at the time; and a wild combination of sounds, in
which the yelping of a dog, and a few gruff voices that seemed cheering
him on, were most noticeable, rose from the apartment below. It was
customary at this time for dram-shops to keep badgers housed in long
narrow boxes, and for working men to keep dogs; and it was part of the
ordinary sport of such places to set the dogs to unhouse the badgers. The
wild sport which Scott describes in his 'Guy Mannering,' as pursued by
Dandy Dinmont and his associates among the Cheviots, was extensively
practised twenty-nine years ago amid the dingier haunts of the High Street
and Canongate. Our party, like most others, had its dog,—a repulsive-
looking brute, with an earth-directed eye; as if he carried about with him an
evil conscience; and my companions were desirous of getting his earthing
ability tested upon the badger of the establishment; but on summoning the
tavern-keeper, we were told that the party below had got the start of us.
Their dog was, as we might hear, 'just drawing the badger; and before our
dog could be permitted to draw him, the poor brute would require to get an
hour's rest.' I need scarce say, that the hour was spent in hard drinking in
that stagnant atmosphere; and we then all descended through the trap-door,
by means of a ladder, into a bare-walled dungeon, dark and damp, and
where the pestiferous air smelt like that of a burial vault. The scene which
followed was exceedingly repulsive and brutal,—nearly as much so as some
of the scenes furnished by those otter-hunts in which the aristocracy of the
country delight occasionally to indulge. Amid shouts and yells the badger,
with the blood of his recent conflict still fresh upon him, was again drawn
to the box-mouth; and the party returning satisfied to the apartment above,
again betook themselves to hard drinking. In a short time the liquor began
to tell, not first, as might be supposed, on our younger men, who were
mostly tall, vigorous fellows, in the first flush of their full strength, but on a
few of the middle-aged workmen, whose constitutions seemed undermined
by a previous course of dissipation and debauchery. The conversation
became very loud, very involved, and though highly seasoned with
emphatic oaths, very insipid; and leaving with Cha—who seemed
somewhat uneasy that my eye should be upon their meeting in its hour of
weakness—money enough to clear off my share of the reckoning, I stole
out to the King's Park, and passed an hour to better purpose among the trap
smell of ardent spirits. In the middle of the crazy floor there was a trap-
door, which lay open at the time; and a wild combination of sounds, in
which the yelping of a dog, and a few gruff voices that seemed cheering
him on, were most noticeable, rose from the apartment below. It was
customary at this time for dram-shops to keep badgers housed in long
narrow boxes, and for working men to keep dogs; and it was part of the
ordinary sport of such places to set the dogs to unhouse the badgers. The
wild sport which Scott describes in his 'Guy Mannering,' as pursued by
Dandy Dinmont and his associates among the Cheviots, was extensively
practised twenty-nine years ago amid the dingier haunts of the High Street
and Canongate. Our party, like most others, had its dog,—a repulsive-
looking brute, with an earth-directed eye; as if he carried about with him an
evil conscience; and my companions were desirous of getting his earthing
ability tested upon the badger of the establishment; but on summoning the
tavern-keeper, we were told that the party below had got the start of us.
Their dog was, as we might hear, 'just drawing the badger; and before our
dog could be permitted to draw him, the poor brute would require to get an
hour's rest.' I need scarce say, that the hour was spent in hard drinking in
that stagnant atmosphere; and we then all descended through the trap-door,
by means of a ladder, into a bare-walled dungeon, dark and damp, and
where the pestiferous air smelt like that of a burial vault. The scene which
followed was exceedingly repulsive and brutal,—nearly as much so as some
of the scenes furnished by those otter-hunts in which the aristocracy of the
country delight occasionally to indulge. Amid shouts and yells the badger,
with the blood of his recent conflict still fresh upon him, was again drawn
to the box-mouth; and the party returning satisfied to the apartment above,
again betook themselves to hard drinking. In a short time the liquor began
to tell, not first, as might be supposed, on our younger men, who were
mostly tall, vigorous fellows, in the first flush of their full strength, but on a
few of the middle-aged workmen, whose constitutions seemed undermined
by a previous course of dissipation and debauchery. The conversation
became very loud, very involved, and though highly seasoned with
emphatic oaths, very insipid; and leaving with Cha—who seemed
somewhat uneasy that my eye should be upon their meeting in its hour of
weakness—money enough to clear off my share of the reckoning, I stole
out to the King's Park, and passed an hour to better purpose among the trap
Page 76
rocks than I could possibly have spent it beside the trap-door of that tavern
party. I am not aware that a single individual, save the writer, is now living;
its very dog did not live out half his days. His owner was alarmed one
morning, shortly after this time, by the intelligence that a dozen of sheep
had been worried during the night on a neighbouring farm, and that a dog
very like his had been seen prowling about the fold; but in order to
determine the point, he would be visited, it was added, in the course of the
day, by the shepherd and a law-officer. The dog meanwhile, however,
conscious of guilt,—for dogs do seem to have consciences in such matters,
—was nowhere to be found, though, after the lapse of nearly a week, he
again appeared at the work; and his master, slipping a rope round his neck,
brought him to a deserted coal-pit half-filled with water, that opened in an
adjacent field, and flinging him in, left the authorities no clue by which to
establish his identity with the robber and assassin of the fold."[43]
The Laird of Balnamoon and the Brock.
The laird, so Dean Ramsay had the story sent him, once riding past a high
steep bank, stopped opposite a hole in it, and said, "John, I saw a brock
gang in there."—"Did ye?" said John; "wull ye haud my horse,
sir?"—"Certainly," said the laird, and away rushed John for a spade. After
digging for half an hour, he came back, nigh speechless to the laird, who
had regarded him musingly. "I canna find him, sir," said John.—"'Deed,"
said the laird, very coolly, "I wad ha' wondered if ye had, for it's ten years
sin' I saw him gang in there."[44]
party. I am not aware that a single individual, save the writer, is now living;
its very dog did not live out half his days. His owner was alarmed one
morning, shortly after this time, by the intelligence that a dozen of sheep
had been worried during the night on a neighbouring farm, and that a dog
very like his had been seen prowling about the fold; but in order to
determine the point, he would be visited, it was added, in the course of the
day, by the shepherd and a law-officer. The dog meanwhile, however,
conscious of guilt,—for dogs do seem to have consciences in such matters,
—was nowhere to be found, though, after the lapse of nearly a week, he
again appeared at the work; and his master, slipping a rope round his neck,
brought him to a deserted coal-pit half-filled with water, that opened in an
adjacent field, and flinging him in, left the authorities no clue by which to
establish his identity with the robber and assassin of the fold."[43]
The Laird of Balnamoon and the Brock.
The laird, so Dean Ramsay had the story sent him, once riding past a high
steep bank, stopped opposite a hole in it, and said, "John, I saw a brock
gang in there."—"Did ye?" said John; "wull ye haud my horse,
sir?"—"Certainly," said the laird, and away rushed John for a spade. After
digging for half an hour, he came back, nigh speechless to the laird, who
had regarded him musingly. "I canna find him, sir," said John.—"'Deed,"
said the laird, very coolly, "I wad ha' wondered if ye had, for it's ten years
sin' I saw him gang in there."[44]
Page 77
FERRET.
A truly blood-thirsty member of that slim-bodied but active race, the weasel
tribe. He is certainly an inhabitant of a warmer climate than this, being very
sensitive to cold. He is used in killing rats and ferreting out rabbits, a verb
indeed derived from his name. He has been known to attack sleeping
infants.
Collins and the Rat-catchers grip of his Ferrets.
That delightful painter of cottage life, says his son,[45] often found cottagers
who gloried in being painted, and who sat like professional models, under
an erroneous impression that it was for their personal beauties and
perfections that their likenesses were portrayed. The remarks of these and
other good people, who sat to the painter in perfect ignorance of the use or
object of his labours, were often exquisitely original. He used to quote the
criticism of a celebrated country rat-catcher, on the study he had made from
him, with hearty triumph and delight. When asked whether he thought his
portrait like, the rat-catcher, who—perhaps in virtue of his calling—was a
gruff and unhesitating man, immediately declared that the face was "not a
morsel like," but vowed with a great oath, that nothing could ever be equal
to the correctness of the dirt shine on his old leather breeches, and the grip
that he had of the necks of his ferrets!
A truly blood-thirsty member of that slim-bodied but active race, the weasel
tribe. He is certainly an inhabitant of a warmer climate than this, being very
sensitive to cold. He is used in killing rats and ferreting out rabbits, a verb
indeed derived from his name. He has been known to attack sleeping
infants.
Collins and the Rat-catchers grip of his Ferrets.
That delightful painter of cottage life, says his son,[45] often found cottagers
who gloried in being painted, and who sat like professional models, under
an erroneous impression that it was for their personal beauties and
perfections that their likenesses were portrayed. The remarks of these and
other good people, who sat to the painter in perfect ignorance of the use or
object of his labours, were often exquisitely original. He used to quote the
criticism of a celebrated country rat-catcher, on the study he had made from
him, with hearty triumph and delight. When asked whether he thought his
portrait like, the rat-catcher, who—perhaps in virtue of his calling—was a
gruff and unhesitating man, immediately declared that the face was "not a
morsel like," but vowed with a great oath, that nothing could ever be equal
to the correctness of the dirt shine on his old leather breeches, and the grip
that he had of the necks of his ferrets!
Page 78
POLE-CAT.
An equally blood-thirsty member of the weasel family, with the subject of
the preceding paragraph.
Fox and the Pole-Cat.—(Poll-cat.)[46]
Francis Grose relates the following as having happened during one of the
famous Westminster elections:—"During the poll, a dead cat being thrown
on the hustings, one of Sir Cecil Wray's party observed it stunk worse than a
fox, to which Mr Fox replied, there was nothing extraordinary in that,
considering it was a poll-cat."
An equally blood-thirsty member of the weasel family, with the subject of
the preceding paragraph.
Fox and the Pole-Cat.—(Poll-cat.)[46]
Francis Grose relates the following as having happened during one of the
famous Westminster elections:—"During the poll, a dead cat being thrown
on the hustings, one of Sir Cecil Wray's party observed it stunk worse than a
fox, to which Mr Fox replied, there was nothing extraordinary in that,
considering it was a poll-cat."
Page 79
DOGS.
One who seems to love the race of dogs, and who has written a most
readable book on them,[47] remarks, that the dog "even now is rarely the
companion of a Jew, or the inmate of his house." He quotes various terms of
reproach still common among us, and which seem to have originated from a
similar feeling to that of the Jew. For instance, we say of a very cheap
article, that it is "dog cheap." To call a person "a dog," or "a cur," or "a
hound," means something the very opposite of complimentary. A surly
person is said to have "a dogged disposition." Any one very much fatigued
is said to be "dog weary." A wretched room or house is often called "a dog
hole," or said to be only fit for "a dog." Very poor verse is "doggerel." It is
told of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, that when a young nobleman refused
to translate some inscription over an alcove, because it was in "dog-latin,"
she observed, "How strange a puppy shouldn't understand his mother
tongue."
What, too, can be more expressive of a man being on the verge of ruin, than
the common phrase, that "such a one is going to the dogs." Of modern
describers of the very life and feelings of dogs, who can surpass Dr John
Brown of Edinburgh? His "Rab," and his "Our Dogs," are worthy of the
brush of Sir Edwin Landseer. Who has not heard the answer said to have
been given by Sydney Smith to the great painter, when he wanted to make a
portrait of the witty canon, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this
thing?"
There is great diversity of standard in matters of taste. In China, a well-
roasted pup, of any variety of the very variable Canis familiaris, is a dainty
dish. In London the greatest exquisite delights in the taste of a half-cooked
woodcock, but would scruple to eat a lady's lap-dog, even though
descended, by indubitable pedigree, from a genuine "liver-and-tan" spaniel,
that followed King Charles II. in his strolls through St James's Park; and
which was given to her ladyship's ancestress on a day recorded, perhaps, in
the diary of Mr Samuel Pepys. Again, in the country of the Esquimaux, who
has not read in the intensely interesting narratives of the Moravian
One who seems to love the race of dogs, and who has written a most
readable book on them,[47] remarks, that the dog "even now is rarely the
companion of a Jew, or the inmate of his house." He quotes various terms of
reproach still common among us, and which seem to have originated from a
similar feeling to that of the Jew. For instance, we say of a very cheap
article, that it is "dog cheap." To call a person "a dog," or "a cur," or "a
hound," means something the very opposite of complimentary. A surly
person is said to have "a dogged disposition." Any one very much fatigued
is said to be "dog weary." A wretched room or house is often called "a dog
hole," or said to be only fit for "a dog." Very poor verse is "doggerel." It is
told of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, that when a young nobleman refused
to translate some inscription over an alcove, because it was in "dog-latin,"
she observed, "How strange a puppy shouldn't understand his mother
tongue."
What, too, can be more expressive of a man being on the verge of ruin, than
the common phrase, that "such a one is going to the dogs." Of modern
describers of the very life and feelings of dogs, who can surpass Dr John
Brown of Edinburgh? His "Rab," and his "Our Dogs," are worthy of the
brush of Sir Edwin Landseer. Who has not heard the answer said to have
been given by Sydney Smith to the great painter, when he wanted to make a
portrait of the witty canon, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this
thing?"
There is great diversity of standard in matters of taste. In China, a well-
roasted pup, of any variety of the very variable Canis familiaris, is a dainty
dish. In London the greatest exquisite delights in the taste of a half-cooked
woodcock, but would scruple to eat a lady's lap-dog, even though
descended, by indubitable pedigree, from a genuine "liver-and-tan" spaniel,
that followed King Charles II. in his strolls through St James's Park; and
which was given to her ladyship's ancestress on a day recorded, perhaps, in
the diary of Mr Samuel Pepys. Again, in the country of the Esquimaux, who
has not read in the intensely interesting narratives of the Moravian
Page 80
missionaries, how the dogs of the "Innuit"—of "the men," as they call
themselves—are, in winter, indispensable to their very existence? Parry,
Lyon, Franklin, Richardson, Ross, Rae, Penny, Sutherland, Inglefield, and
Kane, have told us what excellent "carriage"-pullers these hardy children of
the snow become from early infancy; and how the more they work, like the
wives of savages in Australia, the more they are kicked. Passing over the
dogs of the Indian tribes of North America and the gaunt race in Patagonia,
the reader may remember that the Roman youth, like the young Briton, had,
in the days of Horace, his outer marks—one was, that he loved to have a
dog, or a whole pack beside him—"gaudet canibus." This attachment to the
dog is given us "from above," and is one of the many "good gifts" which
proceed from Him, who made man and dog "familiar," as the apt specific
name of Linnæus denominates the latter. One of our greatly-gifted poets, in
a cynical mood, could write an epitaph on a favourite Newfoundlander, and
end it with the dismal lines on his views of "earthly friends"—
"He never knew but one,—and here he lies."
Our genial and home-loving Cowper has made his dog Beau classical. We
must beg our readers to refresh their memories, by looking into the Olney
bard's exquisite story,
"My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,"
and they will find that that story of "The Dog and the Water-lily" was "no
fable," and that Beau really understood his master's wish when he fetched
him a water-lily out of "Ouse's silent tide." How graceful are the last two
stanzas of that sweet little poem—
"Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,
'Shall hear of this thy deed;
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed.
'But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.'"[48]
themselves—are, in winter, indispensable to their very existence? Parry,
Lyon, Franklin, Richardson, Ross, Rae, Penny, Sutherland, Inglefield, and
Kane, have told us what excellent "carriage"-pullers these hardy children of
the snow become from early infancy; and how the more they work, like the
wives of savages in Australia, the more they are kicked. Passing over the
dogs of the Indian tribes of North America and the gaunt race in Patagonia,
the reader may remember that the Roman youth, like the young Briton, had,
in the days of Horace, his outer marks—one was, that he loved to have a
dog, or a whole pack beside him—"gaudet canibus." This attachment to the
dog is given us "from above," and is one of the many "good gifts" which
proceed from Him, who made man and dog "familiar," as the apt specific
name of Linnæus denominates the latter. One of our greatly-gifted poets, in
a cynical mood, could write an epitaph on a favourite Newfoundlander, and
end it with the dismal lines on his views of "earthly friends"—
"He never knew but one,—and here he lies."
Our genial and home-loving Cowper has made his dog Beau classical. We
must beg our readers to refresh their memories, by looking into the Olney
bard's exquisite story,
"My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,"
and they will find that that story of "The Dog and the Water-lily" was "no
fable," and that Beau really understood his master's wish when he fetched
him a water-lily out of "Ouse's silent tide." How graceful are the last two
stanzas of that sweet little poem—
"Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,
'Shall hear of this thy deed;
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed.
'But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.'"[48]
Page 81
BEAU.
That the world might know the very "mark and figure" of this spaniel, the
late able illustrator of so many topographical works (Mr James Storer)
published in his "Rural Walks of Cowper"[49] a figure of Beau, from the
stuffed skin in the possession of Cowper's kinsman, the Rev. Dr Johnson.
Mr Montague, in a letter to the son and biographer of Sir James
Mackintosh,[50] gives many reminiscences of that eminent man, who was
much attached to the memory of Cowper. He says, "We reached Dereham
about mid-day (it was in 1801), and wrote to Mr Johnson, the clergyman,
who had protected Cowper in the last years of his life, and in whose house
he died. He instantly called upon us, and we accompanied him to his house.
In the hall, we were introduced to a little red and white spaniel, in a glass
case—the little dog Beau, who, seeing the water-lily which Cowper could
not reach, 'plunging, left the shore.'"
"I saw him with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swim to meet
That the world might know the very "mark and figure" of this spaniel, the
late able illustrator of so many topographical works (Mr James Storer)
published in his "Rural Walks of Cowper"[49] a figure of Beau, from the
stuffed skin in the possession of Cowper's kinsman, the Rev. Dr Johnson.
Mr Montague, in a letter to the son and biographer of Sir James
Mackintosh,[50] gives many reminiscences of that eminent man, who was
much attached to the memory of Cowper. He says, "We reached Dereham
about mid-day (it was in 1801), and wrote to Mr Johnson, the clergyman,
who had protected Cowper in the last years of his life, and in whose house
he died. He instantly called upon us, and we accompanied him to his house.
In the hall, we were introduced to a little red and white spaniel, in a glass
case—the little dog Beau, who, seeing the water-lily which Cowper could
not reach, 'plunging, left the shore.'"
"I saw him with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swim to meet
Page 82
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet."
We saw the room where Cowper died, and the bell which he last touched.
We went to his grave, and to Mrs Unwin's, who is buried at some distance. I
lamented this, "Do not live in the visible, but the invisible," said your father,
—"his attainments, his tenderness, his affections, his sufferings, and his
hardships, will live long after both their graves are no more."
We could linger over a prized octavo volume, published in Edinburgh in
1787; the first poem of this, "The Twa Dogs, a Tale," occupies some
thirteen pages, written with that "rare felicity" so common to the Bard of
Scotland. We mention it, because of the peculiar happiness with which the
collie, or Scottish shepherd-dog, is described in lines that Sir Edwin
Landseer alone has equalled on canvas, or his brother Thomas with the
graver—
"He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, bawsn't[51] face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat of glossy black;
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl."
That's the shepherd-dog, as we have heard him described from a specimen,
which was the friend and follower of a valued one, who, when a boy ('tis
many years ago), frisked with the dog, over one of the many ferny haughs
that margin the lovely Tweed above and below Peebles. It is the collie we
have seen, on one of the sheep-farms of Lanarkshire, obey its young master
by a word or two, as unintelligible to us as Japanese. But to the Culter
"Luath," to hear was to obey; and in a quarter of an hour a flock of sheep,
which had been feeding on a hillSide half a mile off, were brought back,
driven by this faithful "bit doggie." We wonder not that shepherds love their
dogs. Why, even the New Smithfield cattle-drovers, who drive sheep along
the streets of London on a Monday or Friday, never even require to urge
The treasure at my feet."
We saw the room where Cowper died, and the bell which he last touched.
We went to his grave, and to Mrs Unwin's, who is buried at some distance. I
lamented this, "Do not live in the visible, but the invisible," said your father,
—"his attainments, his tenderness, his affections, his sufferings, and his
hardships, will live long after both their graves are no more."
We could linger over a prized octavo volume, published in Edinburgh in
1787; the first poem of this, "The Twa Dogs, a Tale," occupies some
thirteen pages, written with that "rare felicity" so common to the Bard of
Scotland. We mention it, because of the peculiar happiness with which the
collie, or Scottish shepherd-dog, is described in lines that Sir Edwin
Landseer alone has equalled on canvas, or his brother Thomas with the
graver—
"He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, bawsn't[51] face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat of glossy black;
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl."
That's the shepherd-dog, as we have heard him described from a specimen,
which was the friend and follower of a valued one, who, when a boy ('tis
many years ago), frisked with the dog, over one of the many ferny haughs
that margin the lovely Tweed above and below Peebles. It is the collie we
have seen, on one of the sheep-farms of Lanarkshire, obey its young master
by a word or two, as unintelligible to us as Japanese. But to the Culter
"Luath," to hear was to obey; and in a quarter of an hour a flock of sheep,
which had been feeding on a hillSide half a mile off, were brought back,
driven by this faithful "bit doggie." We wonder not that shepherds love their
dogs. Why, even the New Smithfield cattle-drovers, who drive sheep along
the streets of London on a Monday or Friday, never even require to urge
Page 83
their faithful partners. Well may the gifted authoress of "The Dream"
address "the faithful guardian"—
"Oh, tried and trusted! thou whose love
Ne'er changes nor forsakes,
Thou proof, how perfect God hath stamp'd
The meanest thing He makes;
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve,
No art is used to tame
(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know,
By words of love and blame);
Friend! who beside the cottage door,
Or in the rich man's hall,
With steadfast faith still answerest
The one familiar call;
Well by poor hearth and lordly home
Thy couchant form may rest,
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still,
To guard what they love best."
Hon. Mrs Norton, "The Dream," &c., p. 192.
No ordinary-sized volume, much less a short article, could give a tithe of
the true anecdotes of members of the dog race. Mere references to their
biography would take up a volume of Bibliography itself, just as their
forms, and character, and "pose," give endless subject to the painter. Of
modern authors, no one loved dogs more truly than Sir Walter Scott, as the
reader of his writings and of his biography is well aware;[52] but it may not
be generally known that, on the only occasion when the great novelist met
the Ayrshire peasant,—
"Virgilium tantum vidi,"—
the poem, which had made Burns a wonder to the boy then "unknown," was
that of "The Twa Dogs;" so that, even then, Scott had commenced to show
his attachment to these faithful followers. It was in the house of Sir Adam
Ferguson, when Scott was a mere lad; and the scene was described most
vividly to the writer by the late Scottish knight, after whose battle in South
Italy the author of "Marmion" named his pet staghound Maida, or, as Scott
address "the faithful guardian"—
"Oh, tried and trusted! thou whose love
Ne'er changes nor forsakes,
Thou proof, how perfect God hath stamp'd
The meanest thing He makes;
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve,
No art is used to tame
(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know,
By words of love and blame);
Friend! who beside the cottage door,
Or in the rich man's hall,
With steadfast faith still answerest
The one familiar call;
Well by poor hearth and lordly home
Thy couchant form may rest,
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still,
To guard what they love best."
Hon. Mrs Norton, "The Dream," &c., p. 192.
No ordinary-sized volume, much less a short article, could give a tithe of
the true anecdotes of members of the dog race. Mere references to their
biography would take up a volume of Bibliography itself, just as their
forms, and character, and "pose," give endless subject to the painter. Of
modern authors, no one loved dogs more truly than Sir Walter Scott, as the
reader of his writings and of his biography is well aware;[52] but it may not
be generally known that, on the only occasion when the great novelist met
the Ayrshire peasant,—
"Virgilium tantum vidi,"—
the poem, which had made Burns a wonder to the boy then "unknown," was
that of "The Twa Dogs;" so that, even then, Scott had commenced to show
his attachment to these faithful followers. It was in the house of Sir Adam
Ferguson, when Scott was a mere lad; and the scene was described most
vividly to the writer by the late Scottish knight, after whose battle in South
Italy the author of "Marmion" named his pet staghound Maida, or, as Scott
Page 84
pronounced it, "Myda." It was as the author of "The Twa Dogs" that young
Ferguson and Scott regarded Burns on his entrance into the room with such
wistful attention. The story is told in Lockhart, and we will not quote it
further; but, leaving dogs of our own days and lands to Mr Jesse, who has
given an interesting volume on them, we will close with a few paragraphs
on the dog of the East—a very differently treated animal to that generally
prized and esteemed "friend" of man in these lands of the West.
The Holy Scriptures show us that dogs were generally despised. We select
three, out of many instances. "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this
thing?" was the question with which Hazael, ignorant of the deceitfulness of
his own heart, indignantly replied to Elisha, when the prophet told him of
the evil that he would yet do unto the children of Israel (2 Kings viii. 13).
He, "who spake as never man spake," knowing the faith of the
Syrophœnician woman, and giving her an opportunity of manifesting it "for
our example," said, in the Syriac fashion of thought, "It is not meet to take
the children's bread, and to cast it to the dogs" (Mark vii. 27). And the
apostle John, in that wondrous close of the prophetical writings, says, "For
without," i.e., outside of the New Jerusalem, "are dogs" (Rev. xxii. 5). In the
East up to the present day, with but few exceptions, dogs are treated with
great dislike. We might quote passages in proof from almost every Eastern
traveller, and may venture to extract one from the graphic page of the Rev.
W. Graham, who lived five years in Syria, and who has given some noble
word-pictures of men, and streets, and scenes in Damascus and other
Turkish towns. Writing of Damascus,[53] he remarks, "The dogs are
considered unclean, and are never domesticated in the East. They are thin,
lean, fox-like animals, and always at the starving point. They live, breed,
and die in the streets. They are useful as scavengers. They are neither
fondled nor persecuted, but simply tolerated; and no dog has an owner, or
ever follows and accompanies a man as the sheep do. I once went out in the
evening at Beyrout, with my teacher to enjoy the fresh air and talk Arabic.
My little English dog, the gift of a friend, followed us. We passed through a
garden, where a venerable Moslem was sitting on a stone, silently and
solemnly engaged in smoking his pipe. He observed the dog following us,
and was astonished at it, as something new and extraordinary; and rising,
and making out of the way, he cried out, 'May his father be accursed! Is that
a dog or a fox?'" Again, in Damascus, should a worn-out horse, donkey, or
Ferguson and Scott regarded Burns on his entrance into the room with such
wistful attention. The story is told in Lockhart, and we will not quote it
further; but, leaving dogs of our own days and lands to Mr Jesse, who has
given an interesting volume on them, we will close with a few paragraphs
on the dog of the East—a very differently treated animal to that generally
prized and esteemed "friend" of man in these lands of the West.
The Holy Scriptures show us that dogs were generally despised. We select
three, out of many instances. "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this
thing?" was the question with which Hazael, ignorant of the deceitfulness of
his own heart, indignantly replied to Elisha, when the prophet told him of
the evil that he would yet do unto the children of Israel (2 Kings viii. 13).
He, "who spake as never man spake," knowing the faith of the
Syrophœnician woman, and giving her an opportunity of manifesting it "for
our example," said, in the Syriac fashion of thought, "It is not meet to take
the children's bread, and to cast it to the dogs" (Mark vii. 27). And the
apostle John, in that wondrous close of the prophetical writings, says, "For
without," i.e., outside of the New Jerusalem, "are dogs" (Rev. xxii. 5). In the
East up to the present day, with but few exceptions, dogs are treated with
great dislike. We might quote passages in proof from almost every Eastern
traveller, and may venture to extract one from the graphic page of the Rev.
W. Graham, who lived five years in Syria, and who has given some noble
word-pictures of men, and streets, and scenes in Damascus and other
Turkish towns. Writing of Damascus,[53] he remarks, "The dogs are
considered unclean, and are never domesticated in the East. They are thin,
lean, fox-like animals, and always at the starving point. They live, breed,
and die in the streets. They are useful as scavengers. They are neither
fondled nor persecuted, but simply tolerated; and no dog has an owner, or
ever follows and accompanies a man as the sheep do. I once went out in the
evening at Beyrout, with my teacher to enjoy the fresh air and talk Arabic.
My little English dog, the gift of a friend, followed us. We passed through a
garden, where a venerable Moslem was sitting on a stone, silently and
solemnly engaged in smoking his pipe. He observed the dog following us,
and was astonished at it, as something new and extraordinary; and rising,
and making out of the way, he cried out, 'May his father be accursed! Is that
a dog or a fox?'" Again, in Damascus, should a worn-out horse, donkey, or
Page 85
camel die in the streets, in a few hours the dogs have devoured it; and the
powerful rays of the sun dry up all corrupt matter. Mr Graham tells us that
the dogs of Damascus are brown, blackish, or of an ash colour, and that he
saw no white or spotted specimens. He never saw a case of hydrophobia,
nor did he hear a bark. The dogs "howl, and make noise enough," he
continues, "but the fine, well-defined bow-wow is entirely wanting." With a
quiet humour, he hints at the bark being a mark of the civilised,
domesticated dog, and as denoting, apparently, "the refinement of canine
education." We have been struck with the attempts of Penny's Esquimaux
dogs, deposited by the gallant Arctic mariner in the Zoological Gardens, to
get up a bark somewhat like the "well-bred" dogs in the cages near them.
Mr Graham tells us of the Damascus dogs having established a kind of
police among themselves, and, like the rooks, driving all intruders far from
their district.
Dogs were not always disregarded in the East. Herodotus informs us,[54]
during the Persian occupation the number of Indian dogs kept in the
province of Babylon for the use of the governor was so great, that four
cities were exempted from taxes for maintaining them. In the mountain
parts of India, travellers describe the great dogs of Thibet and Cashmere as
being much prized.
"The domestic dog of Ladak," says Major Cunningham,[55] "is the well-
known shepherd's dog, or Thibetan mastiff. They have shaggy coats,
generally quite black, or black and tan; but I have seen some of a light
brown colour. They are usually ill-tempered to strangers; but I have never
found one that would face a stick, although they can fight well when
attacked. The only peculiarity that I have noticed about them is, that the tail
is nearly always curled upward on to the back, where the hair is displaced
by the constant rubbing of the tail." And that the same massive variety was
also prized in ancient times we know, by a singularly fine, small bas-relief
in baked clay, found in 1849 in the Birs-i-Nimrud, Babylon, by Sir Henry
Rawlinson, which is preserved in the British Museum, to which it was
presented by the late Prince Albert, and an outline of which, reduced one-
half, will convey a good idea to the reader of its form. We may add that this
bas-relief was first noticed and figured, in 1851, in the third edition of a
truly learned and excellent work on "Nineveh and Persepolis," by Mr Vaux
of the British Museum (p. 183). These dogs, then, were nothing else than
powerful rays of the sun dry up all corrupt matter. Mr Graham tells us that
the dogs of Damascus are brown, blackish, or of an ash colour, and that he
saw no white or spotted specimens. He never saw a case of hydrophobia,
nor did he hear a bark. The dogs "howl, and make noise enough," he
continues, "but the fine, well-defined bow-wow is entirely wanting." With a
quiet humour, he hints at the bark being a mark of the civilised,
domesticated dog, and as denoting, apparently, "the refinement of canine
education." We have been struck with the attempts of Penny's Esquimaux
dogs, deposited by the gallant Arctic mariner in the Zoological Gardens, to
get up a bark somewhat like the "well-bred" dogs in the cages near them.
Mr Graham tells us of the Damascus dogs having established a kind of
police among themselves, and, like the rooks, driving all intruders far from
their district.
Dogs were not always disregarded in the East. Herodotus informs us,[54]
during the Persian occupation the number of Indian dogs kept in the
province of Babylon for the use of the governor was so great, that four
cities were exempted from taxes for maintaining them. In the mountain
parts of India, travellers describe the great dogs of Thibet and Cashmere as
being much prized.
"The domestic dog of Ladak," says Major Cunningham,[55] "is the well-
known shepherd's dog, or Thibetan mastiff. They have shaggy coats,
generally quite black, or black and tan; but I have seen some of a light
brown colour. They are usually ill-tempered to strangers; but I have never
found one that would face a stick, although they can fight well when
attacked. The only peculiarity that I have noticed about them is, that the tail
is nearly always curled upward on to the back, where the hair is displaced
by the constant rubbing of the tail." And that the same massive variety was
also prized in ancient times we know, by a singularly fine, small bas-relief
in baked clay, found in 1849 in the Birs-i-Nimrud, Babylon, by Sir Henry
Rawlinson, which is preserved in the British Museum, to which it was
presented by the late Prince Albert, and an outline of which, reduced one-
half, will convey a good idea to the reader of its form. We may add that this
bas-relief was first noticed and figured, in 1851, in the third edition of a
truly learned and excellent work on "Nineveh and Persepolis," by Mr Vaux
of the British Museum (p. 183). These dogs, then, were nothing else than
Page 86
big, "low jowled" Thibetan mastiffs, such as we occasionally see brought
over by some Indian officer; and the use for which they were employed by
the ancient kings and their attendants is strikingly exhibited on some slabs
from a chamber in the north palace of Koujunjik, a part of the great
Nineveh. On some of these slabs, dogs are seen engaged in pulling down
wild asses, deer, and other animals; and they were evidently kept also to
assist in securing nobler game—"the king of beasts;"—the sport of which
animals shows how truly the Assyrian king was named "Nimrod, the mighty
hunter before the Lord."—Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Bishop Blomfield bitten by a Dog.
His natural temperament was quick, and he was fond of authority. "A saying
of Sydney Smith's has been preserved, humorously illustrative of the view
which he took of Bishop Blomfield's character. The bishop had been bitten
by a dog in the calf of the leg, and fearing possible hydrophobia in
consequence, he went, with characteristic promptitude, to have the injured
piece of flesh cut out by a surgeon before he returned home. Two or three
on whom he called were not at home; but, at last, the operation was effected
by the eminent surgeon, Mr Keate. The same evening the bishop was to
have dined with a party where Sydney Smith was a guest. Just before
over by some Indian officer; and the use for which they were employed by
the ancient kings and their attendants is strikingly exhibited on some slabs
from a chamber in the north palace of Koujunjik, a part of the great
Nineveh. On some of these slabs, dogs are seen engaged in pulling down
wild asses, deer, and other animals; and they were evidently kept also to
assist in securing nobler game—"the king of beasts;"—the sport of which
animals shows how truly the Assyrian king was named "Nimrod, the mighty
hunter before the Lord."—Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Bishop Blomfield bitten by a Dog.
His natural temperament was quick, and he was fond of authority. "A saying
of Sydney Smith's has been preserved, humorously illustrative of the view
which he took of Bishop Blomfield's character. The bishop had been bitten
by a dog in the calf of the leg, and fearing possible hydrophobia in
consequence, he went, with characteristic promptitude, to have the injured
piece of flesh cut out by a surgeon before he returned home. Two or three
on whom he called were not at home; but, at last, the operation was effected
by the eminent surgeon, Mr Keate. The same evening the bishop was to
have dined with a party where Sydney Smith was a guest. Just before
Page 87
dinner, a note arrived, saying that he was unable to keep his engagement, a
dog having rushed out from the crowd and bitten him in the leg. When this
note was read aloud to the company, Sydney Smith's comment was, 'I
should like to hear the dog's account of the story.'
"When this accident occurred to him, Bishop Blomfield happened to be
walking with Dr D'Oyly, the rector of Lambeth. A lady of strong Protestant
principles, mistaking Dr D'Oyly for Dr Doyle, said that she considered it
was a judgment upon the bishop for keeping such company."[56]
"Puppies never See till they are Nine Days Old."
It is related, that when a former Bishop of Bristol held the office of Vice-
Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, he one day met a couple of
under-graduates, who neglected to pay the accustomed compliment of
capping. The bishop inquired the reason of the neglect. The two men
begged his lordship's pardon, observing they were freshmen, and did not
know him. "How long have you been in Cambridge?" asked his lordship.
"Only eight days," was the reply. "Very good," said the bishop; "puppies
never see till they are nine days old."[57]
Mrs Elizabeth Barrett Browning's dog Flush.
Few have written so lovingly on the dog as this gifted poetess. Her dog
Flush is described so well that Landseer could paint the creature almost to a
hair. She has entered into the very feeling created in us by this favoured pet
of our race. The beautiful stanzas[58] I have copied give also many little
touches of her autobiography. This gifted lady was long an invalid. She
could enter with rare sympathy into Cowper's attachments to animals. Her
experience of the friendship of Flush is well told in the following lines, so
different from Lord Byron's misanthropic verses on his dog:—
To Flush, my Dog.
Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run
Through her lower nature,
dog having rushed out from the crowd and bitten him in the leg. When this
note was read aloud to the company, Sydney Smith's comment was, 'I
should like to hear the dog's account of the story.'
"When this accident occurred to him, Bishop Blomfield happened to be
walking with Dr D'Oyly, the rector of Lambeth. A lady of strong Protestant
principles, mistaking Dr D'Oyly for Dr Doyle, said that she considered it
was a judgment upon the bishop for keeping such company."[56]
"Puppies never See till they are Nine Days Old."
It is related, that when a former Bishop of Bristol held the office of Vice-
Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, he one day met a couple of
under-graduates, who neglected to pay the accustomed compliment of
capping. The bishop inquired the reason of the neglect. The two men
begged his lordship's pardon, observing they were freshmen, and did not
know him. "How long have you been in Cambridge?" asked his lordship.
"Only eight days," was the reply. "Very good," said the bishop; "puppies
never see till they are nine days old."[57]
Mrs Elizabeth Barrett Browning's dog Flush.
Few have written so lovingly on the dog as this gifted poetess. Her dog
Flush is described so well that Landseer could paint the creature almost to a
hair. She has entered into the very feeling created in us by this favoured pet
of our race. The beautiful stanzas[58] I have copied give also many little
touches of her autobiography. This gifted lady was long an invalid. She
could enter with rare sympathy into Cowper's attachments to animals. Her
experience of the friendship of Flush is well told in the following lines, so
different from Lord Byron's misanthropic verses on his dog:—
To Flush, my Dog.
Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run
Through her lower nature,
Page 88
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!
Like a lady's ringlets brown
Flow thy 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,
Alchemise its dulness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold
With a burnish'd fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting
Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tassell'd ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches.
Yet, my pretty, sporting friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!
Like a lady's ringlets brown
Flow thy 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,
Alchemise its dulness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold
With a burnish'd fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting
Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tassell'd ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches.
Yet, my pretty, sporting friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears
Page 89
And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watch'd beside a bed
Day and night unweary—
Watch'd within a curtain'd room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom,
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses gather'd for a vase
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only waited on,
Knowing that, when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Track'd the hares, and follow'd through
Sunny moor or meadow;
This dog only crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only watch'd in reach
Of a faintly-utter'd speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropp'd upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast
In a tender trouble
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watch'd beside a bed
Day and night unweary—
Watch'd within a curtain'd room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom,
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses gather'd for a vase
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only waited on,
Knowing that, when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Track'd the hares, and follow'd through
Sunny moor or meadow;
This dog only crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only watch'd in reach
Of a faintly-utter'd speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropp'd upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast
In a tender trouble
Page 90
And this dog was satisfied
If a pale, thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping,
Which he push'd his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door,
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly, not scornfully,
Render praise and favour:
With my hand upon his head
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loved me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugar'd milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore to pat thee!
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlet bestead,
If a pale, thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping,
Which he push'd his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door,
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly, not scornfully,
Render praise and favour:
With my hand upon his head
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loved me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugar'd milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore to pat thee!
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlet bestead,
Page 91
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.
Whisker'd cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!
Mock I thee in wishing weal?
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly;
Blessing needs must straighten too;
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
Yet be blessèd to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart., and his dog "Speaker."
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton was very fond of dogs; his son[59] tells an
anecdote of the singular manner in which one of his pets came into his
possession. "He was standing at the door of the House of Commons talking
to a friend, when a beautiful black and tan terrier rushed between them, and
immediately began barking furiously at Mr Joseph Pease, who was
speaking. All the members jumped up, shouting and laughing, while the
officers of the house chased the dog round and round, till at last he took
refuge with Mr Buxton, who, as he could find no traces of an owner, carried
him home. He proved to be quite an original. One of his whims was, that he
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.
Whisker'd cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!
Mock I thee in wishing weal?
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly;
Blessing needs must straighten too;
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
Yet be blessèd to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart., and his dog "Speaker."
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton was very fond of dogs; his son[59] tells an
anecdote of the singular manner in which one of his pets came into his
possession. "He was standing at the door of the House of Commons talking
to a friend, when a beautiful black and tan terrier rushed between them, and
immediately began barking furiously at Mr Joseph Pease, who was
speaking. All the members jumped up, shouting and laughing, while the
officers of the house chased the dog round and round, till at last he took
refuge with Mr Buxton, who, as he could find no traces of an owner, carried
him home. He proved to be quite an original. One of his whims was, that he
Page 92
would never go into the kitchen nor yet into a poor man's cottage; but he
formed a habit of visiting by himself at the country houses in the
neighbourhood of Cromer, and his refined manners and intelligence made
'Speaker' a welcome guest wherever he pleased to go."
Lord Byron and his dog Boatswain.
In November 1808 Lord Byron lost his favourite dog Boatswain; the poor
animal having been seized with a fit of madness, at the commencement of
which so little aware was Byron of the nature of the malady, that he more
than once, with his bare hand, wiped away the slaver from the dog's lips
during the paroxysms. In a letter to his friend Mr Hodson, he thus
announces this event:—"Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of
madness on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness
of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least injury to any one
near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray."
The monument raised by him to this dog—the most memorable tribute of
the kind since the dog's grave, of old, at Salamis—is still a conspicuous
ornament of the gardens of Newstead. The misanthropic verses engraved
upon it may be found among his poems, and the following is the inscription
by which they are introduced:—
"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, November 18,
1805."
The poet Pope, when about the same age as the writer of this inscription,
passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human nature; adding
that "histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of
friends." In a still sadder and bitterer spirit, Lord Byron writes of his
favourite:—
formed a habit of visiting by himself at the country houses in the
neighbourhood of Cromer, and his refined manners and intelligence made
'Speaker' a welcome guest wherever he pleased to go."
Lord Byron and his dog Boatswain.
In November 1808 Lord Byron lost his favourite dog Boatswain; the poor
animal having been seized with a fit of madness, at the commencement of
which so little aware was Byron of the nature of the malady, that he more
than once, with his bare hand, wiped away the slaver from the dog's lips
during the paroxysms. In a letter to his friend Mr Hodson, he thus
announces this event:—"Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of
madness on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness
of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least injury to any one
near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray."
The monument raised by him to this dog—the most memorable tribute of
the kind since the dog's grave, of old, at Salamis—is still a conspicuous
ornament of the gardens of Newstead. The misanthropic verses engraved
upon it may be found among his poems, and the following is the inscription
by which they are introduced:—
"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, November 18,
1805."
The poet Pope, when about the same age as the writer of this inscription,
passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human nature; adding
that "histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of
friends." In a still sadder and bitterer spirit, Lord Byron writes of his
favourite:—
Page 93
"To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies."[60]
Moore relates a story of this dog, indicative, not only of intelligence, but of
a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a
master as Byron. A fox-terrier of his mother's, called Gilpin, was an object
of dislike to Boatswain, who worried him nearly to the death. Gilpin was
sent off and Boatswain was missed for a day. To the surprise of the servants,
towards evening Gilpin and Boatswain were in company, the former led by
the latter, who led him to the kitchen fire, licked him and lavished on him
every possible demonstration of joy. He had been away to fetch him, and
ever after caressed him, and defended him from the attacks of other dogs.
(P. 44.)
"Perchance"—a Lady's reason for so naming her Dog.
A lady had a favourite lap-dog, which she called Perchance. "A singular
name," said somebody, "for a beautiful pet, madam; where did you find
it?"—"Oh," drawled she, "it was named from Byron's dog. You remember
where he says, 'Perchance my dog will howl.'"[61]
Collins the Artist and his dog "Prinny"—a model of "a model."
William Wilkie Collins, after a most graphic account of the companions of
his artist-father's home,[62] notices "one who was ever as ready to offer his
small aid and humble obedience as were any of his superiors, to confer the
benefit of their penetrating advice." I refer to Mr Collins's dog "Prinny"
(Prince). This docile and affectionate animal had been trained by his master
to sit in any attitude, which the introduction of a dog in his picture (a
frequent occurrence) might happen to demand. So strict was "Prinny's"
sense of duty, that he never ventured to move from his set position until his
master's signal gave him permission to approach his chair, when he was
generally rewarded with a lump of sugar, placed, not between his teeth, but
on his nose, where he continued to balance it, until he was desired to throw
it into the air and catch it in his mouth, a feat which he very seldom failed
to perform. On one occasion his extraordinary integrity in the performance
I never knew but one, and here he lies."[60]
Moore relates a story of this dog, indicative, not only of intelligence, but of
a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a
master as Byron. A fox-terrier of his mother's, called Gilpin, was an object
of dislike to Boatswain, who worried him nearly to the death. Gilpin was
sent off and Boatswain was missed for a day. To the surprise of the servants,
towards evening Gilpin and Boatswain were in company, the former led by
the latter, who led him to the kitchen fire, licked him and lavished on him
every possible demonstration of joy. He had been away to fetch him, and
ever after caressed him, and defended him from the attacks of other dogs.
(P. 44.)
"Perchance"—a Lady's reason for so naming her Dog.
A lady had a favourite lap-dog, which she called Perchance. "A singular
name," said somebody, "for a beautiful pet, madam; where did you find
it?"—"Oh," drawled she, "it was named from Byron's dog. You remember
where he says, 'Perchance my dog will howl.'"[61]
Collins the Artist and his dog "Prinny"—a model of "a model."
William Wilkie Collins, after a most graphic account of the companions of
his artist-father's home,[62] notices "one who was ever as ready to offer his
small aid and humble obedience as were any of his superiors, to confer the
benefit of their penetrating advice." I refer to Mr Collins's dog "Prinny"
(Prince). This docile and affectionate animal had been trained by his master
to sit in any attitude, which the introduction of a dog in his picture (a
frequent occurrence) might happen to demand. So strict was "Prinny's"
sense of duty, that he never ventured to move from his set position until his
master's signal gave him permission to approach his chair, when he was
generally rewarded with a lump of sugar, placed, not between his teeth, but
on his nose, where he continued to balance it, until he was desired to throw
it into the air and catch it in his mouth, a feat which he very seldom failed
to perform. On one occasion his extraordinary integrity in the performance
Page 94
of his duties was thus pleasantly exemplified:—"My father had placed him
on the backs of two chairs, his fore-legs on the rails of one, and his hind-
legs on the rails of the other; and in this rather arduous position had painted
from him for a considerable time, when a friend was announced as waiting
for him in another apartment. Particularly desirous of seeing this visitor
immediately, the painter hurried from the room, entirely forgetting to tell
'Prinny' to get down, and remained in conversation with his friend for full
half an hour. On returning to his study the first object that greeted him was
poor 'Prinny,' standing on his 'bad eminence' exactly in the position in
which he had been left, trembling with fatigue, and occasionally vending
his anguish and distress in a low piteous moan, but not moving a limb, or
venturing even to turn his head. Not having received the usual signal he had
never once attempted to get down, but had remained disconsolate in his
position 'sitting' hard, with nobody to paint him, during the long half hour
that had delayed his master's return."
The Soldier and the Mastiff.
A soldier passing through a meadow, a large mastiff ran at him, and he
stabbed the dog with a bayonet. The master of the dog asked him why he
had not rather struck the dog with the butt-end of his weapon? "So I
should," said the soldier, "if he had run at me with his tail!"[63]
Bark and Bite.
Lord Clare, who was much opposed to Curran, one day brought a
Newfoundland dog upon the bench, and during Curran's speech turned
himself aside and caressed the animal. Curran stopped. "Go on, go on, Mr
Curran," said Lord Clare.—"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons," was the
rejoinder. "I really thought your lordship was employed in consultation."[64]
Mrs Drew and the Two Dogs.
(a curiously near approach to moral perception.)
on the backs of two chairs, his fore-legs on the rails of one, and his hind-
legs on the rails of the other; and in this rather arduous position had painted
from him for a considerable time, when a friend was announced as waiting
for him in another apartment. Particularly desirous of seeing this visitor
immediately, the painter hurried from the room, entirely forgetting to tell
'Prinny' to get down, and remained in conversation with his friend for full
half an hour. On returning to his study the first object that greeted him was
poor 'Prinny,' standing on his 'bad eminence' exactly in the position in
which he had been left, trembling with fatigue, and occasionally vending
his anguish and distress in a low piteous moan, but not moving a limb, or
venturing even to turn his head. Not having received the usual signal he had
never once attempted to get down, but had remained disconsolate in his
position 'sitting' hard, with nobody to paint him, during the long half hour
that had delayed his master's return."
The Soldier and the Mastiff.
A soldier passing through a meadow, a large mastiff ran at him, and he
stabbed the dog with a bayonet. The master of the dog asked him why he
had not rather struck the dog with the butt-end of his weapon? "So I
should," said the soldier, "if he had run at me with his tail!"[63]
Bark and Bite.
Lord Clare, who was much opposed to Curran, one day brought a
Newfoundland dog upon the bench, and during Curran's speech turned
himself aside and caressed the animal. Curran stopped. "Go on, go on, Mr
Curran," said Lord Clare.—"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons," was the
rejoinder. "I really thought your lordship was employed in consultation."[64]
Mrs Drew and the Two Dogs.
(a curiously near approach to moral perception.)
Page 95
In the biography of Samuel Drew, A.M., a great name among the
metaphysical writers of this country, we read a very interesting anecdote of
two dogs.
His father, a farmer and mail-carrier in Cornwall, had procured a
Newfoundland dog for protection on his journeys, having been attacked by
highwaymen. There was a smaller dog which had been bred in the house.
The son was living at Poplea, in Cornwall, when the following
circumstance occurred, and he witnessed it:[65]—
"Our dairy was under a room which was used occasionally as a barn and
apple-chamber, into which the fowls sometimes found their way; and, in
scratching among the chaff, scattered the dust on the pans of milk below, to
the great annoyance of my mother-in-law. In this a favourite cock of hers
was the chief transgressor. One day in harvest she went into the dairy,
followed by the little dog, and finding dust again on her milk-pans, she
exclaimed, 'I wish that cock were dead!' Not long after, she being with us in
the harvest field, we observed the little dog dragging along the cock, just
killed, which, with an air of triumph, he laid at my mother-in-law's feet.
Highly exasperated at the literal fulfilment of her hastily-uttered wish, she
snatched a stick from the hedge, and attempted to give the dog a beating.
The luckless animal, seeing the reception he was likely to meet with, where
he expected marks of approbation, left the bird and ran off, she brandishing
her stick, and saying, in a loud angry tone, 'I'll pay thee for this by and by.'
In the evening, when about to put her threat into execution, she found the
little dog established in a corner of the room, and the large one standing
before it. Endeavouring to fulfil her intention by first driving off the large
dog, he gave her plainly to understand that he was not at all disposed to
relinquish his post. She then sought to get at the small dog behind the other,
but the threatening gesture, and fiercer growl of the large one, sufficiently
indicated that the attempt would be not a little perilous. The result was that
she was obliged to abandon her design. In killing the cock I can scarcely
think that the dog understood the precise import of my stepmother's wish,
as his immediate execution of it would seem to imply. The cock was a more
recent favourite, and had received some attentions which had previously
been bestowed upon himself. This, I think, had led him to entertain a feeling
of hostility to the bird, which he did not presume to indulge, until my
mother's tone and manner indicated that the cock was no longer under her
metaphysical writers of this country, we read a very interesting anecdote of
two dogs.
His father, a farmer and mail-carrier in Cornwall, had procured a
Newfoundland dog for protection on his journeys, having been attacked by
highwaymen. There was a smaller dog which had been bred in the house.
The son was living at Poplea, in Cornwall, when the following
circumstance occurred, and he witnessed it:[65]—
"Our dairy was under a room which was used occasionally as a barn and
apple-chamber, into which the fowls sometimes found their way; and, in
scratching among the chaff, scattered the dust on the pans of milk below, to
the great annoyance of my mother-in-law. In this a favourite cock of hers
was the chief transgressor. One day in harvest she went into the dairy,
followed by the little dog, and finding dust again on her milk-pans, she
exclaimed, 'I wish that cock were dead!' Not long after, she being with us in
the harvest field, we observed the little dog dragging along the cock, just
killed, which, with an air of triumph, he laid at my mother-in-law's feet.
Highly exasperated at the literal fulfilment of her hastily-uttered wish, she
snatched a stick from the hedge, and attempted to give the dog a beating.
The luckless animal, seeing the reception he was likely to meet with, where
he expected marks of approbation, left the bird and ran off, she brandishing
her stick, and saying, in a loud angry tone, 'I'll pay thee for this by and by.'
In the evening, when about to put her threat into execution, she found the
little dog established in a corner of the room, and the large one standing
before it. Endeavouring to fulfil her intention by first driving off the large
dog, he gave her plainly to understand that he was not at all disposed to
relinquish his post. She then sought to get at the small dog behind the other,
but the threatening gesture, and fiercer growl of the large one, sufficiently
indicated that the attempt would be not a little perilous. The result was that
she was obliged to abandon her design. In killing the cock I can scarcely
think that the dog understood the precise import of my stepmother's wish,
as his immediate execution of it would seem to imply. The cock was a more
recent favourite, and had received some attentions which had previously
been bestowed upon himself. This, I think, had led him to entertain a feeling
of hostility to the bird, which he did not presume to indulge, until my
mother's tone and manner indicated that the cock was no longer under her
Page 96
protection. In the power of communicating with each other, which these
dogs evidently possess, and which, in some instances, has been displayed
by other species of animals, a faculty seems to be developed of which we
know very little. On the whole, I never remember to have met with a case in
which to human appearance there was a nearer approach to moral
perception than in that of my father's two dogs."
The Difference of Exchange.—"Dog-cheap."
Dining at a nobleman's table, where the company were praising the claret,
his lordship told them that he had received that hogshead of wine in return
for a couple of hounds, which he sometime before presented to Count
Lauragais. "Why, then, my lord," cried Foote, "I not only think your wine
excellent, but dog-cheap."[66]
Gainsborough and his Wife and their Dogs.
Thomas Gainsborough, the rival of Sir Joshua in portraiture, wanted that
evenness of temper which the President of the Royal Academy so
abundantly possessed. He was easily angered, but as soon appeased, and
says his biographer,[67] "If he was the first to offend, he was the first to
atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, a remarkably sweet-tempered
woman, he would write a note of repentance, sign it with the name of his
favourite dog 'Fox,' and address it to his Margaret's pet spaniel, 'Tristram.'
Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly deliver it to Tristram.
Margaret would then answer—'My own dear Fox, you are always loving
and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to worry you, as I too often
do, so we will kiss and say no more about it; your own affectionate Tris.'"
The writers of such a correspondence could not have led what is called "a
cat and dog life." Husbands and wives might derive a hint from this
anecdote; for we know, from the old ballad, that they will be sulky and
quarrel at times even about getting
"Up to bar the door, O!"
Sir William Gell's Dog.
dogs evidently possess, and which, in some instances, has been displayed
by other species of animals, a faculty seems to be developed of which we
know very little. On the whole, I never remember to have met with a case in
which to human appearance there was a nearer approach to moral
perception than in that of my father's two dogs."
The Difference of Exchange.—"Dog-cheap."
Dining at a nobleman's table, where the company were praising the claret,
his lordship told them that he had received that hogshead of wine in return
for a couple of hounds, which he sometime before presented to Count
Lauragais. "Why, then, my lord," cried Foote, "I not only think your wine
excellent, but dog-cheap."[66]
Gainsborough and his Wife and their Dogs.
Thomas Gainsborough, the rival of Sir Joshua in portraiture, wanted that
evenness of temper which the President of the Royal Academy so
abundantly possessed. He was easily angered, but as soon appeased, and
says his biographer,[67] "If he was the first to offend, he was the first to
atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, a remarkably sweet-tempered
woman, he would write a note of repentance, sign it with the name of his
favourite dog 'Fox,' and address it to his Margaret's pet spaniel, 'Tristram.'
Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly deliver it to Tristram.
Margaret would then answer—'My own dear Fox, you are always loving
and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to worry you, as I too often
do, so we will kiss and say no more about it; your own affectionate Tris.'"
The writers of such a correspondence could not have led what is called "a
cat and dog life." Husbands and wives might derive a hint from this
anecdote; for we know, from the old ballad, that they will be sulky and
quarrel at times even about getting
"Up to bar the door, O!"
Sir William Gell's Dog.
Page 97
The reviewer[68] of Sir Thomas Browne's works says—"We ourselves have
witnessed an example of the curious and credulous exaggeration which has
construed certain articulations in animals into rational speech. Some time
since, in travelling through Italy, we heard, in grave earnest, from several
Italians, of the prodigy of a Pomeranian dog that had been taught to speak
most intelligibly by Sir William Gell. Afterwards, in visiting that
accomplished and lamented gentleman at Naples, we requested to hear an
animal possessed of so unusual a gift. And, as the friends of the urban
scholar can bear witness, the dog undoubtedly could utter a howl, which,
assisted by the hand of the master in closing the jaw at certain inflections,
might be intelligibly construed into two words not to be repeated. Such a
dog, with such an anathema in his vocabulary, would have hanged any
witch in England three centuries ago."
Elizabeth, the last Duchess of Gordon, and the Wolf-dog Kaiser.
The Rev. A. Moody Stuart, in his "Life of the last Duchess of Gordon,"[69]
that truly Christian lady, refers to some old pets of the duke's and her own,
which, on her becoming a widow, she took with her from Gordon Castle to
Huntly Lodge, a bullfinch, an immense Talbot mastiff named Sall, and
others. He adds—"To a stranger, the most remarkable of the duke's old
favourites was Kaiser, an Hungarian wolf-dog, with a snow-white fleece,
and most sheep-like aspect in the distance, but at whose appearance out of
doors, man, woman, and child fled as from a wolf. The duchess called him
'The wolf in sheep's clothing.' Her husband's tastes having brought her
much into contact with all sorts of dogs, she had learned to pat them
confidently at their first introduction, when a large space between their eyes
betokened a kindly temper. This open breadth of forehead was strongly
marked in Sall, a fine old mastiff that used at this time to walk round the
dining-room after breakfast, with her noble head reaching the level of the
table. But the duke had chosen Kaiser for other qualities. Two of those
wolf-dogs had been brought to him for sale when travelling on the
Continent; the other was the larger and handsomer animal; but Kaiser's
eyes, sunk deep in the head, and all but meeting under his shaggy hair, at
once fixed his choice on him as 'likest his work.' That work was to defend
the sheep from the wolves, and one mode of defence was by laying a
strange trap for the enemy. The dog was remarkably like a sheep, his hair
witnessed an example of the curious and credulous exaggeration which has
construed certain articulations in animals into rational speech. Some time
since, in travelling through Italy, we heard, in grave earnest, from several
Italians, of the prodigy of a Pomeranian dog that had been taught to speak
most intelligibly by Sir William Gell. Afterwards, in visiting that
accomplished and lamented gentleman at Naples, we requested to hear an
animal possessed of so unusual a gift. And, as the friends of the urban
scholar can bear witness, the dog undoubtedly could utter a howl, which,
assisted by the hand of the master in closing the jaw at certain inflections,
might be intelligibly construed into two words not to be repeated. Such a
dog, with such an anathema in his vocabulary, would have hanged any
witch in England three centuries ago."
Elizabeth, the last Duchess of Gordon, and the Wolf-dog Kaiser.
The Rev. A. Moody Stuart, in his "Life of the last Duchess of Gordon,"[69]
that truly Christian lady, refers to some old pets of the duke's and her own,
which, on her becoming a widow, she took with her from Gordon Castle to
Huntly Lodge, a bullfinch, an immense Talbot mastiff named Sall, and
others. He adds—"To a stranger, the most remarkable of the duke's old
favourites was Kaiser, an Hungarian wolf-dog, with a snow-white fleece,
and most sheep-like aspect in the distance, but at whose appearance out of
doors, man, woman, and child fled as from a wolf. The duchess called him
'The wolf in sheep's clothing.' Her husband's tastes having brought her
much into contact with all sorts of dogs, she had learned to pat them
confidently at their first introduction, when a large space between their eyes
betokened a kindly temper. This open breadth of forehead was strongly
marked in Sall, a fine old mastiff that used at this time to walk round the
dining-room after breakfast, with her noble head reaching the level of the
table. But the duke had chosen Kaiser for other qualities. Two of those
wolf-dogs had been brought to him for sale when travelling on the
Continent; the other was the larger and handsomer animal; but Kaiser's
eyes, sunk deep in the head, and all but meeting under his shaggy hair, at
once fixed his choice on him as 'likest his work.' That work was to defend
the sheep from the wolves, and one mode of defence was by laying a
strange trap for the enemy. The dog was remarkably like a sheep, his hair
Page 98
white without a dark speck, and he carried a great load of it, long and fleecy
like wool. In the Hungarian steppes four or five of those dogs would lay
themselves down on the grass in the evening, sleeping there like so many
harmless lambs, with their faces inward for the heat of each other's breath.
The keen eye of the wolf was soon attracted by the white fleeces, with no
shepherd near to guard them. Eager for blood, he careered swiftly over the
plain, and sprang unsuspecting into the midst of the flock, only to find
himself clenched in the relentless jaws of Kaiser and his comrades, wolves
more terrible than himself under the clothing of timid sheep. A conversation
once took place at the Lodge on the character ascribed to dogs in Scripture.
It slightly vexed the good duchess that they were so often mentioned in the
Bible, but only as emblems of what is foul and fierce, except in a single
instance, and that not of commendation, but neutrality. This exception, she
said, occurred in the Book of Proverbs, where the greyhound is named,
along with the lion and the goat, as 'comely in going,' yet merely in praise
of his external beauty. But her difficulty was relieved by the reply, that in
Isaiah lvi. 10, the "dog" is really used in a good sense as applied to the
spiritual watchmen of the Lord's flock. For the unfaithful shepherds, being
there likened to dumb dogs that cannot bark, were not censured under the
simple image of watch-dogs, but because, as such, they were faithless and
useless; implying that the good watch-dog is an honourable emblem of the
true pastor, watching for the souls committed to his care, and solemnly
warning them of approaching danger."
Frederick the Great and his Italian Greyhounds.
Dr John Moore, when travelling with the Duke of Hamilton, saw and heard
a good deal of Frederick the Great, and has given in his second volume of
"A View of Society and Manners in France," &c., many interesting
particulars of his private and public life. Among these, he alludes to his
using "a very large gold snuff-box, the lid ornamented with diamonds," and
his taking "an immoderate quantity of Spanish snuff, the marks of which
very often appear on his waistcoat and breeches. These are also liable to be
soiled by the paws of two or three Italian greyhounds, which he often
caresses" (vol. ii. p. 236).
like wool. In the Hungarian steppes four or five of those dogs would lay
themselves down on the grass in the evening, sleeping there like so many
harmless lambs, with their faces inward for the heat of each other's breath.
The keen eye of the wolf was soon attracted by the white fleeces, with no
shepherd near to guard them. Eager for blood, he careered swiftly over the
plain, and sprang unsuspecting into the midst of the flock, only to find
himself clenched in the relentless jaws of Kaiser and his comrades, wolves
more terrible than himself under the clothing of timid sheep. A conversation
once took place at the Lodge on the character ascribed to dogs in Scripture.
It slightly vexed the good duchess that they were so often mentioned in the
Bible, but only as emblems of what is foul and fierce, except in a single
instance, and that not of commendation, but neutrality. This exception, she
said, occurred in the Book of Proverbs, where the greyhound is named,
along with the lion and the goat, as 'comely in going,' yet merely in praise
of his external beauty. But her difficulty was relieved by the reply, that in
Isaiah lvi. 10, the "dog" is really used in a good sense as applied to the
spiritual watchmen of the Lord's flock. For the unfaithful shepherds, being
there likened to dumb dogs that cannot bark, were not censured under the
simple image of watch-dogs, but because, as such, they were faithless and
useless; implying that the good watch-dog is an honourable emblem of the
true pastor, watching for the souls committed to his care, and solemnly
warning them of approaching danger."
Frederick the Great and his Italian Greyhounds.
Dr John Moore, when travelling with the Duke of Hamilton, saw and heard
a good deal of Frederick the Great, and has given in his second volume of
"A View of Society and Manners in France," &c., many interesting
particulars of his private and public life. Among these, he alludes to his
using "a very large gold snuff-box, the lid ornamented with diamonds," and
his taking "an immoderate quantity of Spanish snuff, the marks of which
very often appear on his waistcoat and breeches. These are also liable to be
soiled by the paws of two or three Italian greyhounds, which he often
caresses" (vol. ii. p. 236).
Page 99
The Dog and the French Murderers. (an occurrence in the spring of
1837.)
Thomas Raikes,[70] in his Journal 8th March 1837, records:—"Eight years
ago, a labouring man in the department of the Loire was found murdered in
a wood near his house, and his dog sitting near the body. No clue could be
gained to the perpetrators of the crime, and his widow continued to live in
the same cottage, accompanied always by the faithful animal. Last week
two men, apparently travellers, stopped at the house, requesting shelter
from the storm, which was granted; but no sooner had the dog perceived
them, than he flew at them with fury, and could not be pacified. As they
were quitting the house, one of them said to the other, 'That rascally dog has
not forgotten us.' This raised the suspicion of the widow, who overheard it,
and applying to the gendarmes in the neighbourhood, they followed and
arrested them. The result has been that, after a long examination, one of
them has confessed the crime, and impeached his associate."
Hannah More wrote an ode addressed to Garrick's famous house-dog
Dragon. A copy of this she gave to Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1777, while still
unprinted, under an oath neither to take nor give a copy of it, which oath Sir
Joshua had observed (she says) like a true knight, only reading it to his
visitors till some of them learned it by heart. The "charming bagatelle" was
afterwards printed, that posterity might be enabled to wonder what a small
expenditure of wit in metre sufficed to purchase a large modicum of fame
among the blues of that day.[71]
Robert Hall and the Dog.
The eloquent Robert Hall and Dr Leifchild were often in each other's
company when at Bristol, travelling and preaching together at anniversaries
and ordinations. The son and biographer of the latter says:[72]—"I rode with
them from Bristol to Wells, and can now, in imagination, see Mr Hall
smoking and reclining on one seat of the carriage, while my father sat on
the other. I can see Mr Hall descending at a blacksmith's shop to re-light his
1837.)
Thomas Raikes,[70] in his Journal 8th March 1837, records:—"Eight years
ago, a labouring man in the department of the Loire was found murdered in
a wood near his house, and his dog sitting near the body. No clue could be
gained to the perpetrators of the crime, and his widow continued to live in
the same cottage, accompanied always by the faithful animal. Last week
two men, apparently travellers, stopped at the house, requesting shelter
from the storm, which was granted; but no sooner had the dog perceived
them, than he flew at them with fury, and could not be pacified. As they
were quitting the house, one of them said to the other, 'That rascally dog has
not forgotten us.' This raised the suspicion of the widow, who overheard it,
and applying to the gendarmes in the neighbourhood, they followed and
arrested them. The result has been that, after a long examination, one of
them has confessed the crime, and impeached his associate."
Hannah More wrote an ode addressed to Garrick's famous house-dog
Dragon. A copy of this she gave to Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1777, while still
unprinted, under an oath neither to take nor give a copy of it, which oath Sir
Joshua had observed (she says) like a true knight, only reading it to his
visitors till some of them learned it by heart. The "charming bagatelle" was
afterwards printed, that posterity might be enabled to wonder what a small
expenditure of wit in metre sufficed to purchase a large modicum of fame
among the blues of that day.[71]
Robert Hall and the Dog.
The eloquent Robert Hall and Dr Leifchild were often in each other's
company when at Bristol, travelling and preaching together at anniversaries
and ordinations. The son and biographer of the latter says:[72]—"I rode with
them from Bristol to Wells, and can now, in imagination, see Mr Hall
smoking and reclining on one seat of the carriage, while my father sat on
the other. I can see Mr Hall descending at a blacksmith's shop to re-light his
Page 100
pipe, making his way directly to the forge, and jumping aside with
unwonted agility, when a huge dog growled at him. I can recall his look,
when rallied on his agility, after his return to the carriage. 'You seemed
afraid of the dog, sir,' said my father. 'Apostolic advice, sir—Beware of
dogs,' rejoined Mr Hall." Dr Leifchild, in another part of the memoir (p.
360), relates that some housekeeper would exclaim to him, as he was about
to enter the house of friend or stranger, "Don't be afraid of the dog, sir, he
never bites."—"Are you quite sure he never bites?" was his prompt
question.—"Quite sure, sir," rejoined the servant.—"Then," rejoined the
good-humoured doctor, "if he never bites, how does he live?"
A Queen and her Lap-dog.
Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I., on her return to Burlington Bay with
assistance for her husband, was attacked in the house where she slept by the
cannonade of five ships of war belonging to the Parliament. She left the
house amid the whistling of balls, one of which killed one of her servants.
When on her way to the shelter of a ditch, she remembered that an aged lap-
dog, called "Mitte," was left behind. She was much attached to this old
favourite, and returned to the house she had left. Rushing up-stairs into her
chamber, she caught up her old pet, which was reposing on her bed, and
carried her off in safety. Having done this, the queen and her ladies gained
the ditch, and crouched down in it, while the cannon played furiously over
their heads.[73]
The Clever Dog that belonged to the Hunters of Polmood.
The estate of Polmood, in Peeblesshire, was the subject of extraordinary
litigation, and a volume of considerable bulk is devoted to its history. This
work contains much curious evidence from aged country folks in the
western parts of the country. Mr Chambers[74] tells us that in the history
"reminiscences concerning a wonderfully clever dog are put forward as
links in the line of propinquity." The deponent has heard his father say that
Robert Hunter had a remarkable dog called "Algiers;" and that, when
Robert lived at Woodend, he used to tie a napkin round the dog's neck with
money in it, and send him for snuff to Lammington, which is about three
unwonted agility, when a huge dog growled at him. I can recall his look,
when rallied on his agility, after his return to the carriage. 'You seemed
afraid of the dog, sir,' said my father. 'Apostolic advice, sir—Beware of
dogs,' rejoined Mr Hall." Dr Leifchild, in another part of the memoir (p.
360), relates that some housekeeper would exclaim to him, as he was about
to enter the house of friend or stranger, "Don't be afraid of the dog, sir, he
never bites."—"Are you quite sure he never bites?" was his prompt
question.—"Quite sure, sir," rejoined the servant.—"Then," rejoined the
good-humoured doctor, "if he never bites, how does he live?"
A Queen and her Lap-dog.
Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I., on her return to Burlington Bay with
assistance for her husband, was attacked in the house where she slept by the
cannonade of five ships of war belonging to the Parliament. She left the
house amid the whistling of balls, one of which killed one of her servants.
When on her way to the shelter of a ditch, she remembered that an aged lap-
dog, called "Mitte," was left behind. She was much attached to this old
favourite, and returned to the house she had left. Rushing up-stairs into her
chamber, she caught up her old pet, which was reposing on her bed, and
carried her off in safety. Having done this, the queen and her ladies gained
the ditch, and crouched down in it, while the cannon played furiously over
their heads.[73]
The Clever Dog that belonged to the Hunters of Polmood.
The estate of Polmood, in Peeblesshire, was the subject of extraordinary
litigation, and a volume of considerable bulk is devoted to its history. This
work contains much curious evidence from aged country folks in the
western parts of the country. Mr Chambers[74] tells us that in the history
"reminiscences concerning a wonderfully clever dog are put forward as
links in the line of propinquity." The deponent has heard his father say that
Robert Hunter had a remarkable dog called "Algiers;" and that, when
Robert lived at Woodend, he used to tie a napkin round the dog's neck with
money in it, and send him for snuff to Lammington, which is about three
Page 101
miles from Woodend, and that the dog executed his message faithfully, and
prevented everybody from laying hold of or stopping him. Another
venerable deponent, aged eighty-nine, had heard his mother tell many
stories about a dog belonging to Uncle Robert, which went by the name of
"Algiers;" that they used to cut a fleece off him every year sufficient to
make a pair of stockings; and that Uncle Robert used to tie a purse round
his neck, with money in it, and the dog then swam the Tweed, and brought
back tobacco from the Crook! And a third declares that "Algiers" could be
sent to Edinburgh with a letter, and bring back a letter to his master.
The Irish Clergyman and the Dogs.
Mr Fitzpatrick, in his anecdotal memoirs of Archbishop Whately, tells a
story of an eccentric Irish parson. This person, when preaching, was
interrupted in his homily by two dogs, which began to fight in church. He
descended the pulpit, and endeavoured to separate them. On returning to his
place, the clergyman, who was rather an absent man, asked the clerk,
"Where was I a while ago?"—"Wasn't yer Riverence appaising the dogs?"
responded the other.[75]
Washington Irving and the Dog.
Patrick Fraser Tytler, author of "The History of Scotland," in a letter to his
wife in 1830, says—"At Lady Morton's, one evening, I met with
Washington Irving. I had heard him described as a very silent man, who
was always observing others, but seldom opened his lips. Instead of which,
his tongue never lay still; and he gets out more wee wordies in a minute
than any ordinary converser does in five. But I found him a very intelligent
and agreeable man. I put him in mind of his travelling with our dear
Tommy. He had at first no recollection; but I brought it back to his memory
by the incident of the little black dog, who always went before the horses in
pulling up hill, and pretended to assist them. I put him in mind of his own
wit, 'that he wondered if the doggie mistook himself for a horse;' at which
he laughed, and added, 'Yes, and thought it very hard that he was not rubbed
down at the end of the journey.'"[76]
prevented everybody from laying hold of or stopping him. Another
venerable deponent, aged eighty-nine, had heard his mother tell many
stories about a dog belonging to Uncle Robert, which went by the name of
"Algiers;" that they used to cut a fleece off him every year sufficient to
make a pair of stockings; and that Uncle Robert used to tie a purse round
his neck, with money in it, and the dog then swam the Tweed, and brought
back tobacco from the Crook! And a third declares that "Algiers" could be
sent to Edinburgh with a letter, and bring back a letter to his master.
The Irish Clergyman and the Dogs.
Mr Fitzpatrick, in his anecdotal memoirs of Archbishop Whately, tells a
story of an eccentric Irish parson. This person, when preaching, was
interrupted in his homily by two dogs, which began to fight in church. He
descended the pulpit, and endeavoured to separate them. On returning to his
place, the clergyman, who was rather an absent man, asked the clerk,
"Where was I a while ago?"—"Wasn't yer Riverence appaising the dogs?"
responded the other.[75]
Washington Irving and the Dog.
Patrick Fraser Tytler, author of "The History of Scotland," in a letter to his
wife in 1830, says—"At Lady Morton's, one evening, I met with
Washington Irving. I had heard him described as a very silent man, who
was always observing others, but seldom opened his lips. Instead of which,
his tongue never lay still; and he gets out more wee wordies in a minute
than any ordinary converser does in five. But I found him a very intelligent
and agreeable man. I put him in mind of his travelling with our dear
Tommy. He had at first no recollection; but I brought it back to his memory
by the incident of the little black dog, who always went before the horses in
pulling up hill, and pretended to assist them. I put him in mind of his own
wit, 'that he wondered if the doggie mistook himself for a horse;' at which
he laughed, and added, 'Yes, and thought it very hard that he was not rubbed
down at the end of the journey.'"[76]
Page 102
Douglas Jerrold and his Dog.
Jerrold had a favourite dog that followed him everywhere. One day in the
country, a lady, who was passing, turned round and said audibly, "What an
ugly little brute!" Whereupon Jerrold, addressing the lady, replied, "Oh,
madam! I wonder what he thinks about us at this moment."[77]
Sheridan and the Dog.
After witnessing the first representation of a dog-piece by Reynolds, called
the "Caravan," Sheridan suddenly came into the green-room, on purpose, it
was imagined, to wish the author joy. "Where is he?" was the first question;
"where is my guardian angel?"—"Here I am," answered Reynolds.
—"Pooh!" replied Sheridan, "I don't mean you, I mean the dog."[78]
Charles Lamb and his Dog.
Thomas Hood had a dog called "Dash." This dog he gave to Charles Lamb.
The ready-witted Elia often took the creature out with him when walking at
Enfield. On one occasion, the dog dashed off to chase some young sheep.
The owner of the muttons came out quite indignant at the owner, to
expostulate with him on the assault of Lamb's dog on his sheep. Elia, with
his quiet ready wit, replied, "Hunt Lambs, sir?—why, he never hunted me."
[79]
French Dogs, time of Louis XI.—History of his dog "Relais" by Louis
XII.
Horace Walpole, in one of his gossiping letters to the Countess of Ossory in
1781, writes, "You must not be surprised if I should send you a collection of
Tonton's bons-mots. I have found a precedent for such a work. A grave
author wrote a book on the 'Hunt of the Grand Senechal of Normandy,' and
of les Dits du bon chien Souillard, qui fut au Roi Loy de France onzieme du
nom. Louis XII., the reverse of the predecessor of the same name, did not
leave to his historian to celebrate his dog "Relais," but did him the honour
of being his biographer himself; and for a reason that was becoming so
Jerrold had a favourite dog that followed him everywhere. One day in the
country, a lady, who was passing, turned round and said audibly, "What an
ugly little brute!" Whereupon Jerrold, addressing the lady, replied, "Oh,
madam! I wonder what he thinks about us at this moment."[77]
Sheridan and the Dog.
After witnessing the first representation of a dog-piece by Reynolds, called
the "Caravan," Sheridan suddenly came into the green-room, on purpose, it
was imagined, to wish the author joy. "Where is he?" was the first question;
"where is my guardian angel?"—"Here I am," answered Reynolds.
—"Pooh!" replied Sheridan, "I don't mean you, I mean the dog."[78]
Charles Lamb and his Dog.
Thomas Hood had a dog called "Dash." This dog he gave to Charles Lamb.
The ready-witted Elia often took the creature out with him when walking at
Enfield. On one occasion, the dog dashed off to chase some young sheep.
The owner of the muttons came out quite indignant at the owner, to
expostulate with him on the assault of Lamb's dog on his sheep. Elia, with
his quiet ready wit, replied, "Hunt Lambs, sir?—why, he never hunted me."
[79]
French Dogs, time of Louis XI.—History of his dog "Relais" by Louis
XII.
Horace Walpole, in one of his gossiping letters to the Countess of Ossory in
1781, writes, "You must not be surprised if I should send you a collection of
Tonton's bons-mots. I have found a precedent for such a work. A grave
author wrote a book on the 'Hunt of the Grand Senechal of Normandy,' and
of les Dits du bon chien Souillard, qui fut au Roi Loy de France onzieme du
nom. Louis XII., the reverse of the predecessor of the same name, did not
leave to his historian to celebrate his dog "Relais," but did him the honour
of being his biographer himself; and for a reason that was becoming so
Page 103
excellent a king. It was pour animer les descendans d'un si brave chien à se
rendre aussi bons que lui, et encore meilleurs. It was great pity the Cardinal
d'Amboise had no bastard puppies, or, to be sure, his Majesty would have
written his Prime Minister's life too, for a model to his successors."[80]
Martin Luther observes a Dog at Lintz.
In the "Table Talk" of Martin Luther, it is recorded:—"I saw a dog at Lintz,
in Austria, that was taught to go with a hand-basket to the butchers'
shambles for meat. When other dogs came about him, and sought to take
the meat out of the basket, he set it down and fought lustily with them; but
when he saw they were too strong for him, he himself would snatch out the
first piece of meat, lest he should lose all. Even so does now our Emperor
Charles; who, after having long protected spiritual benefices, seeing that
every prince takes possession of monasteries, himself takes possession of
bishoprics, as just now he has seized upon those of Utrecht and Liège."[81]
The Poor Dog at the Grotta del Cane.
Henry Matthews,[82] like other visitors of Naples, went to the celebrated
Grotta del Cane, or Dog Grotto, on the borders of Lake Agnano, so called
from the vapour in the cave, destructive to animal life, being shown by
means of a dog. In his diary, of March 3, 1818, he records:—"Travellers
have made a great display of sensibility in their strictures upon the spectacle
exhibited here; but to all appearance the dog did not care much about it. It
may be said, with truth of him, that he is used to it; for he dies many times a
day, and he went to the place of execution wagging his tail. He became
insensible in two minutes; but upon being laid on the grass, he revived from
his trance in a few seconds, without the process of immersion in the lake,
which is generally mentioned as necessary to his recovery. From the
voracity with which he bolted down a loaf of bread which I bought for him,
the vapour does not seem to injure the animal functions. Addison seems to
have been very particular in his experiments upon the vapour of this cavern.
He found that a pistol would not take fire in it; but upon laying a train of
gunpowder, and igniting it beyond the sphere of the vapour, he found that it
could not intercept the train of fire when it had once begun flashing, nor
rendre aussi bons que lui, et encore meilleurs. It was great pity the Cardinal
d'Amboise had no bastard puppies, or, to be sure, his Majesty would have
written his Prime Minister's life too, for a model to his successors."[80]
Martin Luther observes a Dog at Lintz.
In the "Table Talk" of Martin Luther, it is recorded:—"I saw a dog at Lintz,
in Austria, that was taught to go with a hand-basket to the butchers'
shambles for meat. When other dogs came about him, and sought to take
the meat out of the basket, he set it down and fought lustily with them; but
when he saw they were too strong for him, he himself would snatch out the
first piece of meat, lest he should lose all. Even so does now our Emperor
Charles; who, after having long protected spiritual benefices, seeing that
every prince takes possession of monasteries, himself takes possession of
bishoprics, as just now he has seized upon those of Utrecht and Liège."[81]
The Poor Dog at the Grotta del Cane.
Henry Matthews,[82] like other visitors of Naples, went to the celebrated
Grotta del Cane, or Dog Grotto, on the borders of Lake Agnano, so called
from the vapour in the cave, destructive to animal life, being shown by
means of a dog. In his diary, of March 3, 1818, he records:—"Travellers
have made a great display of sensibility in their strictures upon the spectacle
exhibited here; but to all appearance the dog did not care much about it. It
may be said, with truth of him, that he is used to it; for he dies many times a
day, and he went to the place of execution wagging his tail. He became
insensible in two minutes; but upon being laid on the grass, he revived from
his trance in a few seconds, without the process of immersion in the lake,
which is generally mentioned as necessary to his recovery. From the
voracity with which he bolted down a loaf of bread which I bought for him,
the vapour does not seem to injure the animal functions. Addison seems to
have been very particular in his experiments upon the vapour of this cavern.
He found that a pistol would not take fire in it; but upon laying a train of
gunpowder, and igniting it beyond the sphere of the vapour, he found that it
could not intercept the train of fire when it had once begun flashing, nor
Page 104
hinder it from running to the very end. He subjected a dog to a second trial
in order to ascertain whether he was longer in expiring the first than the
second time; and he found there was no sensible difference. A viper bore it
nine minutes the first time he put it in, and ten minutes the second; and he
attributes the prolonged duration of the second trial to the large provision of
air that the viper laid in after his first death, upon which stock he supposes
it to have existed a minute longer the second time."
Dog, a Postman and Carrier.
Robert Southey says, that "near Moffat a dog used for many years to meet
the mail and receive the letters for a little post-town near."[83]
How often may you see a dog carrying a basket or a parcel. No enticement,
even of a dog-friend or of a great bone, will induce this faithful servant to
abandon his charge. Every one must have observed this.
Dog-matic.
In the great dispute between South and Sherlock, the latter, who was a great
courtier, said—"His adversary reasoned well, but he barked like a cur." To
which the other replied, "That fawning was the property of a cur as well as
barking."[84]
General Moreau and his Greyhound.
"The day after the battle of Dresden (27th Aug. 1812), a greyhound was
brought to the King of Saxony, the ally of Napoleon. The dog was moaning
piteously. On the collar were engraved the words, 'I belong to the General
Moreau.' Where was the dog's master? By the side of the Emperor
Alexander. Moreau had been mortally wounded. The dog had remained
with his master until his death. While Moreau was conversing with the
Emperor Alexander a cannon-shot nearly carried off both his legs. It is said
that throughout the five days during which he lingered he uttered not a
murmur of pain."[85]
in order to ascertain whether he was longer in expiring the first than the
second time; and he found there was no sensible difference. A viper bore it
nine minutes the first time he put it in, and ten minutes the second; and he
attributes the prolonged duration of the second trial to the large provision of
air that the viper laid in after his first death, upon which stock he supposes
it to have existed a minute longer the second time."
Dog, a Postman and Carrier.
Robert Southey says, that "near Moffat a dog used for many years to meet
the mail and receive the letters for a little post-town near."[83]
How often may you see a dog carrying a basket or a parcel. No enticement,
even of a dog-friend or of a great bone, will induce this faithful servant to
abandon his charge. Every one must have observed this.
Dog-matic.
In the great dispute between South and Sherlock, the latter, who was a great
courtier, said—"His adversary reasoned well, but he barked like a cur." To
which the other replied, "That fawning was the property of a cur as well as
barking."[84]
General Moreau and his Greyhound.
"The day after the battle of Dresden (27th Aug. 1812), a greyhound was
brought to the King of Saxony, the ally of Napoleon. The dog was moaning
piteously. On the collar were engraved the words, 'I belong to the General
Moreau.' Where was the dog's master? By the side of the Emperor
Alexander. Moreau had been mortally wounded. The dog had remained
with his master until his death. While Moreau was conversing with the
Emperor Alexander a cannon-shot nearly carried off both his legs. It is said
that throughout the five days during which he lingered he uttered not a
murmur of pain."[85]
Page 105
At the battle of Solferino, where rifled cannon were first brought to bear in
warfare, a dog excited great attention by its attachment to the body of its
slain master. It became the chief object in a painting of the circumstance,
from which an engraving was executed.
A Duke of Norfolk and his Spaniels.
In Southey's "Common-place Book," 4th ser. p. 479, he writes—"Our
Marlborough and King James's spaniels are unrivalled in beauty. The latter
breed (black and tan, with hair almost approaching to silk in fineness, such
as Vandyke loved to introduce into his portraits) were solely in the
possession of the late Duke of Norfolk. He never travelled without two of
his favourites in the carriage. When at Worksop he used to feed his eagles
with the pups; and a stranger to his exclusive pride in the race, seeing him
one day employed in thus destroying a whole litter, told his grace how
much he should be delighted to possess one of them. The duke's reply was a
characteristic one. 'Pray, sir, which of my estates should you like to have?'"
There are shepherds who possess collies, such proud, useful servants and
friends, that no bribe would induce them to part with them. But what old
favourite dog or even bird is there that any one would part with? Man, be he
scavenger or duke, is very similar in this species of attachment.
Lord North and the Dog.
In several of the caricatures published about the year 1783, when Fox and
Burke had joined Lord North, and helped to form what is called the
Coalition Ministry, a dog is represented. This, says Mr Wright,[86] is said to
be an allusion to an occurrence in the House of Commons. During the last
defensive declamation of Lord North, on the eve of his resignation, a dog,
which had concealed itself under the benches, came out and set up a
hideous howling in the midst of his harangue. The house was thrown into a
roar of laughter, which continued until the intruder was turned out; and then
Lord North coolly observed, "As the new member has ended his argument,
I beg to be allowed to continue mine."
warfare, a dog excited great attention by its attachment to the body of its
slain master. It became the chief object in a painting of the circumstance,
from which an engraving was executed.
A Duke of Norfolk and his Spaniels.
In Southey's "Common-place Book," 4th ser. p. 479, he writes—"Our
Marlborough and King James's spaniels are unrivalled in beauty. The latter
breed (black and tan, with hair almost approaching to silk in fineness, such
as Vandyke loved to introduce into his portraits) were solely in the
possession of the late Duke of Norfolk. He never travelled without two of
his favourites in the carriage. When at Worksop he used to feed his eagles
with the pups; and a stranger to his exclusive pride in the race, seeing him
one day employed in thus destroying a whole litter, told his grace how
much he should be delighted to possess one of them. The duke's reply was a
characteristic one. 'Pray, sir, which of my estates should you like to have?'"
There are shepherds who possess collies, such proud, useful servants and
friends, that no bribe would induce them to part with them. But what old
favourite dog or even bird is there that any one would part with? Man, be he
scavenger or duke, is very similar in this species of attachment.
Lord North and the Dog.
In several of the caricatures published about the year 1783, when Fox and
Burke had joined Lord North, and helped to form what is called the
Coalition Ministry, a dog is represented. This, says Mr Wright,[86] is said to
be an allusion to an occurrence in the House of Commons. During the last
defensive declamation of Lord North, on the eve of his resignation, a dog,
which had concealed itself under the benches, came out and set up a
hideous howling in the midst of his harangue. The house was thrown into a
roar of laughter, which continued until the intruder was turned out; and then
Lord North coolly observed, "As the new member has ended his argument,
I beg to be allowed to continue mine."
Page 106
Perthes derives Hints From his Dog.
In a letter, written when he first came to Gotha, Perthes, the publisher, says
—"Do not laugh if I tell you that my dog has given me many a hint upon
human nature. I never before had a dog constantly with me, and I now ask
myself whether the poodle be not a man, and men poodles. I am not led to
this thought by the animal propensities which we have in common, such as
eating, drinking, &c., but by those of a more refined character. He too is
cheerful and dejected, excited and supine, playful and morose, gentle and
bold, caressing and snappish, patient and refractory; just like us men in all
things, even in his dreams! This likeness is not to me at all discouraging; on
the contrary, it suggests a pleasing hope that this flesh and blood which
plagues and fetters us, is not the real man, but merely the earthly clothing
which will be cast off when he no longer belongs to earth, provided he has
not sinfully chosen to identify himself with the merely material. The devil's
chief seat is not in matter but in the mind, where he fosters pride,
selfishness, and hatred, and by their means destroys not what is transitory
but what is eternal in man."[87]
Peter the Great and his favourite dog Lisette.
Mr Stœhlin[88] relates the following anecdote of the Czar Peter, on the
authority of Miss Anne Cramer, the chambermaid to the empress. In the
cabinet of natural history of the academy at St Petersburg, is preserved,
among a number of uncommon animals, Lisette, the favourite dog of the
Russian monarch. She was a small, dun-coloured Italian greyhound, and
very fond of her master, whom she never quitted but when he went out, and
then she laid herself down on his couch. At his return she showed her
fondness by a thousand caresses, followed him wherever he went, and
during his afternoon nap lay always at his feet.
A person belonging to the court, having excited the anger of the czar—I do
not know by what means—was confined in the fort, and there was reason to
suppose that he would receive the punishment of the knout on the first
market-day. The whole court, and the empress herself, thought him
innocent, and considered the anger of the czar as excessive and unjust.
Every means was tried to save him, and the first opportunity taken to
In a letter, written when he first came to Gotha, Perthes, the publisher, says
—"Do not laugh if I tell you that my dog has given me many a hint upon
human nature. I never before had a dog constantly with me, and I now ask
myself whether the poodle be not a man, and men poodles. I am not led to
this thought by the animal propensities which we have in common, such as
eating, drinking, &c., but by those of a more refined character. He too is
cheerful and dejected, excited and supine, playful and morose, gentle and
bold, caressing and snappish, patient and refractory; just like us men in all
things, even in his dreams! This likeness is not to me at all discouraging; on
the contrary, it suggests a pleasing hope that this flesh and blood which
plagues and fetters us, is not the real man, but merely the earthly clothing
which will be cast off when he no longer belongs to earth, provided he has
not sinfully chosen to identify himself with the merely material. The devil's
chief seat is not in matter but in the mind, where he fosters pride,
selfishness, and hatred, and by their means destroys not what is transitory
but what is eternal in man."[87]
Peter the Great and his favourite dog Lisette.
Mr Stœhlin[88] relates the following anecdote of the Czar Peter, on the
authority of Miss Anne Cramer, the chambermaid to the empress. In the
cabinet of natural history of the academy at St Petersburg, is preserved,
among a number of uncommon animals, Lisette, the favourite dog of the
Russian monarch. She was a small, dun-coloured Italian greyhound, and
very fond of her master, whom she never quitted but when he went out, and
then she laid herself down on his couch. At his return she showed her
fondness by a thousand caresses, followed him wherever he went, and
during his afternoon nap lay always at his feet.
A person belonging to the court, having excited the anger of the czar—I do
not know by what means—was confined in the fort, and there was reason to
suppose that he would receive the punishment of the knout on the first
market-day. The whole court, and the empress herself, thought him
innocent, and considered the anger of the czar as excessive and unjust.
Every means was tried to save him, and the first opportunity taken to
Page 107
intercede in his favour. But, so far from succeeding, it served only to irritate
the emperor the more, who forbade all persons, even the empress, to speak
for the prisoner, and, above all, to present any petition on the subject, under
the pain of incurring his highest displeasure.
It was supposed that no resource remained to save the culprit. However,
those who in concert with the czarina interested themselves in his favour,
devised the means of urging their suit without incurring the penalty of the
prohibition.
They composed a short but pathetic petition, in the name of Lisette. After
having set forth her uncommon fidelity to her master, she adduced the
strongest proofs of innocence of the prisoner, entreated the czar to take the
matter into consideration, and to be propitious to her prayer, by granting
him his liberty.
This petition was tied to her collar, in such a manner as to be easily visible.
On the czar's return from the Admiralty and Senate, Lisette, as usual, came
leaping about him; and he perceived the paper, folded in the form of a
petition. He took, and read it—"What!" said he; "Lisette, do you also
present me petitions? Well, as it is the first time, I grant your prayer." He
immediately sent a denthtchick[89] to the fort, with orders to set the prisoner
at liberty.
The Light Company's Poodle and Sir F. Ponsonby.
Captain Gronow, in his gossiping book,[90] says—"Every regiment has a pet
of some sort or another. One distinguished Highland regiment possesses a
deer; the Welsh Fusiliers a goat, which is the object of their peculiar
affection, and which generally marches with the band. The light company
of my battalion of the 1st Guards in 1813 rejoiced in a very handsome
poodle, which, if I mistake not, had been made prisoner at Vittoria. At the
commencement of the battle of the 9th of December 1813, near the mayor's
house, not far from Bidart, we observed the gallant Frederick Ponsonby
well in front with the skirmishers, and by the side of his horse the soldiers'
poodle. The colonel was encouraging our men to advance, and the poodle,
in great glee, was jumping and barking at the bullets, as they flew round
the emperor the more, who forbade all persons, even the empress, to speak
for the prisoner, and, above all, to present any petition on the subject, under
the pain of incurring his highest displeasure.
It was supposed that no resource remained to save the culprit. However,
those who in concert with the czarina interested themselves in his favour,
devised the means of urging their suit without incurring the penalty of the
prohibition.
They composed a short but pathetic petition, in the name of Lisette. After
having set forth her uncommon fidelity to her master, she adduced the
strongest proofs of innocence of the prisoner, entreated the czar to take the
matter into consideration, and to be propitious to her prayer, by granting
him his liberty.
This petition was tied to her collar, in such a manner as to be easily visible.
On the czar's return from the Admiralty and Senate, Lisette, as usual, came
leaping about him; and he perceived the paper, folded in the form of a
petition. He took, and read it—"What!" said he; "Lisette, do you also
present me petitions? Well, as it is the first time, I grant your prayer." He
immediately sent a denthtchick[89] to the fort, with orders to set the prisoner
at liberty.
The Light Company's Poodle and Sir F. Ponsonby.
Captain Gronow, in his gossiping book,[90] says—"Every regiment has a pet
of some sort or another. One distinguished Highland regiment possesses a
deer; the Welsh Fusiliers a goat, which is the object of their peculiar
affection, and which generally marches with the band. The light company
of my battalion of the 1st Guards in 1813 rejoiced in a very handsome
poodle, which, if I mistake not, had been made prisoner at Vittoria. At the
commencement of the battle of the 9th of December 1813, near the mayor's
house, not far from Bidart, we observed the gallant Frederick Ponsonby
well in front with the skirmishers, and by the side of his horse the soldiers'
poodle. The colonel was encouraging our men to advance, and the poodle,
in great glee, was jumping and barking at the bullets, as they flew round
Page 108
him like hail. On a sudden we observed Ponsonby struggling with a French
mounted officer, whom he had already disarmed, and was endeavouring to
lead off to our lines; when the French skirmishers, whose numbers had
increased, fired several shots, and wounded Ponsonby, forcing him to
relinquish his prisoner, and to retire. At the same time, a bullet broke one of
the poor dog's legs. For his gallant conduct in this affair, the poodle became,
if possible, a still greater favourite than he was before; and his friends, the
men of the light company, took him to England, where I saw my three-
legged friend for several years afterwards, the most prosperous of poodles,
and the happiest of the canine race."
Admiral Rodney and his dog Loup.
Earl Stanhope, in his History,[91] remarks—"To those who love to trace the
lesser lights and shades of human character, I shall owe no apology if I
venture to record of the conqueror of De Grasse, that even in his busiest
hours he could turn some kindly thoughts not only to his family and friends,
but to his dog in England. That dog, named Loup, was of the French fox-
breed, and so attached to his master, that when the admiral left home to take
the command of his fleet, the faithful animal remained for three days in his
chamber, watching his coat, and refusing food. The affection was warmly
returned. On many more than one occasion we find Rodney wrote much as
follows to his wife—'Remember me to my dear girls and my faithful friend
Loup; I know you will kiss him for me.'"[92]
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal.
George Chalmers, in his Life of the learned Thomas Ruddiman,[93] tells us
that "young Ruddiman was initiated in grammar at the parish-school of
Boyndie, in Banffshire, which was distant a mile from his father's dwelling;
and which was then taught by George Morison, whom his pupil always
praised for his attention and his skill. To this school the boy walked every
morning, carrying his daily provisions with him. He is said to have been
daily accompanied by a dog, which, when he had proceeded to the top of
Tooting-hillock, the halfway resting-place, always returned home after
partaking of his victuals. This story is still (1794) remembered, as if there
mounted officer, whom he had already disarmed, and was endeavouring to
lead off to our lines; when the French skirmishers, whose numbers had
increased, fired several shots, and wounded Ponsonby, forcing him to
relinquish his prisoner, and to retire. At the same time, a bullet broke one of
the poor dog's legs. For his gallant conduct in this affair, the poodle became,
if possible, a still greater favourite than he was before; and his friends, the
men of the light company, took him to England, where I saw my three-
legged friend for several years afterwards, the most prosperous of poodles,
and the happiest of the canine race."
Admiral Rodney and his dog Loup.
Earl Stanhope, in his History,[91] remarks—"To those who love to trace the
lesser lights and shades of human character, I shall owe no apology if I
venture to record of the conqueror of De Grasse, that even in his busiest
hours he could turn some kindly thoughts not only to his family and friends,
but to his dog in England. That dog, named Loup, was of the French fox-
breed, and so attached to his master, that when the admiral left home to take
the command of his fleet, the faithful animal remained for three days in his
chamber, watching his coat, and refusing food. The affection was warmly
returned. On many more than one occasion we find Rodney wrote much as
follows to his wife—'Remember me to my dear girls and my faithful friend
Loup; I know you will kiss him for me.'"[92]
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal.
George Chalmers, in his Life of the learned Thomas Ruddiman,[93] tells us
that "young Ruddiman was initiated in grammar at the parish-school of
Boyndie, in Banffshire, which was distant a mile from his father's dwelling;
and which was then taught by George Morison, whom his pupil always
praised for his attention and his skill. To this school the boy walked every
morning, carrying his daily provisions with him. He is said to have been
daily accompanied by a dog, which, when he had proceeded to the top of
Tooting-hillock, the halfway resting-place, always returned home after
partaking of his victuals. This story is still (1794) remembered, as if there
Page 109
were in it something supernatural. We may suppose, however, that the
excursion was equally agreeable to both parties; and when it was once
known that the dog was to eat at a particular place at a stated hour, an
appropriate allowance was constantly made for him. Whether Ruddiman
had a natural fondness for dogs, or whether a particular attachment began,
when impressions are easily made, which are long remembered, cannot now
be ascertained. He certainly, throughout a long life, had a succession of
dogs, which were invariably called Rascal; and which, being springing
spaniels, ever accompanied him in all his walks. He used, with affectionate
recollection, to entertain his friends with stories of dogs, which all tended to
show the fidelity of that useful animal to man."
Mrs Schimmelpenninck, authoress of "Select Memoirs of Port Royal," died
in 1856. Her interesting Autobiography and Life were published in 1858 by
her relation, Christiana C. Hankin. In p. 467 it is remarked that "her love of
animals formed quite a feature in her daily habits. Like St Francis, she
delighted to attract the little birds, by tempting them with dainty food upon
her verandah; and it was a positive pleasure to her to watch their feast. She
had a bag made, which was always filled with oats, to regale any stray
horse or ass; and she has been seen surrounded by four goats, each standing
on its hind legs, with its uplifted front feet resting on her, and all eagerly
claiming the salt she had prepared for them. But her great delight was in
dogs. She never forgot those sad hours in childhood, when, unable to mix in
the sports of children from illness (perhaps, too, from her want of sympathy
in the usual pleasures of that age), the beautiful dogs at Barr were her
companions and friends.
"It is no figure of speech to say that she had a large acquaintance amongst
the dogs at Clifton. She always carried a pocketful of biscuit to feed them;
and she had a canine friend who for years was in the daily habit of waiting
at her door to accompany her morning walk, after which he received his
little portion of biscuit, and returned to his home. Timid as Mrs
Schimmelpenninck was by nature and by habit, she had no idea of personal
fear of animals, and especially of dogs. I have seen her go up without
hesitation to some splendid specimen of the race, of which everybody else
excursion was equally agreeable to both parties; and when it was once
known that the dog was to eat at a particular place at a stated hour, an
appropriate allowance was constantly made for him. Whether Ruddiman
had a natural fondness for dogs, or whether a particular attachment began,
when impressions are easily made, which are long remembered, cannot now
be ascertained. He certainly, throughout a long life, had a succession of
dogs, which were invariably called Rascal; and which, being springing
spaniels, ever accompanied him in all his walks. He used, with affectionate
recollection, to entertain his friends with stories of dogs, which all tended to
show the fidelity of that useful animal to man."
Mrs Schimmelpenninck, authoress of "Select Memoirs of Port Royal," died
in 1856. Her interesting Autobiography and Life were published in 1858 by
her relation, Christiana C. Hankin. In p. 467 it is remarked that "her love of
animals formed quite a feature in her daily habits. Like St Francis, she
delighted to attract the little birds, by tempting them with dainty food upon
her verandah; and it was a positive pleasure to her to watch their feast. She
had a bag made, which was always filled with oats, to regale any stray
horse or ass; and she has been seen surrounded by four goats, each standing
on its hind legs, with its uplifted front feet resting on her, and all eagerly
claiming the salt she had prepared for them. But her great delight was in
dogs. She never forgot those sad hours in childhood, when, unable to mix in
the sports of children from illness (perhaps, too, from her want of sympathy
in the usual pleasures of that age), the beautiful dogs at Barr were her
companions and friends.
"It is no figure of speech to say that she had a large acquaintance amongst
the dogs at Clifton. She always carried a pocketful of biscuit to feed them;
and she had a canine friend who for years was in the daily habit of waiting
at her door to accompany her morning walk, after which he received his
little portion of biscuit, and returned to his home. Timid as Mrs
Schimmelpenninck was by nature and by habit, she had no idea of personal
fear of animals, and especially of dogs. I have seen her go up without
hesitation to some splendid specimen of the race, of which everybody else
Page 110
was afraid, to stroke him, or offer food; when the noble creature, with that
fine perception often so remarkably manifested by dogs and children, would
look up in her face, and then return her caress, and crouch down at her feet
in love and confidence. Her own two beautiful little spaniels were her
constant companions in her walks; their happy gambols were always a
source of pleasure."[94]
Sir Walter Scott loved dogs dearly. In his novels and poetical works his
knowledge of them and his regard often appear. He loved them, from the
stately deerhound to the wiry terrier. He was quite up to the ways of their
education. Dandie Dinmont, in "Guy Mannering," speaking of his terriers,
says, "I had them a' regularly entered, first wi' rottens, then wi' stots and
weasels, and then wi' the tods and brocks, and now they fear naething that
ever comes wi' a hairy skin on't." Then, again, read Washington Irving's
description of his visit to Abbotsford, and how, on Scott taking him out for
a walk, a host of his dogs attended, evidently as a matter of course. He often
spoke to them during the walk. The American author was struck with the
stately gravity of the noble staghound Maida, while the younger dogs
gambolled about him, and tried to get him to gambol. Maida would
occasionally turn round suddenly, and give one of the playful creatures a
tumble, and look at Scott and Irving, as much as to say, "You see,
gentlemen, I cannot help giving way to this nonsense;" when on he would
go as grave as ever. "I make no doubt," said Scott to his companion, "when
Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throws gravity aside, and plays
the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to do so in our company,
and seems to say, "Ha' done with your nonsense, youngsters; what will the
laird and that other gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?" A
little volume might almost be made on Sir Walter Scott and his dogs.
Wilkie, Allan, and especially Sir Edwin Landseer, have handed down to us
the portraits of many of them. His works, and biography by Lockhart, and
the writings of his many visitors, would afford many an interesting extract.
Sheridan on the Dog-Tax.
fine perception often so remarkably manifested by dogs and children, would
look up in her face, and then return her caress, and crouch down at her feet
in love and confidence. Her own two beautiful little spaniels were her
constant companions in her walks; their happy gambols were always a
source of pleasure."[94]
Sir Walter Scott loved dogs dearly. In his novels and poetical works his
knowledge of them and his regard often appear. He loved them, from the
stately deerhound to the wiry terrier. He was quite up to the ways of their
education. Dandie Dinmont, in "Guy Mannering," speaking of his terriers,
says, "I had them a' regularly entered, first wi' rottens, then wi' stots and
weasels, and then wi' the tods and brocks, and now they fear naething that
ever comes wi' a hairy skin on't." Then, again, read Washington Irving's
description of his visit to Abbotsford, and how, on Scott taking him out for
a walk, a host of his dogs attended, evidently as a matter of course. He often
spoke to them during the walk. The American author was struck with the
stately gravity of the noble staghound Maida, while the younger dogs
gambolled about him, and tried to get him to gambol. Maida would
occasionally turn round suddenly, and give one of the playful creatures a
tumble, and look at Scott and Irving, as much as to say, "You see,
gentlemen, I cannot help giving way to this nonsense;" when on he would
go as grave as ever. "I make no doubt," said Scott to his companion, "when
Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throws gravity aside, and plays
the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to do so in our company,
and seems to say, "Ha' done with your nonsense, youngsters; what will the
laird and that other gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?" A
little volume might almost be made on Sir Walter Scott and his dogs.
Wilkie, Allan, and especially Sir Edwin Landseer, have handed down to us
the portraits of many of them. His works, and biography by Lockhart, and
the writings of his many visitors, would afford many an interesting extract.
Sheridan on the Dog-Tax.
Page 111
In 1796, a tax, which caused great discontent and ridicule, was laid for the
first time upon dogs. Mr Wright, in his "England under the House of
Hanover," says—"The debates on this tax in the House of Commons appear
to have been extremely amusing. In opposing the motion to go into
committee, Sheridan objected that the bill was most curiously worded, as it
was, in the first instance, entitled, 'A bill for the protection of his Majesty's
subjects against dogs.' 'From these words,' he said, 'one would imagine that
dogs had been guilty of burglary, though he believed they were a better
protection to their masters' property than watchmen.' After having
entertained the House with some stories about mad dogs, and giving a
discourse upon dogs in general, he asked, 'Since there was an exception in
favour of puppies, at what age they were to be taxed, and how the exact age
was to be ascertained?' The Secretary at War, who spoke against the bill,
said, 'It would be wrong to destroy in the poor that virtuous feeling which
they had for their dog.' In committee, Mr Lechmere called the attention of
the House to ladies' 'lap-dogs.' He knew a lady who had sixteen lap-dogs,
and who allowed them a roast shoulder of veal every day for dinner, while
many poor persons were starving; was it not, therefore, right to tax lap-dogs
very high? He knew another lady who kept one favourite dog, when well,
on Savoy biscuits soaked in Burgundy, and when ailing (by the advice of a
doctor) on minced chicken and sweetbread! Among the caricatures on this
subject, one by Gillray (of which there were imitations) represented Fox
and his friends, hanged upon a gallows, as 'dogs not worth a tax;' while the
supporters of Government, among whom is Burke, with 'G. R.' on his collar,
are ranged as well-fed dogs 'paid for.'"[95]
Sydney Smith dislikes Dogs.
an ingenious way of getting rid of them.
Lady Holland tells us[96] that her father, the witty canon of St Paul's,
disliked dogs. "During one of his visits to London, at a dinner at Spencer
House, the conversation turned upon dogs. 'Oh,' said my father, 'one of the
greatest difficulties I have had with my parishioners has been on the subject
of dogs.'—'How so?' said Lord Spencer.—'Why, when I first went down
into Yorkshire, there had not been a resident clergyman in my parish for a
first time upon dogs. Mr Wright, in his "England under the House of
Hanover," says—"The debates on this tax in the House of Commons appear
to have been extremely amusing. In opposing the motion to go into
committee, Sheridan objected that the bill was most curiously worded, as it
was, in the first instance, entitled, 'A bill for the protection of his Majesty's
subjects against dogs.' 'From these words,' he said, 'one would imagine that
dogs had been guilty of burglary, though he believed they were a better
protection to their masters' property than watchmen.' After having
entertained the House with some stories about mad dogs, and giving a
discourse upon dogs in general, he asked, 'Since there was an exception in
favour of puppies, at what age they were to be taxed, and how the exact age
was to be ascertained?' The Secretary at War, who spoke against the bill,
said, 'It would be wrong to destroy in the poor that virtuous feeling which
they had for their dog.' In committee, Mr Lechmere called the attention of
the House to ladies' 'lap-dogs.' He knew a lady who had sixteen lap-dogs,
and who allowed them a roast shoulder of veal every day for dinner, while
many poor persons were starving; was it not, therefore, right to tax lap-dogs
very high? He knew another lady who kept one favourite dog, when well,
on Savoy biscuits soaked in Burgundy, and when ailing (by the advice of a
doctor) on minced chicken and sweetbread! Among the caricatures on this
subject, one by Gillray (of which there were imitations) represented Fox
and his friends, hanged upon a gallows, as 'dogs not worth a tax;' while the
supporters of Government, among whom is Burke, with 'G. R.' on his collar,
are ranged as well-fed dogs 'paid for.'"[95]
Sydney Smith dislikes Dogs.
an ingenious way of getting rid of them.
Lady Holland tells us[96] that her father, the witty canon of St Paul's,
disliked dogs. "During one of his visits to London, at a dinner at Spencer
House, the conversation turned upon dogs. 'Oh,' said my father, 'one of the
greatest difficulties I have had with my parishioners has been on the subject
of dogs.'—'How so?' said Lord Spencer.—'Why, when I first went down
into Yorkshire, there had not been a resident clergyman in my parish for a
Page 112
hundred and fifty years. Each farmer kept a huge mastiff dog ranging at
large, and ready to make his morning meal on clergy or laity, as best suited
his particular taste. I never could approach a cottage in pursuit of my calling
but I rushed into the jaws of one of these shaggy monsters. I scolded,
preached, and prayed without avail; so I determined to try what fear for
their pockets might do. Forthwith appeared in the county papers a minute
account of the trial of a farmer, at the Northampton Sessions, for keeping
dogs unconfined; where said farmer was not only fined five pounds and
reprimanded by the magistrates, but sentenced to three months'
imprisonment. The effect was wonderful, and the reign of Cerberus ceased
in the land.'—'That accounts,' said Lord Spencer, 'for what has puzzled me
and Althorp for many years. We never failed to attend the sessions at
Northampton, and we never could find out how we had missed this
remarkable dog case.'"
Sydney Smith on Dogs.[97]
"No, I don't like dogs; I always expect them to go mad. A lady asked me
once for a motto for her dog Spot. I proposed, 'Out, damned Spot!' But she
did not think it sentimental enough. You remember the story of the French
marquise, who, when her pet lap-dog bit a piece out of her footman's leg,
exclaimed, 'Ah, poor little beast! I hope it won't make him sick.' I called one
day on Mrs ——, and her lap-dog flew at my leg and bit it. After pitying
her dog, like the French marquise, she did all she could to comfort me by
assuring me the dog was a Dissenter, and hated the Church, and was
brought up in a Tory family. But whether the bite came from madness or
Dissent, I knew myself too well to neglect it, and went on the instant to a
surgeon, and had it cut out, making a mem. on the way to enter that house
no more."
Sydney Smith's "Newfoundland Dog that breakfasted on Parish
Boys."
The Rev. Sydney Smith used to be much amused when he observed the
utter want of perception of a joke in some minds. One instance we may cite
from his "Memoirs:"[98] "Miss ——, the other day, walking round the
large, and ready to make his morning meal on clergy or laity, as best suited
his particular taste. I never could approach a cottage in pursuit of my calling
but I rushed into the jaws of one of these shaggy monsters. I scolded,
preached, and prayed without avail; so I determined to try what fear for
their pockets might do. Forthwith appeared in the county papers a minute
account of the trial of a farmer, at the Northampton Sessions, for keeping
dogs unconfined; where said farmer was not only fined five pounds and
reprimanded by the magistrates, but sentenced to three months'
imprisonment. The effect was wonderful, and the reign of Cerberus ceased
in the land.'—'That accounts,' said Lord Spencer, 'for what has puzzled me
and Althorp for many years. We never failed to attend the sessions at
Northampton, and we never could find out how we had missed this
remarkable dog case.'"
Sydney Smith on Dogs.[97]
"No, I don't like dogs; I always expect them to go mad. A lady asked me
once for a motto for her dog Spot. I proposed, 'Out, damned Spot!' But she
did not think it sentimental enough. You remember the story of the French
marquise, who, when her pet lap-dog bit a piece out of her footman's leg,
exclaimed, 'Ah, poor little beast! I hope it won't make him sick.' I called one
day on Mrs ——, and her lap-dog flew at my leg and bit it. After pitying
her dog, like the French marquise, she did all she could to comfort me by
assuring me the dog was a Dissenter, and hated the Church, and was
brought up in a Tory family. But whether the bite came from madness or
Dissent, I knew myself too well to neglect it, and went on the instant to a
surgeon, and had it cut out, making a mem. on the way to enter that house
no more."
Sydney Smith's "Newfoundland Dog that breakfasted on Parish
Boys."
The Rev. Sydney Smith used to be much amused when he observed the
utter want of perception of a joke in some minds. One instance we may cite
from his "Memoirs:"[98] "Miss ——, the other day, walking round the
Page 113
grounds at Combe Florey, exclaimed, 'Oh, why do you chain up that fine
Newfoundland dog, Mr Smith?'—'Because it has a passion for breakfasting
on parish boys.'—'Parish boys!' she exclaimed; 'does he really eat boys, Mr
Smith?'—'Yes, he devours them, buttons and all.' Her face of horror made
me die of laughing."
Southey on Dogs.
Southey was likewise not a little attached to the memory at least of dogs, as
may be inferred by the following passage in a letter to Mr Bedford, Jan. 27,
1823. Snivel was a dog belonging to Mr B. in early days. "We had an
adventure this morning, which, if poor Snivel had been living, would have
set up her bristles in great style. A foumart was caught in the back kitchen;
you may perhaps know it better by the name of polecat. It is the first I ever
saw or smelt; and certainly it was in high odour. Poor Snivel! I still have the
hairs which we cut from her tail thirty years ago; and if it were the fashion
for men to wear lockets, in a locket they should be worn, for I never had a
greater respect for any creature upon four legs than for poor Sni. See how
naturally men fall into relic worship; when I have preserved the memorials
of that momentary whim so many years, and through so many removals."
[99]
Dog, a Good Judge of Elocution.
When Dr Leifchild, of Craven Chapel, London, was a student at Hoxton
Academy, there was a good lecturer on elocution there of the name of True.
In the Memoir, published in 1863, are some pleasing reminiscences by Dr
Leifchild of this excellent teacher, who seems to have taken great pains with
the students, and to have awakened in their breasts a desire to become
proficients in the art of speaking. The doctor himself was an admirable
example of the proficiency thus attained under good Mr True. He
records[100] a ludicrous circumstance which occurred one day. "In reciting
Satan's address to the evil spirits from 'Paradise Lost,' a stout student was
enjoined to pronounce the three words, 'Princes, potentates, warriors,' in
successively louder tones, and to speak out boldly. He hardly needed this
advice, for the first word came out like distant thunder, the second like
Newfoundland dog, Mr Smith?'—'Because it has a passion for breakfasting
on parish boys.'—'Parish boys!' she exclaimed; 'does he really eat boys, Mr
Smith?'—'Yes, he devours them, buttons and all.' Her face of horror made
me die of laughing."
Southey on Dogs.
Southey was likewise not a little attached to the memory at least of dogs, as
may be inferred by the following passage in a letter to Mr Bedford, Jan. 27,
1823. Snivel was a dog belonging to Mr B. in early days. "We had an
adventure this morning, which, if poor Snivel had been living, would have
set up her bristles in great style. A foumart was caught in the back kitchen;
you may perhaps know it better by the name of polecat. It is the first I ever
saw or smelt; and certainly it was in high odour. Poor Snivel! I still have the
hairs which we cut from her tail thirty years ago; and if it were the fashion
for men to wear lockets, in a locket they should be worn, for I never had a
greater respect for any creature upon four legs than for poor Sni. See how
naturally men fall into relic worship; when I have preserved the memorials
of that momentary whim so many years, and through so many removals."
[99]
Dog, a Good Judge of Elocution.
When Dr Leifchild, of Craven Chapel, London, was a student at Hoxton
Academy, there was a good lecturer on elocution there of the name of True.
In the Memoir, published in 1863, are some pleasing reminiscences by Dr
Leifchild of this excellent teacher, who seems to have taken great pains with
the students, and to have awakened in their breasts a desire to become
proficients in the art of speaking. The doctor himself was an admirable
example of the proficiency thus attained under good Mr True. He
records[100] a ludicrous circumstance which occurred one day. "In reciting
Satan's address to the evil spirits from 'Paradise Lost,' a stout student was
enjoined to pronounce the three words, 'Princes, potentates, warriors,' in
successively louder tones, and to speak out boldly. He hardly needed this
advice, for the first word came out like distant thunder, the second like
Page 114
approaching thunder, and the third like a terribly near and loud clap. At this
last the large housedog, Pompey, who had been asleep under the teacher's
chair, started up and jumped out of the window into the garden. 'The dog is
a good judge, sir,' mildly remarked Mr True."
Cowper's dog Beau and the Water-Lily.
illustrated by the story of as intelligent a dog.
In Blackwood's Magazine for 1818 there is an address, in blank verse, by
Mr Patrick Fraser Tytler, "To my Dog." Mr Tytler's brother-in-law, Mr Hog,
[101]
recorded the fact on which this address was founded in his diary at the
time. "Peter tells a delightful anecdote of Cossack, an Isle of Skye terrier,
which belonged originally to his brother at Aldourie. It was amazingly fond
of his children, one of which, having fallen on the gravel and hurt itself,
began to cry out. Cossack tried in vain to comfort it by leaping upon it and
licking its face. Finding all his efforts to pacify the child fruitless, he ran off
to a mountain-ash tree, and leaping up, pulled a branch of red rowan berries
and carried it in his mouth to the child."
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette.
Horace Walpole, writing to Lord Nuneham in November 1773,[102] says:
—"The rest of my time has been employed in nursing Rosette—alas! to no
purpose. After suffering dreadfully for a fortnight from the time she was
seized at Nuneham, she has only languished till about ten days ago. As I
have nothing to fill my letter, I will send you her epitaph; it has no merit,
for it is an imitation, but in coming from the heart if ever epitaph did, and
therefore your dogmanity will not dislike it—
'Sweetest roses of the year,
Strew around my Rose's bier,
Calmly may the dust repose
Of my pretty, faithful Rose!
And if yon cloud-topp'd hill[103] behind
This frame dissolved, this breath resign'd,
last the large housedog, Pompey, who had been asleep under the teacher's
chair, started up and jumped out of the window into the garden. 'The dog is
a good judge, sir,' mildly remarked Mr True."
Cowper's dog Beau and the Water-Lily.
illustrated by the story of as intelligent a dog.
In Blackwood's Magazine for 1818 there is an address, in blank verse, by
Mr Patrick Fraser Tytler, "To my Dog." Mr Tytler's brother-in-law, Mr Hog,
[101]
recorded the fact on which this address was founded in his diary at the
time. "Peter tells a delightful anecdote of Cossack, an Isle of Skye terrier,
which belonged originally to his brother at Aldourie. It was amazingly fond
of his children, one of which, having fallen on the gravel and hurt itself,
began to cry out. Cossack tried in vain to comfort it by leaping upon it and
licking its face. Finding all his efforts to pacify the child fruitless, he ran off
to a mountain-ash tree, and leaping up, pulled a branch of red rowan berries
and carried it in his mouth to the child."
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette.
Horace Walpole, writing to Lord Nuneham in November 1773,[102] says:
—"The rest of my time has been employed in nursing Rosette—alas! to no
purpose. After suffering dreadfully for a fortnight from the time she was
seized at Nuneham, she has only languished till about ten days ago. As I
have nothing to fill my letter, I will send you her epitaph; it has no merit,
for it is an imitation, but in coming from the heart if ever epitaph did, and
therefore your dogmanity will not dislike it—
'Sweetest roses of the year,
Strew around my Rose's bier,
Calmly may the dust repose
Of my pretty, faithful Rose!
And if yon cloud-topp'd hill[103] behind
This frame dissolved, this breath resign'd,
Page 115
Some happier isle, some humbler heaven,
Be to my trembling wishes given;
Admitted to that equal sky,
May sweet Rose bear me company!'"
Arrival of Tonton, a pet dog, to Walpole.—Tonton does not
understand English.
Horace Walpole, in May 1781,[104] had announced Tonton's arrival to his
correspondent, the Hon. H. S. Conway. He says:—"I brought him this
morning to take possession of his new villa, but his inauguration has not
been at all pacific. As he has already found out that he may be as despotic
as at St Joseph's, he began with exiling my beautiful little cat, upon which,
however, we shall not quite agree. He then flew at one of my dogs, who
returned it by biting his foot till it bled, but was severely beaten for it. I
immediately rung for Margaret (his housekeeper) to dress his foot; but in
the midst of my tribulation could not keep my countenance, for she cried,
'Poor little thing; he does not understand my language!' I hope she will not
recollect, too, that he is a Papist!" In a postscript he tells the general that
Tonton "is a cavalier, and a little of the mousquetaire still; but if I do not
correct his vivacities, at least I shall not encourage them, like my dear old
friend."
In a letter of about the same date to Mason the poet, he again alludes to his
fondness of Tonton, but adds—"I have no occasion to brag of my
dogmanity."[105]
Horace Walpole, in 1774, thus refers to Margaret, in a letter to Lady
Ossory:—"Who is to have the care of the dear mouse in your absence? I
wish I could spare Margaret, who loves all creatures so well that she would
have been happy in the ark, and sorry when the deluge ceased; unless
people had come to see Noah's old house, which she would have liked still
better than cramming his menagerie."[106] A sly allusion to the numerous
fees Margaret got from visitors. Horace, in another of his letters, alludes to
this, and, in a joke, proposes to marry Margaret to enrich himself.
Horace Walpole.—Death of his dog Tonton.
Be to my trembling wishes given;
Admitted to that equal sky,
May sweet Rose bear me company!'"
Arrival of Tonton, a pet dog, to Walpole.—Tonton does not
understand English.
Horace Walpole, in May 1781,[104] had announced Tonton's arrival to his
correspondent, the Hon. H. S. Conway. He says:—"I brought him this
morning to take possession of his new villa, but his inauguration has not
been at all pacific. As he has already found out that he may be as despotic
as at St Joseph's, he began with exiling my beautiful little cat, upon which,
however, we shall not quite agree. He then flew at one of my dogs, who
returned it by biting his foot till it bled, but was severely beaten for it. I
immediately rung for Margaret (his housekeeper) to dress his foot; but in
the midst of my tribulation could not keep my countenance, for she cried,
'Poor little thing; he does not understand my language!' I hope she will not
recollect, too, that he is a Papist!" In a postscript he tells the general that
Tonton "is a cavalier, and a little of the mousquetaire still; but if I do not
correct his vivacities, at least I shall not encourage them, like my dear old
friend."
In a letter of about the same date to Mason the poet, he again alludes to his
fondness of Tonton, but adds—"I have no occasion to brag of my
dogmanity."[105]
Horace Walpole, in 1774, thus refers to Margaret, in a letter to Lady
Ossory:—"Who is to have the care of the dear mouse in your absence? I
wish I could spare Margaret, who loves all creatures so well that she would
have been happy in the ark, and sorry when the deluge ceased; unless
people had come to see Noah's old house, which she would have liked still
better than cramming his menagerie."[106] A sly allusion to the numerous
fees Margaret got from visitors. Horace, in another of his letters, alludes to
this, and, in a joke, proposes to marry Margaret to enrich himself.
Horace Walpole.—Death of his dog Tonton.
Page 116
Horace Walpole, writing to the Countess of Ossory, Feb. 24, 1789,[107] says:
—"I delayed telling you that Tonton is dead, and that I comfort myself. He
was grown stone deaf, and very nearly equally blind, and so weak that the
two last days he could not walk up-stairs. Happily he had not suffered, and
died close by my side without a pang or a groan. I have had the satisfaction,
for my dear old friend's sake and his own, of having nursed him up, by
constant attention, to the age of sixteen, yet always afraid of his surviving
me, as it was scarcely possible he could meet a third person who would
study his happiness equally. I sent him to Strawberry, and went thither on
Sunday to see him buried behind the chapel near Rosette. I shall miss him
greatly, and must not have another dog; I am too old, and should only breed
it up to be unhappy when I am gone. My resource is in two marble kittens
that Mrs Damer has given me, of her own work, and which are so much
alive that I talk to them, as I did to poor Tonton! If this is being
superannuated, no matter; when dotage can amuse itself it ceases to be an
evil. I fear my marble playfellows are better adapted to me, than I am to
being your ladyship's correspondent." Poor Tonton was left to Walpole by
"poor dear Madame de Deffand." In a letter to the Rev. Mr Cole, in 1781, he
announces its arrival, and how "she made me promise to take care of it the
last time I saw her. That I will most religiously, and make it as happy as is
possible."[108]
Archbishop Whately and his Dogs.
"In these rambles he was generally attended by three uncompromising-
looking dogs, the heads of which, if it were possible to draw them together
in shamrock form, would forcibly suggest Cerberus. Richard Whately
found, or thought he found, in the society of these dogs far brighter
intelligence, and infinitely more fidelity, than in many of the Oxford men,
who had been fulsomely praised for both.
"In devotion to his dogs, Dr Whately continued true to the end of his life,
and during the winter season might be daily seen in St Stephen's Green,
Dublin, playing at 'tig' or 'hide and seek' with his canine attendants.
Sometimes the old archbishop might be seen clambering up a tree, secreting
his handkerchief or pocket-knife in some cunning nook, then resuming his
—"I delayed telling you that Tonton is dead, and that I comfort myself. He
was grown stone deaf, and very nearly equally blind, and so weak that the
two last days he could not walk up-stairs. Happily he had not suffered, and
died close by my side without a pang or a groan. I have had the satisfaction,
for my dear old friend's sake and his own, of having nursed him up, by
constant attention, to the age of sixteen, yet always afraid of his surviving
me, as it was scarcely possible he could meet a third person who would
study his happiness equally. I sent him to Strawberry, and went thither on
Sunday to see him buried behind the chapel near Rosette. I shall miss him
greatly, and must not have another dog; I am too old, and should only breed
it up to be unhappy when I am gone. My resource is in two marble kittens
that Mrs Damer has given me, of her own work, and which are so much
alive that I talk to them, as I did to poor Tonton! If this is being
superannuated, no matter; when dotage can amuse itself it ceases to be an
evil. I fear my marble playfellows are better adapted to me, than I am to
being your ladyship's correspondent." Poor Tonton was left to Walpole by
"poor dear Madame de Deffand." In a letter to the Rev. Mr Cole, in 1781, he
announces its arrival, and how "she made me promise to take care of it the
last time I saw her. That I will most religiously, and make it as happy as is
possible."[108]
Archbishop Whately and his Dogs.
"In these rambles he was generally attended by three uncompromising-
looking dogs, the heads of which, if it were possible to draw them together
in shamrock form, would forcibly suggest Cerberus. Richard Whately
found, or thought he found, in the society of these dogs far brighter
intelligence, and infinitely more fidelity, than in many of the Oxford men,
who had been fulsomely praised for both.
"In devotion to his dogs, Dr Whately continued true to the end of his life,
and during the winter season might be daily seen in St Stephen's Green,
Dublin, playing at 'tig' or 'hide and seek' with his canine attendants.
Sometimes the old archbishop might be seen clambering up a tree, secreting
his handkerchief or pocket-knife in some cunning nook, then resuming his
Page 117
walk, and, after a while, suddenly affecting to have lost these articles, which
the dogs never failed immediately to regain.
"That he was a close observer of the habits of dogs and other quadrupeds
we have evidence in his able lecture on 'Animal Instinct.' Dr Whately, when
referring to another subject, once said not irrelevantly, 'The power of duly
appreciating little things belongs to a great mind: a narrow-minded man has
it not, for to him they are great things.' Dr Whately was of opinion that
some brutes were as capable of exercising reason as instinct. In his
'Lectures and Reviews' (p. 64) he tells of a dog which, being left on the
bank of a river by his master, who had gone up the river in a boat, attempted
to join him. He plunged into the water, but not making allowance for the
strength of the stream, which carried him considerably below the boat, he
could not beat up against it. He landed, and made allowance for the current
of the river by leaping in at a place higher up. The combined action of the
stream and his swimming carried him in an oblique direction, and he thus
reached the boat. Dr Whately adopts the following conclusion—'It appears,
then, that we can neither deny reason universally and altogether to brutes,
nor instinct to man; but that each possesses a share of both, though in very
different proportions.'"[109]
Sir David Wilkie could not see a Pun.—"A Dog-Rose."
The son and biographer of William Collins, the Royal Academician,[110]
quotes from a manuscript collection of anecdotes, written by that charming
painter of country life and landscape, the following on Sir David Wilkie:
—"Wilkie was not quick in perceiving a joke, although he was always
anxious to do so, and to recollect humorous stories, of which he was
exceedingly fond. As instances, I recollect once when we were staying at
Mr Wells's, at Redleaf, one morning at breakfast a very small puppy was
running about under the table. 'Dear me,' said a lady, 'how this creature
teases me!' I took it up and put it into my breast-pocket. Mr Wells said,
'That is a pretty nosegay.'—'Yes,' said I, 'it is a dog-rose.' Wilkie's attention,
sitting opposite, was called to his friend's pun, but all in vain. He could not
be persuaded to see anything in it. I recollect trying once to explain to him,
with the same want of success, Hogarth's joke in putting the sign of the
the dogs never failed immediately to regain.
"That he was a close observer of the habits of dogs and other quadrupeds
we have evidence in his able lecture on 'Animal Instinct.' Dr Whately, when
referring to another subject, once said not irrelevantly, 'The power of duly
appreciating little things belongs to a great mind: a narrow-minded man has
it not, for to him they are great things.' Dr Whately was of opinion that
some brutes were as capable of exercising reason as instinct. In his
'Lectures and Reviews' (p. 64) he tells of a dog which, being left on the
bank of a river by his master, who had gone up the river in a boat, attempted
to join him. He plunged into the water, but not making allowance for the
strength of the stream, which carried him considerably below the boat, he
could not beat up against it. He landed, and made allowance for the current
of the river by leaping in at a place higher up. The combined action of the
stream and his swimming carried him in an oblique direction, and he thus
reached the boat. Dr Whately adopts the following conclusion—'It appears,
then, that we can neither deny reason universally and altogether to brutes,
nor instinct to man; but that each possesses a share of both, though in very
different proportions.'"[109]
Sir David Wilkie could not see a Pun.—"A Dog-Rose."
The son and biographer of William Collins, the Royal Academician,[110]
quotes from a manuscript collection of anecdotes, written by that charming
painter of country life and landscape, the following on Sir David Wilkie:
—"Wilkie was not quick in perceiving a joke, although he was always
anxious to do so, and to recollect humorous stories, of which he was
exceedingly fond. As instances, I recollect once when we were staying at
Mr Wells's, at Redleaf, one morning at breakfast a very small puppy was
running about under the table. 'Dear me,' said a lady, 'how this creature
teases me!' I took it up and put it into my breast-pocket. Mr Wells said,
'That is a pretty nosegay.'—'Yes,' said I, 'it is a dog-rose.' Wilkie's attention,
sitting opposite, was called to his friend's pun, but all in vain. He could not
be persuaded to see anything in it. I recollect trying once to explain to him,
with the same want of success, Hogarth's joke in putting the sign of the
Page 118
woman without a head ('The Good Woman') under the window from which
the quarrelsome wife is throwing the dinner into the street."
Ulysses and his Dog.
Richard Payne Knight, in his "Inquiry into the Principles of Taste,"[111]
when treating of the "sublime and pathetic," quotes the story of Ulysses and
his dog, as follows:—"No Dutch painter ever exhibited an image less
imposing, or less calculated to inspire awe and terror, or any other of
Burke's symptoms or sources of the sublime (unless, indeed, it be a stink),
than the celebrated dog of Ulysses lying upon a dunghill, covered with
vermin and in the agonies of death; yet, when in such circumstances, on
hearing the voice of his old master, who had been absent twenty years, he
pricks his ears, wags his tail, and expires, what heart is not at once melted,
elevated, and expanded with all those glowing feelings which Longinus has
so well described as the genuine effects of the true sublime? That master,
too—the patient, crafty, and obdurate Ulysses, who encounters every
danger and bears every calamity with a constancy unshaken, a spirit
undepressed, and a temper unruffled—when he sees this faithful old servant
perishing in want, misery, and neglect, yet still remembering his long-lost
benefactor, and collecting the last effort of expiring nature to give a sign of
joy and gratulation at his return, hides his face and wipes away the tear!
This is true sublimity of character, which is always mixed with tenderness
—mere sanguinary ferocity being terrible and odious, but never sublime.
Αγαθοι πολυδαχρυτοιανδρες—Men prone to tears are brave, says the
proverbial Greek hemistich; for courage, which does not arise from mere
coarseness of organisation, but from that sense of dignity and honour which
constitutes the generous pride of a high mind, is founded in sensibility."
the quarrelsome wife is throwing the dinner into the street."
Ulysses and his Dog.
Richard Payne Knight, in his "Inquiry into the Principles of Taste,"[111]
when treating of the "sublime and pathetic," quotes the story of Ulysses and
his dog, as follows:—"No Dutch painter ever exhibited an image less
imposing, or less calculated to inspire awe and terror, or any other of
Burke's symptoms or sources of the sublime (unless, indeed, it be a stink),
than the celebrated dog of Ulysses lying upon a dunghill, covered with
vermin and in the agonies of death; yet, when in such circumstances, on
hearing the voice of his old master, who had been absent twenty years, he
pricks his ears, wags his tail, and expires, what heart is not at once melted,
elevated, and expanded with all those glowing feelings which Longinus has
so well described as the genuine effects of the true sublime? That master,
too—the patient, crafty, and obdurate Ulysses, who encounters every
danger and bears every calamity with a constancy unshaken, a spirit
undepressed, and a temper unruffled—when he sees this faithful old servant
perishing in want, misery, and neglect, yet still remembering his long-lost
benefactor, and collecting the last effort of expiring nature to give a sign of
joy and gratulation at his return, hides his face and wipes away the tear!
This is true sublimity of character, which is always mixed with tenderness
—mere sanguinary ferocity being terrible and odious, but never sublime.
Αγαθοι πολυδαχρυτοιανδρες—Men prone to tears are brave, says the
proverbial Greek hemistich; for courage, which does not arise from mere
coarseness of organisation, but from that sense of dignity and honour which
constitutes the generous pride of a high mind, is founded in sensibility."
Page 119
WOLF.
Surely the man should get a monument who is proved to have killed the last
she-wolf in these islands. How closely allied the wolf is to the dog may be
clearly read in the accounts of Polar winterings. Some of the larger
butchers' dogs are singularly wolf-like, and it seems to be that variety which
occasionally, as it were, resumes its wolfish habits of prowling at night and
killing numbers of sheep in certain districts, as we sometimes read in the
country papers of the day. In Strathearn, we lately heard of a very recent
instance of this wolf-like ferocity breaking out. The dog was traced with
great difficulty, and at last shot. He proved to be of the kind alluded to.
Polson and the last Scottish Wolf.
Mr Scrope[112] describes, from traditions still existing on the east coast of
Sutherland, the destruction of what is supposed to have been the last
Scottish wolf and her cubs. This was between 1690 and 1700. This wolf had
committed many depredations on their flocks, and the inhabitants had been
unsuccessful in their attempts to hunt it down.
A man named Polson, attended by two herd boys, went in search of it.
Polson was an old hunter, and had much experience in tracing and
destroying wolves and other predatory animals. Forming his own
conjectures, he proceeded at once to the wild and rugged ground that
surrounds the rocky mountain-gulley which forms the channel of the burn
of Sledale. Here, after a minute investigation, he discovered a narrow
fissure in the midst of a confused mass of large fragments of rock, which,
upon examination, he had reason to think might lead to a larger opening or
cavern below, which the wolf might use as his den. Stones were now
thrown down, and other means resorted to, to rouse any animal that might
be lurking within. Nothing formidable appearing, the two lads contrived to
squeeze themselves through the fissure, that they might examine the
interior, while Polson kept guard on the outside. The boys descended
through the narrow passage into a small cavern, which was evidently a
Surely the man should get a monument who is proved to have killed the last
she-wolf in these islands. How closely allied the wolf is to the dog may be
clearly read in the accounts of Polar winterings. Some of the larger
butchers' dogs are singularly wolf-like, and it seems to be that variety which
occasionally, as it were, resumes its wolfish habits of prowling at night and
killing numbers of sheep in certain districts, as we sometimes read in the
country papers of the day. In Strathearn, we lately heard of a very recent
instance of this wolf-like ferocity breaking out. The dog was traced with
great difficulty, and at last shot. He proved to be of the kind alluded to.
Polson and the last Scottish Wolf.
Mr Scrope[112] describes, from traditions still existing on the east coast of
Sutherland, the destruction of what is supposed to have been the last
Scottish wolf and her cubs. This was between 1690 and 1700. This wolf had
committed many depredations on their flocks, and the inhabitants had been
unsuccessful in their attempts to hunt it down.
A man named Polson, attended by two herd boys, went in search of it.
Polson was an old hunter, and had much experience in tracing and
destroying wolves and other predatory animals. Forming his own
conjectures, he proceeded at once to the wild and rugged ground that
surrounds the rocky mountain-gulley which forms the channel of the burn
of Sledale. Here, after a minute investigation, he discovered a narrow
fissure in the midst of a confused mass of large fragments of rock, which,
upon examination, he had reason to think might lead to a larger opening or
cavern below, which the wolf might use as his den. Stones were now
thrown down, and other means resorted to, to rouse any animal that might
be lurking within. Nothing formidable appearing, the two lads contrived to
squeeze themselves through the fissure, that they might examine the
interior, while Polson kept guard on the outside. The boys descended
through the narrow passage into a small cavern, which was evidently a
Page 120
wolf's den, for the ground was covered with bones and horns of animals,
feathers, and egg-shells; and the dark space was somewhat enlivened by
five or six active wolf cubs. Not a little dubious of the event, the voices of
the poor boys came up hollow and anxious from below, communicating this
intelligence. Polson at once desired them to do their best, and to destroy the
cubs. Soon after, he heard the feeble howling of the whelps as they were
attacked below, and saw almost at the same time, to his great horror, a full-
grown wolf, evidently the dam, raging furiously at the cries of her young,
and now close upon the mouth of the cavern, which she had approached
unobserved, among the rocky irregularities of the place. She attempted to
leap down at one bound from the spot where she was first seen. In this
emergency, Polson instinctively threw himself forward on the wolf, and
succeeded in catching a firm hold of the animal's long and bushy tail, just as
the forepart of the body was within the narrow entrance of the cavern. He
had unluckily placed his gun against a rock, when aiding the boys in their
descent, and could not now reach it. Without apprising the lads below of
their imminent peril, the stout hunter kept firm grip of the wolf's tail, which
he wound round his left arm; and although the maddened brute scrambled,
and twisted, and strove with all her might to force herself down to the
rescue of her cubs, Polson was just able, with the exertion of all his
strength, to keep her from going forward. In the midst of this singular
struggle, which passed in silence—for the wolf was mute, and the hunter,
either from the engrossing nature of his exertions, or from his unwillingness
to alarm the boys, spoke not a word at the commencement of the conflict—
his son within the cave, finding the light excluded from above, asked in
Gaelic, and in an abrupt tone, "Father, what is keeping the light from
us?"—"If the root of the tail break," replied he, "you will soon know that."
Before long, however, the man contrived to get hold of his hunting-knife,
and stabbed the wolf in the most vital parts he could reach. The enraged
animal now attempted to turn and face her foe, but the hole was too narrow
to allow of this; and when Polson saw his danger, he squeezed her forward,
keeping her jammed in, whilst he repeated his stabs as rapidly as he could,
until the animal, being mortally wounded, was easily dragged back and
finished.
feathers, and egg-shells; and the dark space was somewhat enlivened by
five or six active wolf cubs. Not a little dubious of the event, the voices of
the poor boys came up hollow and anxious from below, communicating this
intelligence. Polson at once desired them to do their best, and to destroy the
cubs. Soon after, he heard the feeble howling of the whelps as they were
attacked below, and saw almost at the same time, to his great horror, a full-
grown wolf, evidently the dam, raging furiously at the cries of her young,
and now close upon the mouth of the cavern, which she had approached
unobserved, among the rocky irregularities of the place. She attempted to
leap down at one bound from the spot where she was first seen. In this
emergency, Polson instinctively threw himself forward on the wolf, and
succeeded in catching a firm hold of the animal's long and bushy tail, just as
the forepart of the body was within the narrow entrance of the cavern. He
had unluckily placed his gun against a rock, when aiding the boys in their
descent, and could not now reach it. Without apprising the lads below of
their imminent peril, the stout hunter kept firm grip of the wolf's tail, which
he wound round his left arm; and although the maddened brute scrambled,
and twisted, and strove with all her might to force herself down to the
rescue of her cubs, Polson was just able, with the exertion of all his
strength, to keep her from going forward. In the midst of this singular
struggle, which passed in silence—for the wolf was mute, and the hunter,
either from the engrossing nature of his exertions, or from his unwillingness
to alarm the boys, spoke not a word at the commencement of the conflict—
his son within the cave, finding the light excluded from above, asked in
Gaelic, and in an abrupt tone, "Father, what is keeping the light from
us?"—"If the root of the tail break," replied he, "you will soon know that."
Before long, however, the man contrived to get hold of his hunting-knife,
and stabbed the wolf in the most vital parts he could reach. The enraged
animal now attempted to turn and face her foe, but the hole was too narrow
to allow of this; and when Polson saw his danger, he squeezed her forward,
keeping her jammed in, whilst he repeated his stabs as rapidly as he could,
until the animal, being mortally wounded, was easily dragged back and
finished.
Page 121
A similar story has been given, with the wilds of Canada for the scene. The
young Highlander was said to be dirking pigs, while the father was keeping
guard. "Phat's keeping out the licht, fayther?" shouts the son.—"If ta tail
preaks, tou 'lt fine tat," were the question and answer.
young Highlander was said to be dirking pigs, while the father was keeping
guard. "Phat's keeping out the licht, fayther?" shouts the son.—"If ta tail
preaks, tou 'lt fine tat," were the question and answer.
Page 122
FOX.
The sharp-faced fox is a very epitome of cunning, and his name is a by-
word for slyness. Farmers know well that no fox, nestling close to their
houses, ever meddles with their poultry. Reynard rambles a good way from
home before he begins to plunder. How admirable is Professor Wilson's
description of fox-hunting, quoted here from the "Noctes." Sir Walter Scott,
in one of his topographical essays, has given a curious account of the way
in which a fox, acquainted with the "ins and outs" of a certain old castle,
outwitted a whole pack of dogs, who had to jump up singly to get through a
small window to which Reynard led them. His large tail, so bushy and so
free, is of great use to Reynard. He often brushes the eyes of his pursuers
with it when sprinkled with water anything but sweet, and which, by its
pungency, for a time blinds them. The pursuit of the fox is most exciting,
and turns out the lord "of high degree," and the country squire and farmer. It
is the most characteristic sport of the "better classes" in this country.
An Enthusiastic Fox-Hunting Surgeon.[113]
A medical gentleman, named Hansted, residing near Newbury, who was
very fond of fox-hunting, ordered his gardener to set a trap for some vermin
that infested his garden. As ill luck would have it, a fox was found in the
morning with his leg broken, instead of a plant-eating rabbit. The gardener
took Reynard to the doctor, when he exclaimed, "Why did you not call me
up in the night, that I might have set the leg?" Better late than never: the
surgeon set the leg; the fox recovered, and was killed in due form, after a
capital run.
Fox-Hunting.
(From the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," April 1826.)[114]
North. It seems fox-hunting, too, is cruel.
The sharp-faced fox is a very epitome of cunning, and his name is a by-
word for slyness. Farmers know well that no fox, nestling close to their
houses, ever meddles with their poultry. Reynard rambles a good way from
home before he begins to plunder. How admirable is Professor Wilson's
description of fox-hunting, quoted here from the "Noctes." Sir Walter Scott,
in one of his topographical essays, has given a curious account of the way
in which a fox, acquainted with the "ins and outs" of a certain old castle,
outwitted a whole pack of dogs, who had to jump up singly to get through a
small window to which Reynard led them. His large tail, so bushy and so
free, is of great use to Reynard. He often brushes the eyes of his pursuers
with it when sprinkled with water anything but sweet, and which, by its
pungency, for a time blinds them. The pursuit of the fox is most exciting,
and turns out the lord "of high degree," and the country squire and farmer. It
is the most characteristic sport of the "better classes" in this country.
An Enthusiastic Fox-Hunting Surgeon.[113]
A medical gentleman, named Hansted, residing near Newbury, who was
very fond of fox-hunting, ordered his gardener to set a trap for some vermin
that infested his garden. As ill luck would have it, a fox was found in the
morning with his leg broken, instead of a plant-eating rabbit. The gardener
took Reynard to the doctor, when he exclaimed, "Why did you not call me
up in the night, that I might have set the leg?" Better late than never: the
surgeon set the leg; the fox recovered, and was killed in due form, after a
capital run.
Fox-Hunting.
(From the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," April 1826.)[114]
North. It seems fox-hunting, too, is cruel.
Page 123
Shepherd. To wham? Is't cruel to dowgs, to feed fifty or sixty o' them on
crackers and ither sorts o' food, in a kennel like a Christian house, wi' a
clear burn flowin' through 't, and to gie them, twice a-week or aftener,
during the season, a brattlin rin o' thretty miles after a fox? Is that cruelty to
dowgs?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is't cruel to horses, to buy a
hundred o' them for ae hunt, rarely for less than a hundred pounds each, and
aften for five hundred—to feed them on five or sax feeds o' corn per diem
—and to gie them skins as sleek as satin—and to gar them nicher (neigh)
wi' fu'ness o' bluid, sae that every vein in their bodies starts like sinnies
(sinews)—and to gallop them like deevils in a hurricane, up hill and doun
brae, and loup or soom canals and rivers, and flee ower hedges, and dikes,
and palings, like birds, and drive crashin' through woods, like elephants or
rhinoceroses—a' the while every coorser flingin' fire-flaughts (flakes) frae
his een, and whitening the sweat o' speed wi' the foam o' fury—I say, ca'
you that cruelty to horses, when the hunt charge with all their chivalry, and
plain, mountain, or forest are shook by the quadrupedal thunder?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is 't cruel to men to inspirit wi' a
rampagin happiness fivescore o' the flower o' England or Scotland's youth,
a' wi' caps and red coats, and whups in their hauns—a troop o' lauchin,
tearin', tallyhoin' "wild and wayward humorists," as the doctor ca'd them the
tither Sunday?
North. I like the expression, James.
Shepherd. So do I, or I would not have quoted it. But it's just as applicable
to a set o' outrageous ministers, eatin' and drinkin', and guffawin' at a
Presbytery denner.
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is't cruel to the lambs, and
leverets, and geese, and turkeys, and dyucks, and patricks, and wee birds,
crackers and ither sorts o' food, in a kennel like a Christian house, wi' a
clear burn flowin' through 't, and to gie them, twice a-week or aftener,
during the season, a brattlin rin o' thretty miles after a fox? Is that cruelty to
dowgs?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is't cruel to horses, to buy a
hundred o' them for ae hunt, rarely for less than a hundred pounds each, and
aften for five hundred—to feed them on five or sax feeds o' corn per diem
—and to gie them skins as sleek as satin—and to gar them nicher (neigh)
wi' fu'ness o' bluid, sae that every vein in their bodies starts like sinnies
(sinews)—and to gallop them like deevils in a hurricane, up hill and doun
brae, and loup or soom canals and rivers, and flee ower hedges, and dikes,
and palings, like birds, and drive crashin' through woods, like elephants or
rhinoceroses—a' the while every coorser flingin' fire-flaughts (flakes) frae
his een, and whitening the sweat o' speed wi' the foam o' fury—I say, ca'
you that cruelty to horses, when the hunt charge with all their chivalry, and
plain, mountain, or forest are shook by the quadrupedal thunder?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is 't cruel to men to inspirit wi' a
rampagin happiness fivescore o' the flower o' England or Scotland's youth,
a' wi' caps and red coats, and whups in their hauns—a troop o' lauchin,
tearin', tallyhoin' "wild and wayward humorists," as the doctor ca'd them the
tither Sunday?
North. I like the expression, James.
Shepherd. So do I, or I would not have quoted it. But it's just as applicable
to a set o' outrageous ministers, eatin' and drinkin', and guffawin' at a
Presbytery denner.
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by and by. Is't cruel to the lambs, and
leverets, and geese, and turkeys, and dyucks, and patricks, and wee birds,
Page 124
and ither animal eatables, to kill the fox that devoors them, and keeps them
in perpetual het water?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. Deevil take baith you and the fox; I said that we would come to
the fox by and by. Weel, then, wha kens that the fox isna away snorin'
happy afore the houn's? I hae nae doubt he is, for a fox is no sae complete a
coward as to think huntin' cruel; and his haill nature is then on the alert,
which in itsel' is happiness. Huntin' him fa'in into languor and ennui, and
growin' ower fat on how-towdies (barn-door fowls). He's no killed every
time he's hunted.
North. Why, James, you might write for the "Annals of Sporting."
Shepherd. So I do sometimes—and mair o' ye than me, I jalouse; but I was
gaun to ask ye if ye could imagine the delicht o' a fox gettin' into an
undiggable earth, just when the leadin' houn' was at his hainches?—ae sic
moment is aneuch to repay half an hour's draggle through the dirt; and he
can lick himsel' clean at his leisure, far ben in the cranny o' the rock, and
come out a' tosh and tidy by the first dawn o' licht, to snuff the mornin' air,
and visit the distant farm-house before Partlet has left her perch, or Count
Crow lifted his head from beneath his oxter on his shed-seraglio.
North. Was ye ever in at a death? Is not that cruel?
Shepherd. Do you mean in at the death o' ae fox, or the death o' a hundred
thousand men and sixty thousand horses?—the takin' o' a Brush, or a
Borodino?
North. My dear James, thank ye for your argument. As one Chalmers is
worth a thousand Martins, so is one Hogg worth a thousand Chalmerses.
Shepherd. Ane may weel lose patience, to think o' fules being sorry for the
death o' a fox. When the jowlers tear him to pieces, he shows fecht, and
gangs aff in a snarl. Hoo could he dee mair easier?—and for a' the gude he
has ever dune, or was likely to do, he surely had leeved lang eneuch.
Arctic Fox (Vulpes lagopus).
in perpetual het water?
North. But the fox, James?
Shepherd. Deevil take baith you and the fox; I said that we would come to
the fox by and by. Weel, then, wha kens that the fox isna away snorin'
happy afore the houn's? I hae nae doubt he is, for a fox is no sae complete a
coward as to think huntin' cruel; and his haill nature is then on the alert,
which in itsel' is happiness. Huntin' him fa'in into languor and ennui, and
growin' ower fat on how-towdies (barn-door fowls). He's no killed every
time he's hunted.
North. Why, James, you might write for the "Annals of Sporting."
Shepherd. So I do sometimes—and mair o' ye than me, I jalouse; but I was
gaun to ask ye if ye could imagine the delicht o' a fox gettin' into an
undiggable earth, just when the leadin' houn' was at his hainches?—ae sic
moment is aneuch to repay half an hour's draggle through the dirt; and he
can lick himsel' clean at his leisure, far ben in the cranny o' the rock, and
come out a' tosh and tidy by the first dawn o' licht, to snuff the mornin' air,
and visit the distant farm-house before Partlet has left her perch, or Count
Crow lifted his head from beneath his oxter on his shed-seraglio.
North. Was ye ever in at a death? Is not that cruel?
Shepherd. Do you mean in at the death o' ae fox, or the death o' a hundred
thousand men and sixty thousand horses?—the takin' o' a Brush, or a
Borodino?
North. My dear James, thank ye for your argument. As one Chalmers is
worth a thousand Martins, so is one Hogg worth a thousand Chalmerses.
Shepherd. Ane may weel lose patience, to think o' fules being sorry for the
death o' a fox. When the jowlers tear him to pieces, he shows fecht, and
gangs aff in a snarl. Hoo could he dee mair easier?—and for a' the gude he
has ever dune, or was likely to do, he surely had leeved lang eneuch.
Arctic Fox (Vulpes lagopus).
Page 125
This inoffensive and pretty little creature is found in all parts of the Arctic
lands. Its fur is peculiarly fine and thick; and as in winter this is closer and
more mixed with wool than it is in summer, the intense cold of these
regions is easily resisted. When sleeping rolled up into a ball, with the black
muzzle buried in the long hairs of the tail, there is not a portion of the body
but what is protected from the cold, the shaggy hairs of the brush acting as a
respirator or boa for the mouth and a muff for the paws. Our Arctic
travellers have remarked, that it is a peculiarly cleanly animal, and its
vigilance is extreme. It is almost impossible to come on it unawares, for
even when appearing to be soundly asleep, it opens its eyes on the slightest
noise being made. During the day it appears to be listless, but no sooner has
the night set in than it is in motion, and it continues very active until
morning. The young migrate to the southward in the autumn, and
sometimes collect in great numbers on the shores of Hudson's Bay. Mr
Graham noticed that they came there in November and left in April.
lands. Its fur is peculiarly fine and thick; and as in winter this is closer and
more mixed with wool than it is in summer, the intense cold of these
regions is easily resisted. When sleeping rolled up into a ball, with the black
muzzle buried in the long hairs of the tail, there is not a portion of the body
but what is protected from the cold, the shaggy hairs of the brush acting as a
respirator or boa for the mouth and a muff for the paws. Our Arctic
travellers have remarked, that it is a peculiarly cleanly animal, and its
vigilance is extreme. It is almost impossible to come on it unawares, for
even when appearing to be soundly asleep, it opens its eyes on the slightest
noise being made. During the day it appears to be listless, but no sooner has
the night set in than it is in motion, and it continues very active until
morning. The young migrate to the southward in the autumn, and
sometimes collect in great numbers on the shores of Hudson's Bay. Mr
Graham noticed that they came there in November and left in April.
Page 126
Arctic Fox. (Canis Lagopus.)
Sir James Ross found a fox's burrow on the sandy margin of a lake in the
month of July. It had several passages, each opening into a common cell,
beyond which was an inner nest, in which the young, six in number, were
found. These had the dusky, lead-coloured livery worn by the parents in
summer; and though four of them were kept alive till the following winter,
they never acquired the pure white coats of the old fox, but retained the
dusky colour on the face and sides of the body. The parents had kept a good
larder for their progeny, as the outer cell and the several passages leading to
it contained many lemmings and ermines, and the bones of fish, ducks, and
hares, in great quantities. Sir John Richardson[115] observed them to live in
villages, twenty or thirty burrows being constructed close to each other. A
pair were kept by Sir James Ross for the express purpose of watching the
changes which take place in the colour of their fur. He noticed that they
threw off their winter dress during the first week in June, and that this
change took place a few days earlier in the female than in the male. About
the end of September the brown fur of the summer gradually became of an
ash colour, and by the middle of October it was perfectly white. It continued
to increase in thickness until the end of November.[116] A variety of a
blackish-brown colour is occasionally met with, but this is rare: such
Sir James Ross found a fox's burrow on the sandy margin of a lake in the
month of July. It had several passages, each opening into a common cell,
beyond which was an inner nest, in which the young, six in number, were
found. These had the dusky, lead-coloured livery worn by the parents in
summer; and though four of them were kept alive till the following winter,
they never acquired the pure white coats of the old fox, but retained the
dusky colour on the face and sides of the body. The parents had kept a good
larder for their progeny, as the outer cell and the several passages leading to
it contained many lemmings and ermines, and the bones of fish, ducks, and
hares, in great quantities. Sir John Richardson[115] observed them to live in
villages, twenty or thirty burrows being constructed close to each other. A
pair were kept by Sir James Ross for the express purpose of watching the
changes which take place in the colour of their fur. He noticed that they
threw off their winter dress during the first week in June, and that this
change took place a few days earlier in the female than in the male. About
the end of September the brown fur of the summer gradually became of an
ash colour, and by the middle of October it was perfectly white. It continued
to increase in thickness until the end of November.[116] A variety of a
blackish-brown colour is occasionally met with, but this is rare: such
Page 127
specimens, Ross remarks, must have extreme difficulty in surprising their
prey in a country whose surface is of an unvaried white, and must also be
much more exposed to the persecutions of their enemies. The food of this
fox is various, but seems to consist principally of lemmings and of birds
and their eggs. He eats, too, the berries of the Empetrum nigrum, a plant
common on our own hills, and goes to the shore for mussels and other shell-
fish. Otho Fabricius[117] says he catches the Arctic salmon as that fish
approaches the shore to spawn, and that he seizes too the haddock, having
enticed it near by beating the water. Crantz, in his "History of Greenland,"
evidently alludes to this cunning habit when he observes, "They plash with
their feet in the water, to excite the curiosity of some kinds of fishes to
come and see what is going forward, and then they snap them up; and the
Greenland women have learnt this piece of art from them." Captain Lyon
noticed a fox prowling on a hill-side, and heard him for some hours
afterwards in the neighbourhood imitating the cry of the brent-goose. In
another part of his Journal he mentions that the bark is so modulated as to
give an idea that it proceeds from a distance, though at the time the fox lies
at your feet. It struck him that the creature was gifted "with this kind of
ventriloquism in order to deceive its prey as to the distance it is from them."
It sometimes catches the ptarmigan; and though it cannot swim, it manages
occasionally to get hold of oceanic birds; in fact, nothing alive which it can
master seems to come amiss, and failing to make a meal from something it
has caught and killed, the Arctic fox is glad, like foxes in more favoured
lands, to feed on carrion.
Captain M'Clintock, who commanded the yacht Fox on the Franklin Arctic
search in 1857 and 1858, wintered in the ice pack of Baffin's Bay. One of
the party shot an Arctic fox when they were 140 miles from the land. He
records in a letter to his brother,[118] that this wanderer from the shore "was
very fat, living upon such few dovekies as were silly enough to spend their
winter in the pack."
Martens, in his "Spitzbergen," says, that some of the ship's crew informed
him, that the fox when he is hungry "lies down as if he was dead, until the
birds fly to him to eat him, which by that trick he catches and eats." Our
author believed it a fable, but it may nevertheless be one of the many
expedients used by a species of a group whose name is proverbial for
craftiness and cunning.
prey in a country whose surface is of an unvaried white, and must also be
much more exposed to the persecutions of their enemies. The food of this
fox is various, but seems to consist principally of lemmings and of birds
and their eggs. He eats, too, the berries of the Empetrum nigrum, a plant
common on our own hills, and goes to the shore for mussels and other shell-
fish. Otho Fabricius[117] says he catches the Arctic salmon as that fish
approaches the shore to spawn, and that he seizes too the haddock, having
enticed it near by beating the water. Crantz, in his "History of Greenland,"
evidently alludes to this cunning habit when he observes, "They plash with
their feet in the water, to excite the curiosity of some kinds of fishes to
come and see what is going forward, and then they snap them up; and the
Greenland women have learnt this piece of art from them." Captain Lyon
noticed a fox prowling on a hill-side, and heard him for some hours
afterwards in the neighbourhood imitating the cry of the brent-goose. In
another part of his Journal he mentions that the bark is so modulated as to
give an idea that it proceeds from a distance, though at the time the fox lies
at your feet. It struck him that the creature was gifted "with this kind of
ventriloquism in order to deceive its prey as to the distance it is from them."
It sometimes catches the ptarmigan; and though it cannot swim, it manages
occasionally to get hold of oceanic birds; in fact, nothing alive which it can
master seems to come amiss, and failing to make a meal from something it
has caught and killed, the Arctic fox is glad, like foxes in more favoured
lands, to feed on carrion.
Captain M'Clintock, who commanded the yacht Fox on the Franklin Arctic
search in 1857 and 1858, wintered in the ice pack of Baffin's Bay. One of
the party shot an Arctic fox when they were 140 miles from the land. He
records in a letter to his brother,[118] that this wanderer from the shore "was
very fat, living upon such few dovekies as were silly enough to spend their
winter in the pack."
Martens, in his "Spitzbergen," says, that some of the ship's crew informed
him, that the fox when he is hungry "lies down as if he was dead, until the
birds fly to him to eat him, which by that trick he catches and eats." Our
author believed it a fable, but it may nevertheless be one of the many
expedients used by a species of a group whose name is proverbial for
craftiness and cunning.
Page 128
The flesh of the fox is occasionally eaten by the Esquimaux: Captain Lyon,
in his "Private Journal," says that at first all of his party were horrified at the
idea of eating foxes—"But very many soon got the better of their
fastidiousness and found them good eating; not being myself very nice, I
soon made the experiment, and found the flesh much resembling that of kid,
and afterwards frequently had a supper of it."
Sir James Clarke Ross, during his five years' imprisonment in Boothia Felix
and the adjoining seas, had ample means of judging of its flavour; he tells
us that some of his party, who were the first to taste them, named them
"lambs," from their resemblance in flavour to very young lamb. He adds,
that the flesh of the old fox is by no means so palatable. During that
disastrous expedition the flesh of this fox formed one of the principal
luxuries of their table, and it was always "reserved for holidays and great
occasions. We ate them boiled, or, more frequently after being parboiled,
roasted, in a pitch kettle."
When the Arctic Expedition in search of Franklin wintered in Leopold
Harbour in 1848-49, the commander, Sir J. C. Ross, made use of the Arctic
fox as a messenger. Having caught some of these animals in traps, a collar
with information for the missing parties was put round the neck of each
before liberation, as the fox is known to travel great distances in search of
food. On Captain Austin's subsequent expedition in 1850-51 the same plan
was carried out, but it was found to be equally without result. Commander
Osborn thus facetiously describes the circumstance.[119] "Several animals
thus intrusted with despatches or records were liberated by different ships;
but, as the truth must be told, I fear in many cases the next night saw the
poor 'postman,' as Jack termed him, in another trap, out of which he would
be taken, killed, the skin taken off, and packed away to ornament at some
future day the neck of some fair Dulcinea. As a 'sub,' I was admitted into
this secret mystery, or, otherwise, I with others might have accounted for
the disappearance of the collared foxes by believing them busy on their
honourable mission. In order that the crime of killing 'the postmen' may be
recognised in its true light, it is but fair that I should say, that the brutes,
having partaken once of the good cheer on board or around the ships,
seldom seemed satisfied with the mere empty honours of a copper collar,
and returned to be caught over and over again. Strict laws were laid down
for their safety, such as that no fox taken alive in a trap was to be killed: of
in his "Private Journal," says that at first all of his party were horrified at the
idea of eating foxes—"But very many soon got the better of their
fastidiousness and found them good eating; not being myself very nice, I
soon made the experiment, and found the flesh much resembling that of kid,
and afterwards frequently had a supper of it."
Sir James Clarke Ross, during his five years' imprisonment in Boothia Felix
and the adjoining seas, had ample means of judging of its flavour; he tells
us that some of his party, who were the first to taste them, named them
"lambs," from their resemblance in flavour to very young lamb. He adds,
that the flesh of the old fox is by no means so palatable. During that
disastrous expedition the flesh of this fox formed one of the principal
luxuries of their table, and it was always "reserved for holidays and great
occasions. We ate them boiled, or, more frequently after being parboiled,
roasted, in a pitch kettle."
When the Arctic Expedition in search of Franklin wintered in Leopold
Harbour in 1848-49, the commander, Sir J. C. Ross, made use of the Arctic
fox as a messenger. Having caught some of these animals in traps, a collar
with information for the missing parties was put round the neck of each
before liberation, as the fox is known to travel great distances in search of
food. On Captain Austin's subsequent expedition in 1850-51 the same plan
was carried out, but it was found to be equally without result. Commander
Osborn thus facetiously describes the circumstance.[119] "Several animals
thus intrusted with despatches or records were liberated by different ships;
but, as the truth must be told, I fear in many cases the next night saw the
poor 'postman,' as Jack termed him, in another trap, out of which he would
be taken, killed, the skin taken off, and packed away to ornament at some
future day the neck of some fair Dulcinea. As a 'sub,' I was admitted into
this secret mystery, or, otherwise, I with others might have accounted for
the disappearance of the collared foxes by believing them busy on their
honourable mission. In order that the crime of killing 'the postmen' may be
recognised in its true light, it is but fair that I should say, that the brutes,
having partaken once of the good cheer on board or around the ships,
seldom seemed satisfied with the mere empty honours of a copper collar,
and returned to be caught over and over again. Strict laws were laid down
for their safety, such as that no fox taken alive in a trap was to be killed: of
Page 129
course no fox was after this taken alive; they were all unaccountably dead,
unless it was some fortunate wight whose brush and coat were worthless; in
such case he lived either to drag about a quantity of information in a copper
collar for the rest of his days, or else to die a slow death, as being intended
for Lord Derby's menagerie. The departure of 'a postman' was a scene of no
small merriment; all hands, from the captain to the cook, were out to chase
the fox, who, half frightened out of its wits, seemed to doubt which way to
run, whilst loud shouts and roars of laughter, breaking the cold, frosty air,
were heard from ship to ship, as the foxhunters, swelled in numbers from all
sides, and those that could not run mounted some neighbouring hummock
of ice and gave a loud halloo, which said far more for robust health than for
tuneful melody."
The Arctic fox as a captive has often amused our Arctic voyagers, and
accounts of it are to be met with in most of their narratives. Captain Lyon
made a pet of one he captured, and confined it on deck in a small kennel
with a piece of chain. The little creature astonished the party very much by
his extraordinary sagacity, for, on the very first day, having been repeatedly
drawn out by his chain, he at length drew his chain in after him whenever
he retreated to his hut, and took it in with his mouth so completely, that no
one who valued his fingers would venture afterwards to take hold of the end
attached to the staple.
Sir J. C. Ross observed in Boothia Felix a good deal of difference in the
disposition of specimens, some being easily tamed, whilst others would
remain savage and untractable even with the kindest treatment. He found
the females much more vicious than the males. A dog-fox which his party
captured lived several months with them, and became so tame in a short
time that he regularly attended the dinner-table like a dog, and was always
allowed to go at large about the cabin. When newly caught their rage is
quite ungovernable, and yet when two are put together they very seldom
quarrel. They soon get reconciled to confinement. Captain Lyon[120] notices
that their first impulse on getting food is to hide it as soon as possible, and
this, he observed, they did, even when hungry and by themselves; when
there was snow on the ground they piled it over their stores, and pressed it
down forcibly with their nose. When no snow was to be obtained, he
noticed his pet fox gather the chain into his mouth, and then carefully coil it
so as to cover the meat. Having gone through this process, and drawn away
unless it was some fortunate wight whose brush and coat were worthless; in
such case he lived either to drag about a quantity of information in a copper
collar for the rest of his days, or else to die a slow death, as being intended
for Lord Derby's menagerie. The departure of 'a postman' was a scene of no
small merriment; all hands, from the captain to the cook, were out to chase
the fox, who, half frightened out of its wits, seemed to doubt which way to
run, whilst loud shouts and roars of laughter, breaking the cold, frosty air,
were heard from ship to ship, as the foxhunters, swelled in numbers from all
sides, and those that could not run mounted some neighbouring hummock
of ice and gave a loud halloo, which said far more for robust health than for
tuneful melody."
The Arctic fox as a captive has often amused our Arctic voyagers, and
accounts of it are to be met with in most of their narratives. Captain Lyon
made a pet of one he captured, and confined it on deck in a small kennel
with a piece of chain. The little creature astonished the party very much by
his extraordinary sagacity, for, on the very first day, having been repeatedly
drawn out by his chain, he at length drew his chain in after him whenever
he retreated to his hut, and took it in with his mouth so completely, that no
one who valued his fingers would venture afterwards to take hold of the end
attached to the staple.
Sir J. C. Ross observed in Boothia Felix a good deal of difference in the
disposition of specimens, some being easily tamed, whilst others would
remain savage and untractable even with the kindest treatment. He found
the females much more vicious than the males. A dog-fox which his party
captured lived several months with them, and became so tame in a short
time that he regularly attended the dinner-table like a dog, and was always
allowed to go at large about the cabin. When newly caught their rage is
quite ungovernable, and yet when two are put together they very seldom
quarrel. They soon get reconciled to confinement. Captain Lyon[120] notices
that their first impulse on getting food is to hide it as soon as possible, and
this, he observed, they did, even when hungry and by themselves; when
there was snow on the ground they piled it over their stores, and pressed it
down forcibly with their nose. When no snow was to be obtained, he
noticed his pet fox gather the chain into his mouth, and then carefully coil it
so as to cover the meat. Having gone through this process, and drawn away
Page 130
his chain after him on moving away, he has sometimes repeated his useless
labours five or six times, until disgusted, apparently, at the inability of
making the morsel a greater luxury by previous concealment, he has been
forced to eat it. These creatures use snow as a substitute for water, and it is
pleasing to see them break a large lump with their feet, and roll on the
pieces with evident delight. When the snow lay lightly scattered on the
decks, they did not lick it up as dogs do, but by pressing it repeatedly with
their nose, collected a small lump which they drew into their mouth.
It may be added that the specific name lagopus, or "hare-foot," was given to
this fox from the soles of its feet being densely covered with woolly hair,
which gives them some resemblance to the feet of a hare. Cuvier remarks
that other foxes acquire this hair on the soles when taken to northern lands.
The specimens, figured so admirably by Mr Wolf, were drawn from some
brought alive to the Zoological Gardens by one of the late Arctic
expeditions.—A. White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
labours five or six times, until disgusted, apparently, at the inability of
making the morsel a greater luxury by previous concealment, he has been
forced to eat it. These creatures use snow as a substitute for water, and it is
pleasing to see them break a large lump with their feet, and roll on the
pieces with evident delight. When the snow lay lightly scattered on the
decks, they did not lick it up as dogs do, but by pressing it repeatedly with
their nose, collected a small lump which they drew into their mouth.
It may be added that the specific name lagopus, or "hare-foot," was given to
this fox from the soles of its feet being densely covered with woolly hair,
which gives them some resemblance to the feet of a hare. Cuvier remarks
that other foxes acquire this hair on the soles when taken to northern lands.
The specimens, figured so admirably by Mr Wolf, were drawn from some
brought alive to the Zoological Gardens by one of the late Arctic
expeditions.—A. White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Page 131
JACKAL.
The boy who used to read, long ago, "The Three Hundred Animals," was
ever familiar with "the Lion's Provider," as the menagerie showmen, even
now, somewhat pompously style this hungry howler of the desert.
The jackal is a social kind of dog, and a pack of hungry or excited jackals
can howl in notes fit to pierce the ears of the deafest. He is a mean, starved-
looking creature in ordinary circumstances, seeming as if his social life
prevented his getting what is called a lion's share on any occasion.
Jackal and Tiger.
As Burke was declaiming with great animation against Hastings, he was
interrupted by little Major Scott. "Am I," said he, indignantly, "to be teased
by the barking of this jackal, while I am attacking the royal tiger of
Bengal?"[121]
The boy who used to read, long ago, "The Three Hundred Animals," was
ever familiar with "the Lion's Provider," as the menagerie showmen, even
now, somewhat pompously style this hungry howler of the desert.
The jackal is a social kind of dog, and a pack of hungry or excited jackals
can howl in notes fit to pierce the ears of the deafest. He is a mean, starved-
looking creature in ordinary circumstances, seeming as if his social life
prevented his getting what is called a lion's share on any occasion.
Jackal and Tiger.
As Burke was declaiming with great animation against Hastings, he was
interrupted by little Major Scott. "Am I," said he, indignantly, "to be teased
by the barking of this jackal, while I am attacking the royal tiger of
Bengal?"[121]
Page 132
CATS.
Another fertile subject for anecdote. Who has not some faithful black
Topsy, Tortoise-shell, or Tabby, or rather succession of them, whose
biographies would afford many a curious story? Professor Bell[122] has well
defended the general character of poor pussy from the oft-repeated
calumnies spread about it. Cats certainly get much attached to individuals,
as well as to houses and articles in them. They want the lovableness and
demonstrativeness of dogs; but their habits are very different, and they are
strictly organised to adapt them to watch and to pounce on their prey.
As we have elsewhere remarked, and the remark was founded on
observation of our eldest daughter when a very young child, "Your little
baby loves the pussy, and pussy sheathes her claws most carefully, but
should baby draw back her arm suddenly, and pussy accidentally scratch
that tender skin, how the little girl cries! It is, perhaps, her first lesson that
sweets and bitters, pleasures and pains, meekness and ferocity, are mingled
in this world."[123]
Jeremy Bentham and his pet Cat "Sir John Langborn."
Dr, afterwards Sir John, Bowring, in the life of that diligent eccentric
"codificator," Jeremy Bentham,[124] thus alludes to some of his pets:
—"Bentham was very fond of animals, particularly 'pussies,' as he called
them, 'when they had domestic virtues;' but he had no particular affection
for the common race of cats. He had one, however, of which he used to
boast that he had 'made a man of him,' and whom he was wont to invite to
eat maccaroni at his own table. This puss got knighted, and rejoiced in the
name of Sir John Langborn. In his early days, he was a frisky,
inconsiderate, and, to say the truth, somewhat profligate gentleman; and
had, according to the report of his patron, the habit of seducing light and
giddy young ladies of his own race into the garden of Queen's Square Place;
but tired at last, like Solomon, of pleasures and vanities, he became sedate
and thoughtful—took to the church, laid down his knightly title, and was
Another fertile subject for anecdote. Who has not some faithful black
Topsy, Tortoise-shell, or Tabby, or rather succession of them, whose
biographies would afford many a curious story? Professor Bell[122] has well
defended the general character of poor pussy from the oft-repeated
calumnies spread about it. Cats certainly get much attached to individuals,
as well as to houses and articles in them. They want the lovableness and
demonstrativeness of dogs; but their habits are very different, and they are
strictly organised to adapt them to watch and to pounce on their prey.
As we have elsewhere remarked, and the remark was founded on
observation of our eldest daughter when a very young child, "Your little
baby loves the pussy, and pussy sheathes her claws most carefully, but
should baby draw back her arm suddenly, and pussy accidentally scratch
that tender skin, how the little girl cries! It is, perhaps, her first lesson that
sweets and bitters, pleasures and pains, meekness and ferocity, are mingled
in this world."[123]
Jeremy Bentham and his pet Cat "Sir John Langborn."
Dr, afterwards Sir John, Bowring, in the life of that diligent eccentric
"codificator," Jeremy Bentham,[124] thus alludes to some of his pets:
—"Bentham was very fond of animals, particularly 'pussies,' as he called
them, 'when they had domestic virtues;' but he had no particular affection
for the common race of cats. He had one, however, of which he used to
boast that he had 'made a man of him,' and whom he was wont to invite to
eat maccaroni at his own table. This puss got knighted, and rejoiced in the
name of Sir John Langborn. In his early days, he was a frisky,
inconsiderate, and, to say the truth, somewhat profligate gentleman; and
had, according to the report of his patron, the habit of seducing light and
giddy young ladies of his own race into the garden of Queen's Square Place;
but tired at last, like Solomon, of pleasures and vanities, he became sedate
and thoughtful—took to the church, laid down his knightly title, and was
Page 133
installed as the Reverend John Langborn. He gradually obtained a great
reputation for sanctity and learning, and a doctor's degree was conferred
upon him. When I knew him, in his declining days, he bore no other name
than the Reverend Doctor John Langborn; and he was alike conspicuous for
his gravity and philosophy. Great respect was invariably shown his
reverence; and it was supposed he was not far off from a mitre, when old
age interfered with his hopes and honours. He departed amidst the regrets of
his many friends, and was gathered to his fathers, and to eternal rest, in a
cemetery in Milton's Garden.[125]
"'I had a cat,' he said, 'at Hendon, which used to follow me about even in the
street. George Wilson was very fond of animals too. I remember a cat
following him as far as Staines. There was a beautiful pig at Hendon, which
I used to rub with my stick. He loved to come and lie down to be rubbed,
and took to following me like a dog. I had a remarkably intellectual cat,
who never failed to attend one of us when we went round the garden. He
grew quite a tyrant, insisting on being fed and on being noticed. He
interrupted my labours. Once he came with a most hideous yell, insisting on
the door being opened. He tormented Jack (Colls) so much, that Jack threw
him out of the window. He was so clamorous that it could not be borne, and
means were found to send him to another world. His moral qualities were
most despotic—his intellectual extraordinary; but he was a universal
nuisance."
"'From my youth I was fond of cats, as I am still. I was once playing with
one in my grandmother's room. I had heard the story of cats having nine
lives, and being sure of falling on their legs; and I threw the cat out of the
window on the grass-plot. When it fell it turned towards me, looked in my
face and mewed. "Poor thing!" I said, "thou art reproaching me with my
unkindness." I have a distinct recollection of all these things. Cowper's
story of his hares had the highest interest for me when young; for I always
enjoyed the society of tame animals. Wilson had the same taste—so had
Romilly, who kept a noble puss, before he came into great business. I never
failed to pay it my respects. I remember accusing Romilly of violating the
commandment in the matter of cats. My fondness for animals exposed me
to many jokes.'"
reputation for sanctity and learning, and a doctor's degree was conferred
upon him. When I knew him, in his declining days, he bore no other name
than the Reverend Doctor John Langborn; and he was alike conspicuous for
his gravity and philosophy. Great respect was invariably shown his
reverence; and it was supposed he was not far off from a mitre, when old
age interfered with his hopes and honours. He departed amidst the regrets of
his many friends, and was gathered to his fathers, and to eternal rest, in a
cemetery in Milton's Garden.[125]
"'I had a cat,' he said, 'at Hendon, which used to follow me about even in the
street. George Wilson was very fond of animals too. I remember a cat
following him as far as Staines. There was a beautiful pig at Hendon, which
I used to rub with my stick. He loved to come and lie down to be rubbed,
and took to following me like a dog. I had a remarkably intellectual cat,
who never failed to attend one of us when we went round the garden. He
grew quite a tyrant, insisting on being fed and on being noticed. He
interrupted my labours. Once he came with a most hideous yell, insisting on
the door being opened. He tormented Jack (Colls) so much, that Jack threw
him out of the window. He was so clamorous that it could not be borne, and
means were found to send him to another world. His moral qualities were
most despotic—his intellectual extraordinary; but he was a universal
nuisance."
"'From my youth I was fond of cats, as I am still. I was once playing with
one in my grandmother's room. I had heard the story of cats having nine
lives, and being sure of falling on their legs; and I threw the cat out of the
window on the grass-plot. When it fell it turned towards me, looked in my
face and mewed. "Poor thing!" I said, "thou art reproaching me with my
unkindness." I have a distinct recollection of all these things. Cowper's
story of his hares had the highest interest for me when young; for I always
enjoyed the society of tame animals. Wilson had the same taste—so had
Romilly, who kept a noble puss, before he came into great business. I never
failed to pay it my respects. I remember accusing Romilly of violating the
commandment in the matter of cats. My fondness for animals exposed me
to many jokes.'"
Page 134
Bisset and his Musical Cats.
S. Bisset, to whom we referred before, was a Scotchman, born at Perth. He
went to London as a shoemaker; but afterwards turned a broker. About 1739
he turned his attention to the teaching of animals. He was very successful,
and among the subjects of his experiments were three young cats. Wilson,
in his "Eccentric Mirror,"[126] has recorded that "he taught these domestic
tigers to strike their paws in such directions on the dulcimer, as to produce
several tunes, having music-books before them, and squalling at the same
time in different keys or tones, first, second, and third, by way of concert. In
such a city as London these feats could not fail of making some noise. His
house was every day crowded, and great interruption given to his business.
Among the rest, he was visited by an exhibitor of wonders. Pinchbeck
advised him to a public exhibition of his animals at the Haymarket, and
even promised, on receiving a moiety, to be concerned in the exhibition.
Bisset agreed, but the day before the performance, Pinchbeck declined, and
the other was left to act for himself. The well-known Cats' Opera was
advertised in the Haymarket; the horse, the dog, the monkeys, and the cats
went through their several parts with uncommon applause, to crowded
houses, and in a few days Bisset found himself possessed of nearly a
thousand pounds to reward his ingenuity."
Constant, Chateaubriand, and the Cat.
"Benjamin Constant was accustomed to write in a closet on the third story.
Beside him sat his estimable wife, and on his knee his favourite cat; this
feline affection he entertained in common with Count de Chateaubriand."
[127]
Liston the Surgeon and his Cat.
Robert Liston, the great surgeon, was, it seems, very fond of a cat. Dr
Forbes Winslow asks, "Who has not seen Liston's favourite cat Tom? This
animal is considered to be a unique specimen of the feline tribe; and so one
would think, to see the passionate fondness which he manifests for it. This
cat is always perched on Liston's shoulder, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, in
S. Bisset, to whom we referred before, was a Scotchman, born at Perth. He
went to London as a shoemaker; but afterwards turned a broker. About 1739
he turned his attention to the teaching of animals. He was very successful,
and among the subjects of his experiments were three young cats. Wilson,
in his "Eccentric Mirror,"[126] has recorded that "he taught these domestic
tigers to strike their paws in such directions on the dulcimer, as to produce
several tunes, having music-books before them, and squalling at the same
time in different keys or tones, first, second, and third, by way of concert. In
such a city as London these feats could not fail of making some noise. His
house was every day crowded, and great interruption given to his business.
Among the rest, he was visited by an exhibitor of wonders. Pinchbeck
advised him to a public exhibition of his animals at the Haymarket, and
even promised, on receiving a moiety, to be concerned in the exhibition.
Bisset agreed, but the day before the performance, Pinchbeck declined, and
the other was left to act for himself. The well-known Cats' Opera was
advertised in the Haymarket; the horse, the dog, the monkeys, and the cats
went through their several parts with uncommon applause, to crowded
houses, and in a few days Bisset found himself possessed of nearly a
thousand pounds to reward his ingenuity."
Constant, Chateaubriand, and the Cat.
"Benjamin Constant was accustomed to write in a closet on the third story.
Beside him sat his estimable wife, and on his knee his favourite cat; this
feline affection he entertained in common with Count de Chateaubriand."
[127]
Liston the Surgeon and his Cat.
Robert Liston, the great surgeon, was, it seems, very fond of a cat. Dr
Forbes Winslow asks, "Who has not seen Liston's favourite cat Tom? This
animal is considered to be a unique specimen of the feline tribe; and so one
would think, to see the passionate fondness which he manifests for it. This
cat is always perched on Liston's shoulder, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, in
Page 135
his carriage, and out of his carriage. It is quite ludicrous to witness the
devotion which the great operator exhibits towards his favourite."[128]
Liston was a curious man. He often called on his friends as early as six
o'clock in the morning. In most cases, such calls must have been visits of
formality or quiet jokes at the lazy manners of most men of the present age.
We know one person whom he called on usually at this early hour. It would
be more healthy for the young, if they would imitate this talented surgeon.
We may here say that he used to allow one particular nail to grow long. It
was a nail he used to guide his knife when operating. When at college in
1833 or 1834, we heard a student, who knew this clever operator well,
happily apply the double-entendre, "homo ad unguem factus," a phrase, Dr
Carson, our noble rector at the High School, taught us to translate "an
accomplished man."
The Banker Mitchell's Antipathy to Kittens.
Mr J. T. Smith, once Keeper of the Prints in the British Museum, author of
the "Life and Times of Nollekens, the Royal Academician,"[129] tells a story
of Mr Matthew Mitchell, a banker, who collected prints.
"Mr Mitchell had a most serious antipathy to a kitten. He could sit in a
room without experiencing the least emotion from a cat; but directly he
perceived a kitten, his flesh shook on his bones, like a snail in vinegar. I
once relieved him from one of these paroxysms by taking a kitten out of the
room; on my return he thanked me, and declared his feelings to be
insupportable upon such an occasion. Long subsequently, I asked him
whether he could in any way account for this agitation. He said he could
not, adding that he experienced no such sensations upon seeing a full-grown
cat; but that a kitten, after he had looked at it for a minute or two, in his
imagination grew to the size of an overpowering elephant."
James Montgomery and his Cats.[130]
The poet Montgomery was very fond of cats. His biographers say—"We
never recollect the time when some familiar 'Tabby' or audacious 'Tom' did
not claim to share the poet's attention during our familiar interviews with
him in his own parlour. We well recollect one fine brindled fellow, called
devotion which the great operator exhibits towards his favourite."[128]
Liston was a curious man. He often called on his friends as early as six
o'clock in the morning. In most cases, such calls must have been visits of
formality or quiet jokes at the lazy manners of most men of the present age.
We know one person whom he called on usually at this early hour. It would
be more healthy for the young, if they would imitate this talented surgeon.
We may here say that he used to allow one particular nail to grow long. It
was a nail he used to guide his knife when operating. When at college in
1833 or 1834, we heard a student, who knew this clever operator well,
happily apply the double-entendre, "homo ad unguem factus," a phrase, Dr
Carson, our noble rector at the High School, taught us to translate "an
accomplished man."
The Banker Mitchell's Antipathy to Kittens.
Mr J. T. Smith, once Keeper of the Prints in the British Museum, author of
the "Life and Times of Nollekens, the Royal Academician,"[129] tells a story
of Mr Matthew Mitchell, a banker, who collected prints.
"Mr Mitchell had a most serious antipathy to a kitten. He could sit in a
room without experiencing the least emotion from a cat; but directly he
perceived a kitten, his flesh shook on his bones, like a snail in vinegar. I
once relieved him from one of these paroxysms by taking a kitten out of the
room; on my return he thanked me, and declared his feelings to be
insupportable upon such an occasion. Long subsequently, I asked him
whether he could in any way account for this agitation. He said he could
not, adding that he experienced no such sensations upon seeing a full-grown
cat; but that a kitten, after he had looked at it for a minute or two, in his
imagination grew to the size of an overpowering elephant."
James Montgomery and his Cats.[130]
The poet Montgomery was very fond of cats. His biographers say—"We
never recollect the time when some familiar 'Tabby' or audacious 'Tom' did
not claim to share the poet's attention during our familiar interviews with
him in his own parlour. We well recollect one fine brindled fellow, called
Page 136
'Nero,' who, during his kittenhood, 'purred' the following epistle to a little
girl who had been his playmate:—
"Hartshead, near the Hole-in-the-Wall,
"July 23, 1825.
"Harrrrrrr,
"Mew, wew, auw, mauw, hee, wee, miaw, waw, wurr, whirr, ghurr, wew,
mew, whew, isssss, tz, tz, tz, purrurrurrur."
DONE INTO ENGLISH.
"Harriet,
"This comes to tell you that I am very well, and I hope you are so too.
I am growing a great cat; pray how do you come on? I wish you were
here to carry me about as you used to do, and I would scratch you to
some purpose, for I can do this much better than I could while you
were here. I have not run away yet, but I believe I shall soon, for I find
my feet are too many for my head, and often carry me into mischief.
Love to Sheffelina, though I was always fit to pull her cap when I saw
you petting her. My cross old mother sends her love to you—she
shows me very little now-a-days, I assure you, so I do not care what
she does with the rest. She has brought me a mouse or two, and I
caught one myself last night; but it was in my dream, and I awoke as
hungry as a hunter, and fell to biting at my tail, which I believe I
should have eaten up; but it would not let me catch it. So no more at
present from
Tiny.
"P.S.—They call me Tiny yet, you see; but I intend to take the name of
Nero, after the lion fight at Warwick next week, if the lion conquers,
not else.
"2d P.S.—I forgot to tell you that I can beg, but I like better to steal,—
it's more natural, you know.
girl who had been his playmate:—
"Hartshead, near the Hole-in-the-Wall,
"July 23, 1825.
"Harrrrrrr,
"Mew, wew, auw, mauw, hee, wee, miaw, waw, wurr, whirr, ghurr, wew,
mew, whew, isssss, tz, tz, tz, purrurrurrur."
DONE INTO ENGLISH.
"Harriet,
"This comes to tell you that I am very well, and I hope you are so too.
I am growing a great cat; pray how do you come on? I wish you were
here to carry me about as you used to do, and I would scratch you to
some purpose, for I can do this much better than I could while you
were here. I have not run away yet, but I believe I shall soon, for I find
my feet are too many for my head, and often carry me into mischief.
Love to Sheffelina, though I was always fit to pull her cap when I saw
you petting her. My cross old mother sends her love to you—she
shows me very little now-a-days, I assure you, so I do not care what
she does with the rest. She has brought me a mouse or two, and I
caught one myself last night; but it was in my dream, and I awoke as
hungry as a hunter, and fell to biting at my tail, which I believe I
should have eaten up; but it would not let me catch it. So no more at
present from
Tiny.
"P.S.—They call me Tiny yet, you see; but I intend to take the name of
Nero, after the lion fight at Warwick next week, if the lion conquers,
not else.
"2d P.S.—I forgot to tell you that I can beg, but I like better to steal,—
it's more natural, you know.
Page 137
"Harriet, at Ockbrook."
Sir Walter Scott's Visit to the Black Dwarf.—David Ritchie's Cat.
David Ritchie, the prototype of the "Black Dwarf," inhabited a small
cottage on the farm of Woodhouse, parish of Manor, Peeblesshire. In the
year 1797, Walter Scott, then a young advocate, was taken by the Fergusons
to see "Bowed Davie," as the poor misanthropic man was generally called.
Mr William Chambers,[131] the historian of his native county, describes the
visit at greater length than Scott has done in the introduction to his novel.
He says—"At the first sight of Scott, the misanthrope seemed oppressed
with a sentiment of extraordinary interest, which was either owing to the
lameness of the stranger—a circumstance throwing a narrower gulf between
this person and himself than what existed between him and most other men
—or to some perception of an extraordinary mental character in this
limping youth, which was then hid from other eyes. After grinning upon
him for a moment with a smile less bitter than his wont, the dwarf passed to
the door, double-locked it, and then coming up to the stranger, seized him
by the wrist with one of his iron hands, and said, 'Man, hae ye ony poo'er?'
By this he meant magical power, to which he had himself some vague
pretensions, or which, at least, he had studied and reflected upon till it had
become with him a kind of monomania. Scott disavowed the possession of
any gifts of that kind, evidently to the great disappointment of the inquirer,
who then turned round and gave a signal to a huge black cat, hitherto
unobserved, which immediately jumped up to a shelf, where it perched
itself, and seemed to the excited senses of the visitors as if it had really been
the familiar spirit of the mansion. 'He has poo'er,' said the dwarf in a voice
which made the flesh of the hearers thrill, and Scott, in particular, looked as
if he conceived himself to have actually got into the den of one of those
magicians with whom his studies had rendered him familiar. 'Ay, he has
poo'er,' repeated the recluse; and then, going to his usual seat, he sat for
some minutes grinning horribly, as if enjoying the impression he had made,
while not a word escaped from any of the party. Mr Ferguson at length
plucked up his spirits, and called to David to open the door, as they must
now be going. The dwarf slowly obeyed, and when they had got out, Mr
Ferguson observed that his friend was as pale as ashes, while his person was
Sir Walter Scott's Visit to the Black Dwarf.—David Ritchie's Cat.
David Ritchie, the prototype of the "Black Dwarf," inhabited a small
cottage on the farm of Woodhouse, parish of Manor, Peeblesshire. In the
year 1797, Walter Scott, then a young advocate, was taken by the Fergusons
to see "Bowed Davie," as the poor misanthropic man was generally called.
Mr William Chambers,[131] the historian of his native county, describes the
visit at greater length than Scott has done in the introduction to his novel.
He says—"At the first sight of Scott, the misanthrope seemed oppressed
with a sentiment of extraordinary interest, which was either owing to the
lameness of the stranger—a circumstance throwing a narrower gulf between
this person and himself than what existed between him and most other men
—or to some perception of an extraordinary mental character in this
limping youth, which was then hid from other eyes. After grinning upon
him for a moment with a smile less bitter than his wont, the dwarf passed to
the door, double-locked it, and then coming up to the stranger, seized him
by the wrist with one of his iron hands, and said, 'Man, hae ye ony poo'er?'
By this he meant magical power, to which he had himself some vague
pretensions, or which, at least, he had studied and reflected upon till it had
become with him a kind of monomania. Scott disavowed the possession of
any gifts of that kind, evidently to the great disappointment of the inquirer,
who then turned round and gave a signal to a huge black cat, hitherto
unobserved, which immediately jumped up to a shelf, where it perched
itself, and seemed to the excited senses of the visitors as if it had really been
the familiar spirit of the mansion. 'He has poo'er,' said the dwarf in a voice
which made the flesh of the hearers thrill, and Scott, in particular, looked as
if he conceived himself to have actually got into the den of one of those
magicians with whom his studies had rendered him familiar. 'Ay, he has
poo'er,' repeated the recluse; and then, going to his usual seat, he sat for
some minutes grinning horribly, as if enjoying the impression he had made,
while not a word escaped from any of the party. Mr Ferguson at length
plucked up his spirits, and called to David to open the door, as they must
now be going. The dwarf slowly obeyed, and when they had got out, Mr
Ferguson observed that his friend was as pale as ashes, while his person was
Page 138
agitated in every limb. Under such striking circumstances was this
extraordinary being first presented to the real magician, who was
afterwards to give him such a deathless celebrity."
Mr Chambers doubtless received the particulars of this visit from Sir Adam
Ferguson, Scott's friend and companion.
Robert Southey, like Jeremy Bentham, with whom the Quarterly Reviewer
would have grudged to have been classified, loved cats. His son, in his
"Life and Correspondence," vol. vi. p. 210, says—"My father's fondness for
cats has been occasionally shown by allusion in his letters,[132] and in 'The
Doctor' is inserted an amusing memorial of the various cats which at
different times were inmates of Greta Hall. He rejoiced in bestowing upon
them the strangest appellations, and it was not a little amusing to see a
kitten answer to the name of some Italian singer or Indian chief, or hero of a
German fairy tale, and often names and titles were heaped one upon
another, till the possessor, unconscious of the honour conveyed, used to 'set
up his eyes and look' in wonderment. Mr Bedford had an equal liking for
the feline race, and occasional notices of their favourites therefore passed
between them, of which the following records the death of one of the
greatest:—
"'To Grosvenor C. Bedford, Esq.
"'Keswick, May 18, 1833.
"'My Dear G—— ... —Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was
found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form
wishes on that subject. His full titles were:—"The Most Noble the
Archduke Rumpelstiltzchen, Marquis M'Bum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron
Raticide, Waowhler, and Skaratch." There should be a court mourning in
Catland, and if the Dragon[133] wear a black ribbon round his neck, or a
band of crape à la militaire round one of the fore paws, it will be but a
becoming mark of respect.
extraordinary being first presented to the real magician, who was
afterwards to give him such a deathless celebrity."
Mr Chambers doubtless received the particulars of this visit from Sir Adam
Ferguson, Scott's friend and companion.
Robert Southey, like Jeremy Bentham, with whom the Quarterly Reviewer
would have grudged to have been classified, loved cats. His son, in his
"Life and Correspondence," vol. vi. p. 210, says—"My father's fondness for
cats has been occasionally shown by allusion in his letters,[132] and in 'The
Doctor' is inserted an amusing memorial of the various cats which at
different times were inmates of Greta Hall. He rejoiced in bestowing upon
them the strangest appellations, and it was not a little amusing to see a
kitten answer to the name of some Italian singer or Indian chief, or hero of a
German fairy tale, and often names and titles were heaped one upon
another, till the possessor, unconscious of the honour conveyed, used to 'set
up his eyes and look' in wonderment. Mr Bedford had an equal liking for
the feline race, and occasional notices of their favourites therefore passed
between them, of which the following records the death of one of the
greatest:—
"'To Grosvenor C. Bedford, Esq.
"'Keswick, May 18, 1833.
"'My Dear G—— ... —Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was
found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form
wishes on that subject. His full titles were:—"The Most Noble the
Archduke Rumpelstiltzchen, Marquis M'Bum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron
Raticide, Waowhler, and Skaratch." There should be a court mourning in
Catland, and if the Dragon[133] wear a black ribbon round his neck, or a
band of crape à la militaire round one of the fore paws, it will be but a
becoming mark of respect.
Page 139
"'As we have no catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the
orchard, and cat-mint planted on his grave. Poor creature, it is well that he
has thus come to his end after he had become an object of pity, I believe we
are, each and all, servants included, more sorry for his loss, or rather more
affected by it, than any one of us would like to confess.
"'I should not have written to you at present, had it not been to notify this
event.
R. S.'"
In a letter from Leyden to his son Cuthbert, then in his seventh year, he says
—"I hope Rumpelstiltzchen has recovered his health, and that Miss Cat is
well; and I should like to know whether Miss Fitzrumpel has been given
away, and if there is another kitten. The Dutch cats do not speak exactly the
same language as the English ones. I will tell you how they talk when I
come home."[134]
Archbishop Whately's Anecdote of the Cat that used to Ring the
Bell.
Archbishop Whately[135] records a case of an act done by a cat, which, if
done by a man, would be called reason. He says—"This cat lived many
years in my mother's family, and its feats of sagacity were witnessed by her,
my sisters, and myself. It was known, not merely once or twice, but
habitually, to ring the parlour bell whenever it wished the door to be
opened. Some alarm was excited on the first occasion that it turned bell-
ringer. The family had retired to rest, and in the middle of the night the
parlour-bell was rung violently; the sleepers were startled from their repose,
and proceeded down-stairs, with pokers and tongs, to interrupt, as they
thought, the predatory movement of some burglar; but they were agreeably
surprised to discover that the bell had been rung by pussy; who frequently
repeated the act whenever she wanted to get out of the parlour."
orchard, and cat-mint planted on his grave. Poor creature, it is well that he
has thus come to his end after he had become an object of pity, I believe we
are, each and all, servants included, more sorry for his loss, or rather more
affected by it, than any one of us would like to confess.
"'I should not have written to you at present, had it not been to notify this
event.
R. S.'"
In a letter from Leyden to his son Cuthbert, then in his seventh year, he says
—"I hope Rumpelstiltzchen has recovered his health, and that Miss Cat is
well; and I should like to know whether Miss Fitzrumpel has been given
away, and if there is another kitten. The Dutch cats do not speak exactly the
same language as the English ones. I will tell you how they talk when I
come home."[134]
Archbishop Whately's Anecdote of the Cat that used to Ring the
Bell.
Archbishop Whately[135] records a case of an act done by a cat, which, if
done by a man, would be called reason. He says—"This cat lived many
years in my mother's family, and its feats of sagacity were witnessed by her,
my sisters, and myself. It was known, not merely once or twice, but
habitually, to ring the parlour bell whenever it wished the door to be
opened. Some alarm was excited on the first occasion that it turned bell-
ringer. The family had retired to rest, and in the middle of the night the
parlour-bell was rung violently; the sleepers were startled from their repose,
and proceeded down-stairs, with pokers and tongs, to interrupt, as they
thought, the predatory movement of some burglar; but they were agreeably
surprised to discover that the bell had been rung by pussy; who frequently
repeated the act whenever she wanted to get out of the parlour."
Page 140
A friend (D. D., Esq., Edinburgh) tells me of a cat his family had in the
country, that used regularly to "tirl at the pin" of the back door when it
wished to get in to the house.
country, that used regularly to "tirl at the pin" of the back door when it
wished to get in to the house.
Page 141
TIGER AND LION.
These most ferocious of the Carnivora have afforded interesting subjects to
many a traveller. An extensive volume of truly sensational adventure might
be compiled about them, adding a chapter for the jaguar and the leopard,
two extremely dangerous spotted cats, that can do what neither tigers nor
lions are able to do—namely, climb trees. Having once asked a friend, who
was at the death of many a wild beast, which was the most savage animal
he had ever seen, he replied, "A wounded leopard." It was to such an animal
that Jacob referred when he saw Joseph's clothes, and said—"Some evil
beast hath devoured him." Colonel Campbell's work, from which the first
paragraph is derived, contains much about the pursuit of the tiger. Dr
Livingstone's travels and Gordon Cumming's books on South Africa,
neither of which we have quoted, have thrilling pages about the lordly
presence of "the king of beasts." Mr Joseph Wolf and Mr Lewis are perhaps
the best draughtsmen of the lion among recent artists. The public admire
much Sir Edwin Landseer's striking bronze lions on the pedestal of the
Nelson Monument. That artist excels in his pictures of the lion. On the
Assyrian monuments in the British Museum are many wonderfully
executed lion hunts, as perfectly preserved as if they had been chiselled in
our day. Parts of these bas-reliefs were certainly designed from actual
sketches made from the lions and dogs, which took the chief part in the
amusements of some "Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord." Even our
Scottish kings kept a lion or lions as ornaments of their court. At Stirling
Castle and Palace, a room which we saw in 1865, still bears the name of the
"Lion's Den." The British lion is an old emblem of both Scotland and
England, and it is not twenty-five years ago since we, in common with
every visitor to the Tower, were glad to see "the Royal Lion." Dr
Livingstone's experience, we have not the slightest wish to prove its
accuracy, shows that the lion has a soothing, or rather paralysing power
over his prey, when he has knocked it down or bitten it.
Bussapa, the Tiger-slayer, and the Tiger.
These most ferocious of the Carnivora have afforded interesting subjects to
many a traveller. An extensive volume of truly sensational adventure might
be compiled about them, adding a chapter for the jaguar and the leopard,
two extremely dangerous spotted cats, that can do what neither tigers nor
lions are able to do—namely, climb trees. Having once asked a friend, who
was at the death of many a wild beast, which was the most savage animal
he had ever seen, he replied, "A wounded leopard." It was to such an animal
that Jacob referred when he saw Joseph's clothes, and said—"Some evil
beast hath devoured him." Colonel Campbell's work, from which the first
paragraph is derived, contains much about the pursuit of the tiger. Dr
Livingstone's travels and Gordon Cumming's books on South Africa,
neither of which we have quoted, have thrilling pages about the lordly
presence of "the king of beasts." Mr Joseph Wolf and Mr Lewis are perhaps
the best draughtsmen of the lion among recent artists. The public admire
much Sir Edwin Landseer's striking bronze lions on the pedestal of the
Nelson Monument. That artist excels in his pictures of the lion. On the
Assyrian monuments in the British Museum are many wonderfully
executed lion hunts, as perfectly preserved as if they had been chiselled in
our day. Parts of these bas-reliefs were certainly designed from actual
sketches made from the lions and dogs, which took the chief part in the
amusements of some "Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord." Even our
Scottish kings kept a lion or lions as ornaments of their court. At Stirling
Castle and Palace, a room which we saw in 1865, still bears the name of the
"Lion's Den." The British lion is an old emblem of both Scotland and
England, and it is not twenty-five years ago since we, in common with
every visitor to the Tower, were glad to see "the Royal Lion." Dr
Livingstone's experience, we have not the slightest wish to prove its
accuracy, shows that the lion has a soothing, or rather paralysing power
over his prey, when he has knocked it down or bitten it.
Bussapa, the Tiger-slayer, and the Tiger.
Page 142
The following striking anecdote recounts the extraordinary presence of
mind and determined courage of a celebrated Mahratta hunter named
Bussapa. This man acquired the name of the "Tiger-slayer," and wore on his
breast several silver medals granted by the Indian Government for feats of
courage in destroying tigers. Colonel Campbell met him, and in "My Indian
Journal" (pp. 142, 143), published in 1864, has recorded from his brother's
diary the following anecdote:—"Bussapa, a hunter of 'Lingyat' caste, with
whom I am well acquainted, was sent for by the headman of a village, to
destroy a tiger which had carried off a number of cattle. He came, and
having ascertained the brute's usual haunts, fastened a bullock near the edge
of a ravine which he frequented, and quietly seated himself beside it,
protected only by a small bush. Soon after sunset the tiger appeared, killed
the bullock, and was glutting himself with blood, when Bussapa, thrusting
his long matchlock through the bush, fired, and wounded him severely. The
tiger half rose, but being unable to see his assailant on account of the
intervening bush, dropped again on his prey with a sudden growl. Bussapa
was kneeling within three paces of him, completely defenceless; he did not
even dare to reload, for he well knew that the slightest movement on his
part would be the signal for his immediate destruction; his bare knees were
pressed upon gravel, but he dared not venture to shift his uneasy position.
Ever and anon, the tiger, as he lay with his glaring eyes fixed upon the bush,
uttered his hoarse growl of anger; his hot breath absolutely blew upon the
cheek of the wretched man, yet still he moved not. The pain of his cramped
position increased every moment—suspense became almost intolerable; but
the motion of a limb, the rustling of a leaf, would have been death. Thus
they remained, the man and the tiger, watching each other's motions; but
even in this fearful situation, his presence of mind never for a moment
forsook the noble fellow. He heard the gong of the village strike each hour
of that fearful night, that seemed to him 'eternity,' and yet he lived; the
tormenting mosquitoes swarmed round his face, but he dared not brush
them off. That fiend-like eye met his whenever he ventured a glance
towards the horrid spell that bound him; and a hoarse growl grated on the
stillness of the night, as a passing breeze stirred the leaves that sheltered
him. Hours rolled on, and his powers of endurance were well-nigh
exhausted, when, at length, the welcome streaks of light shot up from the
eastern horizon. On the approach of day, the tiger rose, and stalked away
mind and determined courage of a celebrated Mahratta hunter named
Bussapa. This man acquired the name of the "Tiger-slayer," and wore on his
breast several silver medals granted by the Indian Government for feats of
courage in destroying tigers. Colonel Campbell met him, and in "My Indian
Journal" (pp. 142, 143), published in 1864, has recorded from his brother's
diary the following anecdote:—"Bussapa, a hunter of 'Lingyat' caste, with
whom I am well acquainted, was sent for by the headman of a village, to
destroy a tiger which had carried off a number of cattle. He came, and
having ascertained the brute's usual haunts, fastened a bullock near the edge
of a ravine which he frequented, and quietly seated himself beside it,
protected only by a small bush. Soon after sunset the tiger appeared, killed
the bullock, and was glutting himself with blood, when Bussapa, thrusting
his long matchlock through the bush, fired, and wounded him severely. The
tiger half rose, but being unable to see his assailant on account of the
intervening bush, dropped again on his prey with a sudden growl. Bussapa
was kneeling within three paces of him, completely defenceless; he did not
even dare to reload, for he well knew that the slightest movement on his
part would be the signal for his immediate destruction; his bare knees were
pressed upon gravel, but he dared not venture to shift his uneasy position.
Ever and anon, the tiger, as he lay with his glaring eyes fixed upon the bush,
uttered his hoarse growl of anger; his hot breath absolutely blew upon the
cheek of the wretched man, yet still he moved not. The pain of his cramped
position increased every moment—suspense became almost intolerable; but
the motion of a limb, the rustling of a leaf, would have been death. Thus
they remained, the man and the tiger, watching each other's motions; but
even in this fearful situation, his presence of mind never for a moment
forsook the noble fellow. He heard the gong of the village strike each hour
of that fearful night, that seemed to him 'eternity,' and yet he lived; the
tormenting mosquitoes swarmed round his face, but he dared not brush
them off. That fiend-like eye met his whenever he ventured a glance
towards the horrid spell that bound him; and a hoarse growl grated on the
stillness of the night, as a passing breeze stirred the leaves that sheltered
him. Hours rolled on, and his powers of endurance were well-nigh
exhausted, when, at length, the welcome streaks of light shot up from the
eastern horizon. On the approach of day, the tiger rose, and stalked away
Page 143
with a sulky pace, to a thicket at some distance, and then the stiff and
wearied Bussapa felt that he was safe.
"One would have thought that, after such a night of suffering, he would
have been too thankful for his escape, to venture on any further risk. But the
valiant Bussapa was not so easily diverted from his purpose; as soon as he
had stretched his cramped limbs, and restored the checked circulation, he
reloaded his matchlock, and coolly proceeded to finish his work. With his
match lighted, he advanced close to the tiger, lying ready to receive him,
and shot him dead by a ball in the forehead, while in the act of charging."
Colonel Campbell relates, that most of Bussapa's family have fallen victims
to tigers. But the firm belief of the "tiger-slayer" in predestination, makes
him blind to all danger.
John Hunter and the Dead Tiger.
The greatest comparative anatomist our country has produced, John Hunter,
obtained the refusal of all animals which happened to die in the Tower or in
the travelling menageries. In this way he often obtained rare subjects for his
researches. Dr Forbes Winslow[136] alludes to a well-known fact, that all the
money Hunter could spare, was devoted to procuring curiosities of this sort,
and Sir Everard Home used to state, that as soon as he had accumulated fees
to the amount of ten guineas, he always purchased some addition to his
collection. Indeed, he was not unfrequently obliged to borrow of his friends,
when his own funds were at a low ebb, and the temptation was strong.
"Pray, George," said he one day to Mr G. Nicol, the bookseller to the king,
with whom he was very intimate, "have you got any money in your
pocket?" Mr N. replied in the affirmative. "Have you got five guineas?
Because, if you have, and will lend it me, you shall go halves."—"Halves in
what?" inquired his friend.—"Why, halves in a magnificent tiger, which is
now dying in Castle Street." Mr Nicol lent the money, and Hunter
purchased the tiger.
Tigers.
wearied Bussapa felt that he was safe.
"One would have thought that, after such a night of suffering, he would
have been too thankful for his escape, to venture on any further risk. But the
valiant Bussapa was not so easily diverted from his purpose; as soon as he
had stretched his cramped limbs, and restored the checked circulation, he
reloaded his matchlock, and coolly proceeded to finish his work. With his
match lighted, he advanced close to the tiger, lying ready to receive him,
and shot him dead by a ball in the forehead, while in the act of charging."
Colonel Campbell relates, that most of Bussapa's family have fallen victims
to tigers. But the firm belief of the "tiger-slayer" in predestination, makes
him blind to all danger.
John Hunter and the Dead Tiger.
The greatest comparative anatomist our country has produced, John Hunter,
obtained the refusal of all animals which happened to die in the Tower or in
the travelling menageries. In this way he often obtained rare subjects for his
researches. Dr Forbes Winslow[136] alludes to a well-known fact, that all the
money Hunter could spare, was devoted to procuring curiosities of this sort,
and Sir Everard Home used to state, that as soon as he had accumulated fees
to the amount of ten guineas, he always purchased some addition to his
collection. Indeed, he was not unfrequently obliged to borrow of his friends,
when his own funds were at a low ebb, and the temptation was strong.
"Pray, George," said he one day to Mr G. Nicol, the bookseller to the king,
with whom he was very intimate, "have you got any money in your
pocket?" Mr N. replied in the affirmative. "Have you got five guineas?
Because, if you have, and will lend it me, you shall go halves."—"Halves in
what?" inquired his friend.—"Why, halves in a magnificent tiger, which is
now dying in Castle Street." Mr Nicol lent the money, and Hunter
purchased the tiger.
Tigers.
Page 144
Mrs Colin Mackenzie[137] records the death of a man from the wounds of a
tiger. "The tiger," she says, "was brought in on the second day. He died
from the wound he had received. I gave the body to the Dhers in our
service, who ate it. The claws and whiskers are greatly prized by the natives
as charms. The latter are supposed to give the possessor a certain malignant
power over his enemies, for which reason I always take possession of them
to prevent our people getting them. The tiger is very commonly worshipped
all over India. The women often prostrate themselves before a dead tiger,
when sportsmen are bringing it home in triumph; and in a village, near
Nagpur, Mr Hislop found a number of rude images, almost like four-legged
stools, which, on inquiry, proved to be meant for tigers, who were
worshipped as the tutelary deities of the place. I believe a fresh image is
added for every tiger that is slain."
Lion and Tiger.
A jolly jack-tar, having strayed into Atkin's show at Bartholomew Fair, to
have a look at the wild beasts, was much struck with the sight of a lion and
a tiger in the same den. "Why, Jack," said he to a messmate, who was
chewing a quid in silent amazement, "I shouldn't wonder if next year they
were to carry about a sailor and a marine living peaceably
together!"—"Ay," said his married companion, "or a man and wife."[138]
We may add that we have long regarded it as a vile calumny to two animals
to say of a man and wife who quarrel, that they live "a cat and dog life." No
two animals are better agreed when kept together. Each knows his own
place and keeps it. Hence they live at peace—speaking "generally," as "Mr
Artemus Ward" would say of "such an observation."
Androcles and the Lion.
Addison,[139] in the 139th Guardian, has given us the story of Androcles
and the Lion. He prefaces it by saying that he has no regard "to what Æsop
has said upon the subject, whom," says he, "I look upon to have been a
republican, by the unworthy treatment which he often gives to the king of
tiger. "The tiger," she says, "was brought in on the second day. He died
from the wound he had received. I gave the body to the Dhers in our
service, who ate it. The claws and whiskers are greatly prized by the natives
as charms. The latter are supposed to give the possessor a certain malignant
power over his enemies, for which reason I always take possession of them
to prevent our people getting them. The tiger is very commonly worshipped
all over India. The women often prostrate themselves before a dead tiger,
when sportsmen are bringing it home in triumph; and in a village, near
Nagpur, Mr Hislop found a number of rude images, almost like four-legged
stools, which, on inquiry, proved to be meant for tigers, who were
worshipped as the tutelary deities of the place. I believe a fresh image is
added for every tiger that is slain."
Lion and Tiger.
A jolly jack-tar, having strayed into Atkin's show at Bartholomew Fair, to
have a look at the wild beasts, was much struck with the sight of a lion and
a tiger in the same den. "Why, Jack," said he to a messmate, who was
chewing a quid in silent amazement, "I shouldn't wonder if next year they
were to carry about a sailor and a marine living peaceably
together!"—"Ay," said his married companion, "or a man and wife."[138]
We may add that we have long regarded it as a vile calumny to two animals
to say of a man and wife who quarrel, that they live "a cat and dog life." No
two animals are better agreed when kept together. Each knows his own
place and keeps it. Hence they live at peace—speaking "generally," as "Mr
Artemus Ward" would say of "such an observation."
Androcles and the Lion.
Addison,[139] in the 139th Guardian, has given us the story of Androcles
and the Lion. He prefaces it by saying that he has no regard "to what Æsop
has said upon the subject, whom," says he, "I look upon to have been a
republican, by the unworthy treatment which he often gives to the king of
Page 145
beasts, and whom, if I had time, I could convict of falsehood and forgery in
almost every matter of fact which he has related of this generous animal."
Better observation of it, however, from the time of Burchell to that of
Livingstone, shows that Æsop's account is on the whole to be relied on, and
that the lion is a thorough cat, treacherous, cruel, and, for the most part,
with a good deal of the coward in him.
The story of Androcles was related by Aulus Gellius, who extracted it from
Dion Cassius. Although likely to be embellished, there is every likelihood
of the foundation of the story being true. Addison relates this, "for the sake
of my learned reader, who needs go no further in it, if he has read it already:
—Androcles was the slave of a noble Roman who was proconsul of Afric.
He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to
death, had not he found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and fled
into the deserts of Numidia. As he was wandering among the barren sands,
and almost dead with heat and hunger, he saw a cave in the side of a rock.
He went into it, and finding at the farther end of it a place to sit down upon,
rested there for some time. At length, to his great surprise, a huge
overgrown lion entered at the mouth of the cave, and seeing a man at the
upper end of it, immediately made towards him. Androcles gave himself up
for gone;[140] but the lion, instead of treating him as he expected, laid his
paw upon his lap, and with a complaining kind of voice, fell a licking his
hand. Androcles, after having recovered himself a little from the fright he
was in, observed the lion's paw to be exceedingly swelled by a large thorn
that stuck in it. He immediately pulled it out, and by squeezing the paw
very gently made a great deal of corrupt matter run out of it, which,
probably freed the lion from the great anguish he had felt some time before.
The lion left him upon receiving this good office from him, and soon after
returned with a fawn which he had just killed. This he laid down at the feet
of his benefactor, and went off again in pursuit of his prey. Androcles, after
having sodden the flesh of it by the sun, subsisted upon it until the lion had
supplied him with another. He lived many days in this frightful solitude, the
lion catering for him with great assiduity. Being tired at length with this
savage society, he was resolved to deliver himself up into his master's
hands, and suffer the worst effects of his displeasure, rather than be thus
driven out from mankind. His master, as was customary for the proconsuls
of Africa, was at that time getting together a present of all the largest lions
almost every matter of fact which he has related of this generous animal."
Better observation of it, however, from the time of Burchell to that of
Livingstone, shows that Æsop's account is on the whole to be relied on, and
that the lion is a thorough cat, treacherous, cruel, and, for the most part,
with a good deal of the coward in him.
The story of Androcles was related by Aulus Gellius, who extracted it from
Dion Cassius. Although likely to be embellished, there is every likelihood
of the foundation of the story being true. Addison relates this, "for the sake
of my learned reader, who needs go no further in it, if he has read it already:
—Androcles was the slave of a noble Roman who was proconsul of Afric.
He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to
death, had not he found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and fled
into the deserts of Numidia. As he was wandering among the barren sands,
and almost dead with heat and hunger, he saw a cave in the side of a rock.
He went into it, and finding at the farther end of it a place to sit down upon,
rested there for some time. At length, to his great surprise, a huge
overgrown lion entered at the mouth of the cave, and seeing a man at the
upper end of it, immediately made towards him. Androcles gave himself up
for gone;[140] but the lion, instead of treating him as he expected, laid his
paw upon his lap, and with a complaining kind of voice, fell a licking his
hand. Androcles, after having recovered himself a little from the fright he
was in, observed the lion's paw to be exceedingly swelled by a large thorn
that stuck in it. He immediately pulled it out, and by squeezing the paw
very gently made a great deal of corrupt matter run out of it, which,
probably freed the lion from the great anguish he had felt some time before.
The lion left him upon receiving this good office from him, and soon after
returned with a fawn which he had just killed. This he laid down at the feet
of his benefactor, and went off again in pursuit of his prey. Androcles, after
having sodden the flesh of it by the sun, subsisted upon it until the lion had
supplied him with another. He lived many days in this frightful solitude, the
lion catering for him with great assiduity. Being tired at length with this
savage society, he was resolved to deliver himself up into his master's
hands, and suffer the worst effects of his displeasure, rather than be thus
driven out from mankind. His master, as was customary for the proconsuls
of Africa, was at that time getting together a present of all the largest lions
Page 146
that could be found in the country, in order to send them to Rome, that they
might furnish out a show to the Roman people. Upon his poor slave
surrendering himself into his hands, he ordered him to be carried away to
Rome as soon as the lions were in readiness to be sent, and that for his
crime he should be exposed to fight with one of the lions in the
amphitheatre, as usual, for the diversion of the people. This was all
performed accordingly. Androcles, after such a strange run of fortune, was
now in the area of the theatre, amidst thousands of spectators, expecting
every moment when his antagonist would come out upon him. At length a
huge monstrous lion leaped out from the place where he had been kept
hungry for the show. He advanced with great rage towards the man, but on
a sudden, after having regarded him a little wistfully, fell to the ground, and
crept towards his feet with all the signs of blandishment and caress.
Androcles, after a short pause, discovered that it was his old Numidian
friend, and immediately renewed his acquaintance with him. Their mutual
congratulations were very surprising to the beholders, who, upon hearing an
account of the whole matter from Androcles, ordered him to be pardoned,
and the lion to be given up into his possession. Androcles returned at Rome
the civilities which he had received from him in the deserts of Afric. Dion
Cassius says, that he himself saw the man leading the lion about the streets
of Rome, the people everywhere gathering about them, and repeating to one
another, 'Hic est leo hospes hominis; hic est homo medicus leonis.' 'This is
the lion who was the man's host; this is the man who was the lion's
physician.'"
We are glad to repeat this anecdote, although some may call it "stale and
old." The last time we were at the Zoological Gardens, in the Regents Park,
London, we saw a lion very kindly come and rub itself against the rails of
its den, on seeing a turbaned visitor come up, who addressed it. The man
had been kind to it on its passage home. It was by no means a tame lion, nor
one that its keeper would have ventured to touch.
Sir George Davis and the Lion
Steele, in the 146th Guardian,[141] has followed up a paper by Addison, on
the subject of lions, and gives an anecdote sent him, he says, by "a worthy
might furnish out a show to the Roman people. Upon his poor slave
surrendering himself into his hands, he ordered him to be carried away to
Rome as soon as the lions were in readiness to be sent, and that for his
crime he should be exposed to fight with one of the lions in the
amphitheatre, as usual, for the diversion of the people. This was all
performed accordingly. Androcles, after such a strange run of fortune, was
now in the area of the theatre, amidst thousands of spectators, expecting
every moment when his antagonist would come out upon him. At length a
huge monstrous lion leaped out from the place where he had been kept
hungry for the show. He advanced with great rage towards the man, but on
a sudden, after having regarded him a little wistfully, fell to the ground, and
crept towards his feet with all the signs of blandishment and caress.
Androcles, after a short pause, discovered that it was his old Numidian
friend, and immediately renewed his acquaintance with him. Their mutual
congratulations were very surprising to the beholders, who, upon hearing an
account of the whole matter from Androcles, ordered him to be pardoned,
and the lion to be given up into his possession. Androcles returned at Rome
the civilities which he had received from him in the deserts of Afric. Dion
Cassius says, that he himself saw the man leading the lion about the streets
of Rome, the people everywhere gathering about them, and repeating to one
another, 'Hic est leo hospes hominis; hic est homo medicus leonis.' 'This is
the lion who was the man's host; this is the man who was the lion's
physician.'"
We are glad to repeat this anecdote, although some may call it "stale and
old." The last time we were at the Zoological Gardens, in the Regents Park,
London, we saw a lion very kindly come and rub itself against the rails of
its den, on seeing a turbaned visitor come up, who addressed it. The man
had been kind to it on its passage home. It was by no means a tame lion, nor
one that its keeper would have ventured to touch.
Sir George Davis and the Lion
Steele, in the 146th Guardian,[141] has followed up a paper by Addison, on
the subject of lions, and gives an anecdote sent him, he says, by "a worthy
Page 147
merchant and a friend of mine," who had it in the year 1700 from the
gentleman to whom it happened.
"About sixty years ago, when the plague raged at Naples, Sir George Davis,
consul there for the English nation, retired to Florence. It happened one day
he went out of curiosity to see the great duke's lions. At the farther end, in
one of the dens, lay a lion, which the keepers in three years' time could not
tame, with all the art and gentle usage imaginable. Sir George no sooner
appeared at the grates of the den, but the lion ran to him with all the marks
of joy and transport he was capable of expressing. He reared himself up,
and licked his hand, which this gentleman put in through the grates. The
keeper affrighted, took him by the arm and pulled him away, begging him
not to hazard his life by going so near the fiercest creature of that kind that
ever entered those dens. However, nothing would satisfy Sir George,
notwithstanding all that could be said to dissuade him, but he must go into
the den to him. The very instant he entered, the lion threw his paws upon
his shoulders, and licked his face, and ran to and fro in the den, fawning and
full of joy, like a dog at the sight of his master. After several embraces and
salutations exchanged on both sides, they parted very good friends. The
rumour of this interview between the lion and the stranger rung
immediately through the whole city, and Sir George was very near passing
for a saint among the people. The great duke, when he heard of it, sent for
Sir George, who waited upon his highness, to the den, and to satisfy his
curiosity, gave him the following account of what seemed so strange to the
duke and his followers:—
"'A captain of a ship from Barbary gave me this lion when he was a young
whelp. I brought him up tame, but when I thought him too large to be
suffered to run about the house, I built a den for him in my courtyard; from
that time he was never permitted to go loose, except when I brought him
within doors to show him to my friends. When he was five years old, in his
gamesome tricks, he did some mischief by pawing and playing with people.
Having griped a man one day a little too hard, I ordered him to be shot, for
fear of incurring the guilt of what might happen; upon this a friend who was
then at dinner with me begged him: how he came here I know not.'
Here Sir George Davis ended, and thereupon the Duke of Tuscany assured
him that he had the lion from that very friend of his."
gentleman to whom it happened.
"About sixty years ago, when the plague raged at Naples, Sir George Davis,
consul there for the English nation, retired to Florence. It happened one day
he went out of curiosity to see the great duke's lions. At the farther end, in
one of the dens, lay a lion, which the keepers in three years' time could not
tame, with all the art and gentle usage imaginable. Sir George no sooner
appeared at the grates of the den, but the lion ran to him with all the marks
of joy and transport he was capable of expressing. He reared himself up,
and licked his hand, which this gentleman put in through the grates. The
keeper affrighted, took him by the arm and pulled him away, begging him
not to hazard his life by going so near the fiercest creature of that kind that
ever entered those dens. However, nothing would satisfy Sir George,
notwithstanding all that could be said to dissuade him, but he must go into
the den to him. The very instant he entered, the lion threw his paws upon
his shoulders, and licked his face, and ran to and fro in the den, fawning and
full of joy, like a dog at the sight of his master. After several embraces and
salutations exchanged on both sides, they parted very good friends. The
rumour of this interview between the lion and the stranger rung
immediately through the whole city, and Sir George was very near passing
for a saint among the people. The great duke, when he heard of it, sent for
Sir George, who waited upon his highness, to the den, and to satisfy his
curiosity, gave him the following account of what seemed so strange to the
duke and his followers:—
"'A captain of a ship from Barbary gave me this lion when he was a young
whelp. I brought him up tame, but when I thought him too large to be
suffered to run about the house, I built a den for him in my courtyard; from
that time he was never permitted to go loose, except when I brought him
within doors to show him to my friends. When he was five years old, in his
gamesome tricks, he did some mischief by pawing and playing with people.
Having griped a man one day a little too hard, I ordered him to be shot, for
fear of incurring the guilt of what might happen; upon this a friend who was
then at dinner with me begged him: how he came here I know not.'
Here Sir George Davis ended, and thereupon the Duke of Tuscany assured
him that he had the lion from that very friend of his."
Page 148
Canova's Lions and the Child.
The mausoleum of Pope Clement XII., whose name was Rezzonico, is one
of the greatest works of Antonio Canova, the celebrated Italian sculptor. It
is in St Peter's, at Rome, and was erected in 1792. It is only mentioned here
on account of two lions, which were faithfully studied from nature.
His biographer, Mr Memes,[142] tells us that these lions were formed "after
long and repeated observation on the habits and forms of the living animals.
Wherever they were to be seen Canova constantly visited them, at all hours,
and under every variety of circumstances, that he might mark their natural
expression in different states of action and of repose, of ferocity or
gentleness. One of the keepers was even paid to bring information, lest any
favourable opportunity should pass unimproved."
One of these lions is sleeping, while the other, which is under the figure of
the personification of religion, couches—but is awake, in attitude of
guarding inviolate the approach to the sepulchre, and ready with a
tremendous roar to spring upon the intruder.
Canova himself was much pleased with these lions. Mr Memes illustrates
their wonderful force and truth by a little anecdote.
"One day, while the author (a frequent employment) stood at some distance
admiring from different points of view the tomb of Rezzonico, a woman
with a child in her arms advanced to the lion, which appears to be watching.
The terrified infant began to scream violently, clinging to the nurse's bosom,
and exclaiming, 'Mordera, mamma, mordera!' (It will bite, mamma; it will
bite.) The mother turned to the opposite one, which seems asleep; her
charge was instantly pacified; and smiling through tears, extended its little
arm to stroke the shaggy head, whispering in subdued accents, as if afraid to
awake the monster, 'O come placido! non mordero quello, mamma.' (How
gentle! this one will not bite, mother.")
Admiral Napier and the Lion in the Tower.
Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B., when a boy in his fourteenth year,
visited London on his way to join his first ship at Spithead, the Renown. His
The mausoleum of Pope Clement XII., whose name was Rezzonico, is one
of the greatest works of Antonio Canova, the celebrated Italian sculptor. It
is in St Peter's, at Rome, and was erected in 1792. It is only mentioned here
on account of two lions, which were faithfully studied from nature.
His biographer, Mr Memes,[142] tells us that these lions were formed "after
long and repeated observation on the habits and forms of the living animals.
Wherever they were to be seen Canova constantly visited them, at all hours,
and under every variety of circumstances, that he might mark their natural
expression in different states of action and of repose, of ferocity or
gentleness. One of the keepers was even paid to bring information, lest any
favourable opportunity should pass unimproved."
One of these lions is sleeping, while the other, which is under the figure of
the personification of religion, couches—but is awake, in attitude of
guarding inviolate the approach to the sepulchre, and ready with a
tremendous roar to spring upon the intruder.
Canova himself was much pleased with these lions. Mr Memes illustrates
their wonderful force and truth by a little anecdote.
"One day, while the author (a frequent employment) stood at some distance
admiring from different points of view the tomb of Rezzonico, a woman
with a child in her arms advanced to the lion, which appears to be watching.
The terrified infant began to scream violently, clinging to the nurse's bosom,
and exclaiming, 'Mordera, mamma, mordera!' (It will bite, mamma; it will
bite.) The mother turned to the opposite one, which seems asleep; her
charge was instantly pacified; and smiling through tears, extended its little
arm to stroke the shaggy head, whispering in subdued accents, as if afraid to
awake the monster, 'O come placido! non mordero quello, mamma.' (How
gentle! this one will not bite, mother.")
Admiral Napier and the Lion in the Tower.
Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B., when a boy in his fourteenth year,
visited London on his way to join his first ship at Spithead, the Renown. His
Page 149
biographer tells us he was staying at the house of a relative, who, "after
showing the youngster all the London sights, took him to see the lions at the
Tower. Amongst them was one which the keeper represented as being so
very tame that, said he, 'you might put your hand into his mouth.' Taking
him at his word, the young middy, to the horror of the spectators, thrust his
hand into the jaws of the animal, who, no doubt, was taken as much by
surprise as the lookers-on. It was a daring feat; but providentially he did not
suffer for his temerity."[143] This reminds the biographer of Nelson's feat
with the polar bear, and of Charles Napier's (the soldier) bold adventure
with an eagle in his boyhood, as related by Sir William Napier in the history
of his gallant brother's life.
Old Lady and the Beasts on the Mound.
When the houses were cleared from the head of the Mound in Edinburgh, a
travelling menagerie had set up its caravans on that great earthen bridge,
just at the time when George Ferguson, the celebrated Scotch advocate,
better known by his justiciary title of Lord Hermand, came up, full of Pittite
triumph that the ministry of "all the talents" had fallen. "They are out! they
are all out! every mother's son of them!" he shouted. A lady, who heard the
words, and perceived his excited condition, imagined that he referred to the
wild beasts; and seizing the judge by his arm, exclaimed, "Gude heaven! we
shall a' be devoored!"[144]
showing the youngster all the London sights, took him to see the lions at the
Tower. Amongst them was one which the keeper represented as being so
very tame that, said he, 'you might put your hand into his mouth.' Taking
him at his word, the young middy, to the horror of the spectators, thrust his
hand into the jaws of the animal, who, no doubt, was taken as much by
surprise as the lookers-on. It was a daring feat; but providentially he did not
suffer for his temerity."[143] This reminds the biographer of Nelson's feat
with the polar bear, and of Charles Napier's (the soldier) bold adventure
with an eagle in his boyhood, as related by Sir William Napier in the history
of his gallant brother's life.
Old Lady and the Beasts on the Mound.
When the houses were cleared from the head of the Mound in Edinburgh, a
travelling menagerie had set up its caravans on that great earthen bridge,
just at the time when George Ferguson, the celebrated Scotch advocate,
better known by his justiciary title of Lord Hermand, came up, full of Pittite
triumph that the ministry of "all the talents" had fallen. "They are out! they
are all out! every mother's son of them!" he shouted. A lady, who heard the
words, and perceived his excited condition, imagined that he referred to the
wild beasts; and seizing the judge by his arm, exclaimed, "Gude heaven! we
shall a' be devoored!"[144]
Page 150
SEALS.
A most intelligent group of creatures, some of which the compiler has
watched in Yell Sound, close to Mossbank. He has even seen them once or
twice in the Forth, close to the end of the pier. In the Zoological Gardens a
specimen of the common seal proved for months a great source of attraction
by its mild nature, and its singular form and activity. It soon died, and, had a
coroner's jury returned a verdict, it would have been "Death from the hooks
swallowed with the fish" daily provided. We have heard seal-fishers
describe the great rapidity of the growth of seals in the Arctic seas. They
seem in about a fortnight after their birth to attain nearly the size of their
mothers. The same has been recorded of the whale order. Both seals and
whales have powers of assimilating food and making fat that are
unparalleled even by pigs. The intelligence of seals is marvellous. Many
who visited the Zoological Gardens in the Regent's Park in May and June
1866 witnessed instances of this in a seal from the South Seas, recently
exhibited in London. Persons on the sea-side might readily domesticate
these interesting and truly affectionate creatures. Hooker's sea-bear, the
species exhibited in London, was at first, so the kind Frenchman told us,
very fierce, but soon got reconciled to him, and, when I saw it, great was
the mutual attachment. It was a strangely interesting sight to see the great
creature walk on its fin-like legs, and clamber up and kiss the genial-
bearded French sailor.
Dr Adam Clarke on Shetland Seals.
In Shetland, Dr Adam Clarke tells us the popular belief is that the seals, or,
as they call them, selkies, are fallen spirits, and that it is dangerous to kill
any of them, as evil will assuredly happen to him who does. They think that
when the blood of a seal touches the water, the sea begins to rise and swell.
Those who shoot them notice that gulls appear to watch carefully over
them; and Mr Edmonston assured him that he has known a gull scratch, a
seal to warn it of his approach. Dr Clarke, in the second of his voyages to
Shetland, had a seal on board, which was caught on the Island of Papa. He
A most intelligent group of creatures, some of which the compiler has
watched in Yell Sound, close to Mossbank. He has even seen them once or
twice in the Forth, close to the end of the pier. In the Zoological Gardens a
specimen of the common seal proved for months a great source of attraction
by its mild nature, and its singular form and activity. It soon died, and, had a
coroner's jury returned a verdict, it would have been "Death from the hooks
swallowed with the fish" daily provided. We have heard seal-fishers
describe the great rapidity of the growth of seals in the Arctic seas. They
seem in about a fortnight after their birth to attain nearly the size of their
mothers. The same has been recorded of the whale order. Both seals and
whales have powers of assimilating food and making fat that are
unparalleled even by pigs. The intelligence of seals is marvellous. Many
who visited the Zoological Gardens in the Regent's Park in May and June
1866 witnessed instances of this in a seal from the South Seas, recently
exhibited in London. Persons on the sea-side might readily domesticate
these interesting and truly affectionate creatures. Hooker's sea-bear, the
species exhibited in London, was at first, so the kind Frenchman told us,
very fierce, but soon got reconciled to him, and, when I saw it, great was
the mutual attachment. It was a strangely interesting sight to see the great
creature walk on its fin-like legs, and clamber up and kiss the genial-
bearded French sailor.
Dr Adam Clarke on Shetland Seals.
In Shetland, Dr Adam Clarke tells us the popular belief is that the seals, or,
as they call them, selkies, are fallen spirits, and that it is dangerous to kill
any of them, as evil will assuredly happen to him who does. They think that
when the blood of a seal touches the water, the sea begins to rise and swell.
Those who shoot them notice that gulls appear to watch carefully over
them; and Mr Edmonston assured him that he has known a gull scratch, a
seal to warn it of his approach. Dr Clarke, in the second of his voyages to
Shetland, had a seal on board, which was caught on the Island of Papa. He
Page 151
says:—"It refuses all nourishment; it is very young, and about three feet
long; it roars nearly like a calf, but not so loud, and continually crawls
about the deck, seeking to get again to sea. As I cannot bear its cries, I
intend to return it to the giver. Several of them have been tamed by the
Shetlanders, and these will attend their owners to the place where the cows
are milked, in order to get a drink. This was the case with one Mr Henry of
Burrastow brought up. When it thought proper it would go to sea and forage
there, but was sure to return to land, and to its owner. They tell me that it is
a creature of considerable sagacity. The young seal mentioned above made
his escape over the gangway, and got to sea. I am glad of it; for its plaintive
lowing was painful to me. We saw it afterwards making its way to the
ocean."[145]
Dr Edmonston on Shetland Seals.
Every one familiar with seals is struck with their plaintive, intelligent faces,
and any one who has seen the seals from time to time living in the
Zoological Gardens must have been pleased with the marks of attention
paid by them to their keepers. Dr Edmonston of Balta Sound has published
in the "Memoirs of the Wernerian Society"[146] a graphic and valuable paper
on the distinctions, history, and hunting of seals in the Shetland Isles. As
that gentleman is a native of Unst, and had, when he wrote the Memoir,
been for more than twenty years actively engaged in their pursuit, both as
an amusement and as a study, we may extract two or three interesting
passages.
He remarks (p. 29) on the singular circumstance that so few additions have
been made to the list of domestic animals bequeathed to us from remote
antiquity, and mentions the practicability of an attempt being made to tame
seals; and also says that it is yet to be learned whether they would breed in
captivity and remain reclaimed from the wild state. The few instances
recorded in books of natural history of tame seals refer to the species called
Phoca vitulina, but of the processes of rearing and education we have no
details. "The trials," continues Dr Edmonston, "I have made on these points
have been equally numerous on the great as on the common seal. By far the
most interesting one I ever had was a young male of the barbata species: he
was taken by myself from a cave when only a few hours old, and in a day or
long; it roars nearly like a calf, but not so loud, and continually crawls
about the deck, seeking to get again to sea. As I cannot bear its cries, I
intend to return it to the giver. Several of them have been tamed by the
Shetlanders, and these will attend their owners to the place where the cows
are milked, in order to get a drink. This was the case with one Mr Henry of
Burrastow brought up. When it thought proper it would go to sea and forage
there, but was sure to return to land, and to its owner. They tell me that it is
a creature of considerable sagacity. The young seal mentioned above made
his escape over the gangway, and got to sea. I am glad of it; for its plaintive
lowing was painful to me. We saw it afterwards making its way to the
ocean."[145]
Dr Edmonston on Shetland Seals.
Every one familiar with seals is struck with their plaintive, intelligent faces,
and any one who has seen the seals from time to time living in the
Zoological Gardens must have been pleased with the marks of attention
paid by them to their keepers. Dr Edmonston of Balta Sound has published
in the "Memoirs of the Wernerian Society"[146] a graphic and valuable paper
on the distinctions, history, and hunting of seals in the Shetland Isles. As
that gentleman is a native of Unst, and had, when he wrote the Memoir,
been for more than twenty years actively engaged in their pursuit, both as
an amusement and as a study, we may extract two or three interesting
passages.
He remarks (p. 29) on the singular circumstance that so few additions have
been made to the list of domestic animals bequeathed to us from remote
antiquity, and mentions the practicability of an attempt being made to tame
seals; and also says that it is yet to be learned whether they would breed in
captivity and remain reclaimed from the wild state. The few instances
recorded in books of natural history of tame seals refer to the species called
Phoca vitulina, but of the processes of rearing and education we have no
details. "The trials," continues Dr Edmonston, "I have made on these points
have been equally numerous on the great as on the common seal. By far the
most interesting one I ever had was a young male of the barbata species: he
was taken by myself from a cave when only a few hours old, and in a day or
Page 152
two became as attached as a dog to me. The varied movements and sounds
by which he expressed delight at my presence and regret at my absence
were most affecting; these sounds were as like as possible to the inarticulate
tones of the human voice. I know no animal capable of displaying more
affection than he did, and his temper was the gentlest imaginable. I kept
him for four or five weeks, feeding him entirely on warm milk from the
cow; in my temporary absence butter-milk was given to him, and he died
soon after.
"Another was a female, also of the great seal species, which we captured in
a cave when about six weeks old, in October 1830. This individual would
never allow herself to be handled but by the person who chiefly had the
charge of her, yet even she soon became comparatively familiar.
"It was amusing to see how readily she ascended the stairs, which she often
did, intent, as it seemed, on examining every room in the house; on showing
towards her signs of displeasure and correction, she descended more rapidly
and safely than her awkwardness seemed to promise.
"She was fed from the first on fresh fish alone, and grew and fattened
considerably. We had her carried down daily in a hand-barrow to the sea-
side, where an old excavation admitting the salt water was abundantly
roomy and deep for her recreation and our observation. After sporting and
diving for some time she would come ashore, and seemed perfectly to
understand the use of the barrow. Often she tried to waddle from the house
to the water, or from the latter to her apartment, but finding this fatiguing,
and seeing preparations by her chairman, she would of her own accord
mount her palanquin, and thus be carried as composedly as any Hindoo
princess. By degrees we ventured to let her go fairly into the sea, and she
regularly returned after a short interval; but one day during a thick fall of
snow she was imprudently let off as usual, and, being decoyed some
distance out of sight of the shore by some wild ones which happened to be
in the bay at the time, she either could not find her way back or voluntarily
decamped.
"She was, we understood, killed very shortly after in a neighbouring inlet.
We had kept her about six months, and every moment she was becoming
by which he expressed delight at my presence and regret at my absence
were most affecting; these sounds were as like as possible to the inarticulate
tones of the human voice. I know no animal capable of displaying more
affection than he did, and his temper was the gentlest imaginable. I kept
him for four or five weeks, feeding him entirely on warm milk from the
cow; in my temporary absence butter-milk was given to him, and he died
soon after.
"Another was a female, also of the great seal species, which we captured in
a cave when about six weeks old, in October 1830. This individual would
never allow herself to be handled but by the person who chiefly had the
charge of her, yet even she soon became comparatively familiar.
"It was amusing to see how readily she ascended the stairs, which she often
did, intent, as it seemed, on examining every room in the house; on showing
towards her signs of displeasure and correction, she descended more rapidly
and safely than her awkwardness seemed to promise.
"She was fed from the first on fresh fish alone, and grew and fattened
considerably. We had her carried down daily in a hand-barrow to the sea-
side, where an old excavation admitting the salt water was abundantly
roomy and deep for her recreation and our observation. After sporting and
diving for some time she would come ashore, and seemed perfectly to
understand the use of the barrow. Often she tried to waddle from the house
to the water, or from the latter to her apartment, but finding this fatiguing,
and seeing preparations by her chairman, she would of her own accord
mount her palanquin, and thus be carried as composedly as any Hindoo
princess. By degrees we ventured to let her go fairly into the sea, and she
regularly returned after a short interval; but one day during a thick fall of
snow she was imprudently let off as usual, and, being decoyed some
distance out of sight of the shore by some wild ones which happened to be
in the bay at the time, she either could not find her way back or voluntarily
decamped.
"She was, we understood, killed very shortly after in a neighbouring inlet.
We had kept her about six months, and every moment she was becoming
Page 153
more familiar; we had dubbed her Finna, and she seemed to know her
name. Every one that saw her was struck with her appearance.
"The smooth face without external ears—the nose slightly aquiline—the
large, dark, and beautiful eye which stood the sternest human gaze, gave to
the expression of her countenance such dignity and variety that we all
agreed that it really was super-animal. The Scandinavian Scald, with such a
mermaid before him, would find in her eye a metaphor so emphatic that he
would have no reason to borrow the favourite oriental image of the gazelles
from his Caucasian ancestors.
"This remarkable expressiveness and dignity of aspect of the Haff-fish, so
superior to all other animals with which the fishermen of Shetland were
acquainted, and the human character of his voice, may have procured for
him that peculiar respect with which he was regarded by those who lived
nearest his domains, and were admitted to most frequent intercourse with
him. He was the favourite animal of superstition, and a few tales of him are
still current. These, however, are not of much interest or variety, the leading
ideas in them being these: That the great seal is a human soul, or a fallen
angel in metempsychosis, and that to him who is remarkable for hostility to
the phocal race some fatal retribution will ensue. I can easily conceive the
feeling of awe with which a fisherman would be impressed when, in the
sombre magnificence of some rocky solitude, a great seal suddenly
presented himself, for an interview of this kind once occurred to myself.
"I was lying one calm summer day on a rock a little elevated above the
water, watching the approach of seals, in a small creek formed by frowning
precipices several hundred feet high, near the north point of the Shetland
Islands.
"I had patiently waited for two hours, and the scene and the sunshine had
thrown me into a kind of reverie, when my companion, who was more
awake, arrested my attention. A full-sized female haff-fish was swimming
slowly past, within eight yards of my feet, her head askance, and her eyes
fixed upon me; the gun, charged with two balls, was immediately pointed. I
followed her with the aim for some distance, when she dived without my
firing.
name. Every one that saw her was struck with her appearance.
"The smooth face without external ears—the nose slightly aquiline—the
large, dark, and beautiful eye which stood the sternest human gaze, gave to
the expression of her countenance such dignity and variety that we all
agreed that it really was super-animal. The Scandinavian Scald, with such a
mermaid before him, would find in her eye a metaphor so emphatic that he
would have no reason to borrow the favourite oriental image of the gazelles
from his Caucasian ancestors.
"This remarkable expressiveness and dignity of aspect of the Haff-fish, so
superior to all other animals with which the fishermen of Shetland were
acquainted, and the human character of his voice, may have procured for
him that peculiar respect with which he was regarded by those who lived
nearest his domains, and were admitted to most frequent intercourse with
him. He was the favourite animal of superstition, and a few tales of him are
still current. These, however, are not of much interest or variety, the leading
ideas in them being these: That the great seal is a human soul, or a fallen
angel in metempsychosis, and that to him who is remarkable for hostility to
the phocal race some fatal retribution will ensue. I can easily conceive the
feeling of awe with which a fisherman would be impressed when, in the
sombre magnificence of some rocky solitude, a great seal suddenly
presented himself, for an interview of this kind once occurred to myself.
"I was lying one calm summer day on a rock a little elevated above the
water, watching the approach of seals, in a small creek formed by frowning
precipices several hundred feet high, near the north point of the Shetland
Islands.
"I had patiently waited for two hours, and the scene and the sunshine had
thrown me into a kind of reverie, when my companion, who was more
awake, arrested my attention. A full-sized female haff-fish was swimming
slowly past, within eight yards of my feet, her head askance, and her eyes
fixed upon me; the gun, charged with two balls, was immediately pointed. I
followed her with the aim for some distance, when she dived without my
firing.
Page 154
"I resolved that this omission should not recur, if she afforded me another
opportunity of a shot, which I hardly hoped for, but which actually in a few
moments took place. Still I did not fire, until, when at a considerable
distance, she was on the eve of diving, and she eluded the shot by springing
to a side. Here was really a species of fascination. The wild scene, the near
presence and commanding aspect of the splendid animal before me,
produced a spellbound impression which, in my sporting experience, I
never felt before.
"On reflection, I was delighted that she escaped.
"The younger seals are the more easy to tame, but the more difficult to rear;
under a month old they must be fed, and, especially the barbata, almost
entirely on milk, and that of the cow seems hardly to agree with them.
"Perhaps their being suckled by a cow fed chiefly on fish, the giving them
occasionally a little salt water, and then by degrees inducing them to eat
fish, might be the best mode until they attained the age of being sustained
on fish alone. In the barbata, to insure rapid taming, it appears to be
necessary to capture them before the period of casting the fœtal hair,
analogous to what I have observed in the case of the young of water-birds
before getting up their first feathers, and when they are entirely covered
with the egg down.
"These changes seem connected with a great development of the wild
habits, and attachment to, and knowledge of, the localities where they have
first seen the light. As the barbata is until this period in reality a land
animal, the chief difficulty we have to surmount with it is in the quality of
the milk to be given it. The vitulina is essentially an inhabitant of the water
from its birth, yet the care of the mother is perhaps for weeks necessary to
judge how long and how often it should be on land, and this we can hardly
expect to imitate. In the young of this species a few days old, which we
have tried to rear, a want of knowledge of this kind of management may
have led to failure. I have not attempted to rear them at a greater age.
"The Greenland seal is, I have been informed, occasionally kept for a month
or two on board the whalers, and thrives sufficiently well on the flesh of
sea-birds. This species appears to bring forth in January, and therefore it is
subjected to captivity.
opportunity of a shot, which I hardly hoped for, but which actually in a few
moments took place. Still I did not fire, until, when at a considerable
distance, she was on the eve of diving, and she eluded the shot by springing
to a side. Here was really a species of fascination. The wild scene, the near
presence and commanding aspect of the splendid animal before me,
produced a spellbound impression which, in my sporting experience, I
never felt before.
"On reflection, I was delighted that she escaped.
"The younger seals are the more easy to tame, but the more difficult to rear;
under a month old they must be fed, and, especially the barbata, almost
entirely on milk, and that of the cow seems hardly to agree with them.
"Perhaps their being suckled by a cow fed chiefly on fish, the giving them
occasionally a little salt water, and then by degrees inducing them to eat
fish, might be the best mode until they attained the age of being sustained
on fish alone. In the barbata, to insure rapid taming, it appears to be
necessary to capture them before the period of casting the fœtal hair,
analogous to what I have observed in the case of the young of water-birds
before getting up their first feathers, and when they are entirely covered
with the egg down.
"These changes seem connected with a great development of the wild
habits, and attachment to, and knowledge of, the localities where they have
first seen the light. As the barbata is until this period in reality a land
animal, the chief difficulty we have to surmount with it is in the quality of
the milk to be given it. The vitulina is essentially an inhabitant of the water
from its birth, yet the care of the mother is perhaps for weeks necessary to
judge how long and how often it should be on land, and this we can hardly
expect to imitate. In the young of this species a few days old, which we
have tried to rear, a want of knowledge of this kind of management may
have led to failure. I have not attempted to rear them at a greater age.
"The Greenland seal is, I have been informed, occasionally kept for a month
or two on board the whalers, and thrives sufficiently well on the flesh of
sea-birds. This species appears to bring forth in January, and therefore it is
subjected to captivity.
Page 155
"I know but comparatively little of its capability of being easily tamed; but
this quality, of itself, is no evidence of superior intelligence.
"Might it not be easy to induce Greenland shipmasters to bring some of
these animals to England, where they would be accessible to the
observation of zoologists.
"One mode of attempting to tame them might be to take half-grown animals
in a net, or surprise them on land, and then keep them in salt-water ponds in
a semi-domestic state: if any of them were pregnant when caught, or could
be got to breed, the main difficulty would be overcome."
Long as these extracts are, they possess great interest as being derived from
observations on living animals made by one who was a friend of the Duke
of Wellington, and was always welcomed by him. His northern Island of
Unst is a fine field for studying marine animals. The sweeping currents of
the Arctic oceans bring creatures to the quiet voes and sounds. Shetland in
spring, summer, and autumn is a favoured locality for the naturalist and
painter.
The Walrus.
There was some likelihood, a few years ago, that a most attractive animal
would be added to the collection of the Zoological Society. But,
unfortunately for the public gratification, as well as the remuneration of the
spirited captain who brought the creature, it reached the gardens in a dying
state, and only survived a few days. But it is not the first of its family which
has travelled so far to the southward. Nearly 250 years ago a specimen was
brought alive by some of the Arctic adventurers, and excited no little
surprise, as old Purchas tells us. It was in the year 1608, when "the king and
many honourable personages beheld it with admiration, for the strangeness
of the same, the like whereof had never before beene seene alive in
England. Not long after it fell sicke and died. As the beast in shape is very
strange, so is it of strange docilitie, and apt to be taught, as by good
experience we often proved."
The figure which accompanies this paper was drawn from our late lamented
visitor by Mr Wolf, who sketched it before its removal to the Zoological
this quality, of itself, is no evidence of superior intelligence.
"Might it not be easy to induce Greenland shipmasters to bring some of
these animals to England, where they would be accessible to the
observation of zoologists.
"One mode of attempting to tame them might be to take half-grown animals
in a net, or surprise them on land, and then keep them in salt-water ponds in
a semi-domestic state: if any of them were pregnant when caught, or could
be got to breed, the main difficulty would be overcome."
Long as these extracts are, they possess great interest as being derived from
observations on living animals made by one who was a friend of the Duke
of Wellington, and was always welcomed by him. His northern Island of
Unst is a fine field for studying marine animals. The sweeping currents of
the Arctic oceans bring creatures to the quiet voes and sounds. Shetland in
spring, summer, and autumn is a favoured locality for the naturalist and
painter.
The Walrus.
There was some likelihood, a few years ago, that a most attractive animal
would be added to the collection of the Zoological Society. But,
unfortunately for the public gratification, as well as the remuneration of the
spirited captain who brought the creature, it reached the gardens in a dying
state, and only survived a few days. But it is not the first of its family which
has travelled so far to the southward. Nearly 250 years ago a specimen was
brought alive by some of the Arctic adventurers, and excited no little
surprise, as old Purchas tells us. It was in the year 1608, when "the king and
many honourable personages beheld it with admiration, for the strangeness
of the same, the like whereof had never before beene seene alive in
England. Not long after it fell sicke and died. As the beast in shape is very
strange, so is it of strange docilitie, and apt to be taught, as by good
experience we often proved."
The figure which accompanies this paper was drawn from our late lamented
visitor by Mr Wolf, who sketched it before its removal to the Zoological
Page 156
Gardens. Captain Henry caught it during a whaling expedition, and sent it
to London. Though quite young, it was nearly four feet in length; and when
the person who used to feed it came into the room, it would give him an
affectionate greeting, in a voice somewhat resembling the cry of a calf, but
considerably louder. It walked about, but, owing to its weakness, soon grew
tired, and lay down. Unlike the seals, to which it is closely allied, the walrus
has considerable power with its limbs when out of the water, and can
support its bulky body quite clear of the ground. Its mode of progression,
however, is awkward when compared with ordinary quadrupeds; its hind-
limbs shuffling along, as if inclosed in a sack. In some future season, when
a lively specimen reaches the Gardens, and is accommodated with an
extensive tank of water, there is no reason why the walrus should not thrive
as well as the seal, or his close, though not kind, neighbour of the North, the
Polar bear.
The Walrus.
The walrus, morse, or sea-horse (Trichechus rosmarus, Linn.[147]), is one of
the most characteristic inhabitants of the Arctic regions. There it is widely
distributed, and thence it seldom wanders. One or two specimens were
killed on the shores of the northern Scottish islands in 1817 and 1825; but
these instances seem hardly to admit of its introduction into our fauna, any
to London. Though quite young, it was nearly four feet in length; and when
the person who used to feed it came into the room, it would give him an
affectionate greeting, in a voice somewhat resembling the cry of a calf, but
considerably louder. It walked about, but, owing to its weakness, soon grew
tired, and lay down. Unlike the seals, to which it is closely allied, the walrus
has considerable power with its limbs when out of the water, and can
support its bulky body quite clear of the ground. Its mode of progression,
however, is awkward when compared with ordinary quadrupeds; its hind-
limbs shuffling along, as if inclosed in a sack. In some future season, when
a lively specimen reaches the Gardens, and is accommodated with an
extensive tank of water, there is no reason why the walrus should not thrive
as well as the seal, or his close, though not kind, neighbour of the North, the
Polar bear.
The Walrus.
The walrus, morse, or sea-horse (Trichechus rosmarus, Linn.[147]), is one of
the most characteristic inhabitants of the Arctic regions. There it is widely
distributed, and thence it seldom wanders. One or two specimens were
killed on the shores of the northern Scottish islands in 1817 and 1825; but
these instances seem hardly to admit of its introduction into our fauna, any
Page 157
more than West Indian beans, brought by the currents, are admissible into
our flora. It is mentioned by some old Scottish writers[148] among our
native animals, and at one time may have been carried to our coasts on
some of the bergs, which are occasionally seen in the German Ocean after
the periodical disruptions of the Arctic ice. Like the Polar bear, however,
the walrus has evidently been formed by its Creator for a life among icy
seas, and there it is now found often in large herds. Captain Beechey and
other voyagers to the seas around Spitzbergen, describe them as being
particularly abundant on the western coast of that inclement island. The
captain says that in fine weather they resort to large pieces of ice at the edge
of the main body, where herds of them may be seen of sometimes more than
a hundred individuals each. "In these situations they appear greatly to enjoy
themselves, rolling and sporting about, and frequently making the air
resound with their bellowing, which bears some resemblance to that of a
bull. These diversions generally end in sleep, during which these wary
animals appear always to take the precaution of having a sentinel to warn
them of any danger." The only warning, however, which the sentinel gives,
is by seeking his own safety; in effecting which, as the herd lie huddled on
one another like swine, the motion of one is speedily communicated to the
whole, and they instantly tumble, one over the other, into the sea, head-
foremost, if possible; but failing that, anyhow.
Scoresby remarks that the front part of the head of the young walrus,
without tusks, when seen at a distance, is not unlike the human face. It has
the habit of raising its head above the water to look at ships and other
passing objects; and when seen in such a position, it may have given rise to
some of the stories of mermaids.
There is still a considerable uncertainty as to the food of the walrus. Cook
found no traces of aliment in the stomachs of those shot by his party. Crantz
says that in Greenland shell-fish and sea-weeds seem to be its only
subsistence. Scoresby found shrimps, a kind of craw-fish, and the remains
of young seals, in the stomachs of those which he examined. Becchey
mentions, that in the inside of several specimens he found numerous granite
pebbles larger than walnuts. These may be taken for the same purpose that
some birds, especially of the gallinaceous order, swallow bits of gravel. Dr
Von Baer concludes, from an analysis of all the published accounts, that the
walrus is omnivorous.[149] A specimen that died at St Petersburg was fed on
our flora. It is mentioned by some old Scottish writers[148] among our
native animals, and at one time may have been carried to our coasts on
some of the bergs, which are occasionally seen in the German Ocean after
the periodical disruptions of the Arctic ice. Like the Polar bear, however,
the walrus has evidently been formed by its Creator for a life among icy
seas, and there it is now found often in large herds. Captain Beechey and
other voyagers to the seas around Spitzbergen, describe them as being
particularly abundant on the western coast of that inclement island. The
captain says that in fine weather they resort to large pieces of ice at the edge
of the main body, where herds of them may be seen of sometimes more than
a hundred individuals each. "In these situations they appear greatly to enjoy
themselves, rolling and sporting about, and frequently making the air
resound with their bellowing, which bears some resemblance to that of a
bull. These diversions generally end in sleep, during which these wary
animals appear always to take the precaution of having a sentinel to warn
them of any danger." The only warning, however, which the sentinel gives,
is by seeking his own safety; in effecting which, as the herd lie huddled on
one another like swine, the motion of one is speedily communicated to the
whole, and they instantly tumble, one over the other, into the sea, head-
foremost, if possible; but failing that, anyhow.
Scoresby remarks that the front part of the head of the young walrus,
without tusks, when seen at a distance, is not unlike the human face. It has
the habit of raising its head above the water to look at ships and other
passing objects; and when seen in such a position, it may have given rise to
some of the stories of mermaids.
There is still a considerable uncertainty as to the food of the walrus. Cook
found no traces of aliment in the stomachs of those shot by his party. Crantz
says that in Greenland shell-fish and sea-weeds seem to be its only
subsistence. Scoresby found shrimps, a kind of craw-fish, and the remains
of young seals, in the stomachs of those which he examined. Becchey
mentions, that in the inside of several specimens he found numerous granite
pebbles larger than walnuts. These may be taken for the same purpose that
some birds, especially of the gallinaceous order, swallow bits of gravel. Dr
Von Baer concludes, from an analysis of all the published accounts, that the
walrus is omnivorous.[149] A specimen that died at St Petersburg was fed on
Page 158
oatmeal mixed with turnips or other vegetables; and the little fellow, who
lately died in the Regent's Park, seems to have been fed by the sailors on
oatmeal porridge.
One of the chief characteristics of the walrus is the presence of two
elongated tusks (the canine teeth) in the upper jaw. According to Crantz, it
uses these to scrape mussels and other shell-fish from the rocks and out of
the sand, and also to grapple and get along with, for they enable it to raise
itself on the ice. They are also powerful weapons of defence against the
Polar bear and its other enemies.
The walrus attains a great size. Twelve feet is the length of a fine specimen
in the British Museum. Beechey's party found some of them fourteen feet in
length and nine feet in girth, and of such prodigious weight that they could
scarcely turn them over.
Gratifying accounts are given of the attachment of the female to its young,
and the male occasionally assists in their defence when exposed to danger,
or at least in revenging the attack. Lord Nelson, when a lad, was coxwain to
one of the ships of Phipps's expedition to the Arctic seas, and commanded a
boat, which was the means of saving a party belonging to the other ship
from imminent danger. "Some of the officers had fired at and wounded a
walrus. As no other animal," says Southey, "has so human-like an
expression in its countenance, so also is there none that seems to possess
more of the passions of humanity. The wounded animal dived immediately,
and brought up a number of its companions; and they all joined in an attack
upon the boat. They wrested an oar from one of the men; and it was with
the utmost difficulty that the crew could prevent them from staving or
upsetting her, till the Carcass's boat (commanded by young Horatio Nelson)
came up: and the walruses, finding their enemies thus reinforced,
dispersed." And Captain Beechey gives the following pleasing picture of
maternal affection which he witnessed in the seas around Spitzbergen: "We
were greatly amused by the singular and affectionate conduct of a walrus
towards its young. In the vast sheet of ice which surrounded the ships, there
were occasionally many pools; and when the weather was clear and warm,
animals of various kinds would frequently rise and sport about in them, or
crawl from thence upon the ice to bask in the warmth of the sun. A walrus
rose in one of these pools close to the ship, and, finding everything quiet,
lately died in the Regent's Park, seems to have been fed by the sailors on
oatmeal porridge.
One of the chief characteristics of the walrus is the presence of two
elongated tusks (the canine teeth) in the upper jaw. According to Crantz, it
uses these to scrape mussels and other shell-fish from the rocks and out of
the sand, and also to grapple and get along with, for they enable it to raise
itself on the ice. They are also powerful weapons of defence against the
Polar bear and its other enemies.
The walrus attains a great size. Twelve feet is the length of a fine specimen
in the British Museum. Beechey's party found some of them fourteen feet in
length and nine feet in girth, and of such prodigious weight that they could
scarcely turn them over.
Gratifying accounts are given of the attachment of the female to its young,
and the male occasionally assists in their defence when exposed to danger,
or at least in revenging the attack. Lord Nelson, when a lad, was coxwain to
one of the ships of Phipps's expedition to the Arctic seas, and commanded a
boat, which was the means of saving a party belonging to the other ship
from imminent danger. "Some of the officers had fired at and wounded a
walrus. As no other animal," says Southey, "has so human-like an
expression in its countenance, so also is there none that seems to possess
more of the passions of humanity. The wounded animal dived immediately,
and brought up a number of its companions; and they all joined in an attack
upon the boat. They wrested an oar from one of the men; and it was with
the utmost difficulty that the crew could prevent them from staving or
upsetting her, till the Carcass's boat (commanded by young Horatio Nelson)
came up: and the walruses, finding their enemies thus reinforced,
dispersed." And Captain Beechey gives the following pleasing picture of
maternal affection which he witnessed in the seas around Spitzbergen: "We
were greatly amused by the singular and affectionate conduct of a walrus
towards its young. In the vast sheet of ice which surrounded the ships, there
were occasionally many pools; and when the weather was clear and warm,
animals of various kinds would frequently rise and sport about in them, or
crawl from thence upon the ice to bask in the warmth of the sun. A walrus
rose in one of these pools close to the ship, and, finding everything quiet,
Page 159
dived down and brought up its young, which it held to its breast by pressing
it with its flipper. In this manner it moved about the pool, keeping in an
erect posture, and always directing the face of the young towards the vessel.
On the slightest movement on board, the mother released her flipper, and
pushed the young one under water; but, when everything was again quiet,
brought it up as before, and for a length of time continued to play about in
the pool, to the great amusement of the seamen, who gave her credit for
abilities in tuition, which, though possessed of considerable sagacity, she
hardly merited."
The walrus has two great enemies in its icy home—the Polar bear and the
Esquimaux. Captain Beechey thus graphically describes the manœuvres of
that king of the Bruin race, which must often be attended with success. The
bears, when hungry, are always on the watch for animals sleeping upon the
ice, and try to come on them unawares, as their prey darts through holes in
the ice. "One sunshiny day a walrus, of nine or ten feet length, rose in a
pool of water not very far from us; and after looking around, drew his
greasy carcase upon the ice, where he rolled about for a time, and at length
laid himself down to sleep. A bear, which had probably been observing his
movements, crawled carefully upon the ice on the opposite side of the pool,
and began to roll about also, but apparently more with design than
amusement, as he progressively lessened the distance that intervened
between him and his prey. The walrus, suspicious of his advances, drew
himself up preparatory to a precipitate retreat into the water in case of a
nearer acquaintance with his playful but treacherous visitor; on which the
bear was instantly motionless, as if in the act of sleep; but after a time
began to lick his paws, and clean himself, occasionally encroaching a little
more upon his intended prey. But even this artifice did not succeed; the
wary walrus was far too cunning to allow himself to be entrapped, and
suddenly plunged into the pool; which the bear no sooner observed than he
threw off all disguise, rushed towards the spot, and followed him in an
instant into the water, where, I fear, he was as much disappointed in his
meal, as we were of the pleasure of witnessing a very interesting
encounter."
The meat of the walrus is not despised by Europeans, and its heart is
reckoned a delicacy. To the Esquimaux there is no greater treat than a kettle
well filled with walrus-blubber; and to the natives along Behring's Straits
it with its flipper. In this manner it moved about the pool, keeping in an
erect posture, and always directing the face of the young towards the vessel.
On the slightest movement on board, the mother released her flipper, and
pushed the young one under water; but, when everything was again quiet,
brought it up as before, and for a length of time continued to play about in
the pool, to the great amusement of the seamen, who gave her credit for
abilities in tuition, which, though possessed of considerable sagacity, she
hardly merited."
The walrus has two great enemies in its icy home—the Polar bear and the
Esquimaux. Captain Beechey thus graphically describes the manœuvres of
that king of the Bruin race, which must often be attended with success. The
bears, when hungry, are always on the watch for animals sleeping upon the
ice, and try to come on them unawares, as their prey darts through holes in
the ice. "One sunshiny day a walrus, of nine or ten feet length, rose in a
pool of water not very far from us; and after looking around, drew his
greasy carcase upon the ice, where he rolled about for a time, and at length
laid himself down to sleep. A bear, which had probably been observing his
movements, crawled carefully upon the ice on the opposite side of the pool,
and began to roll about also, but apparently more with design than
amusement, as he progressively lessened the distance that intervened
between him and his prey. The walrus, suspicious of his advances, drew
himself up preparatory to a precipitate retreat into the water in case of a
nearer acquaintance with his playful but treacherous visitor; on which the
bear was instantly motionless, as if in the act of sleep; but after a time
began to lick his paws, and clean himself, occasionally encroaching a little
more upon his intended prey. But even this artifice did not succeed; the
wary walrus was far too cunning to allow himself to be entrapped, and
suddenly plunged into the pool; which the bear no sooner observed than he
threw off all disguise, rushed towards the spot, and followed him in an
instant into the water, where, I fear, he was as much disappointed in his
meal, as we were of the pleasure of witnessing a very interesting
encounter."
The meat of the walrus is not despised by Europeans, and its heart is
reckoned a delicacy. To the Esquimaux there is no greater treat than a kettle
well filled with walrus-blubber; and to the natives along Behring's Straits
Page 160
this quadruped is as valuable as is the palm to the sons of the desert. Their
canoes are covered with its skin; their weapons and sledge-runners, and
many useful articles, are formed from its tusks; their lamps are filled with
its oil; and they themselves are fed with its fat and its fibre. So thick is the
skin, that a bayonet is almost the only weapon which can pierce it. Cut into
shreds, it makes excellent cordage, being especially adapted for wheel-
ropes. The tusks bear a high commercial value, and are extensively
employed by dentists in the manufacture of artificial teeth. The fat of a
good-sized specimen yields thirty gallons of oil.—A. White, from
"Excelsior."
canoes are covered with its skin; their weapons and sledge-runners, and
many useful articles, are formed from its tusks; their lamps are filled with
its oil; and they themselves are fed with its fat and its fibre. So thick is the
skin, that a bayonet is almost the only weapon which can pierce it. Cut into
shreds, it makes excellent cordage, being especially adapted for wheel-
ropes. The tusks bear a high commercial value, and are extensively
employed by dentists in the manufacture of artificial teeth. The fat of a
good-sized specimen yields thirty gallons of oil.—A. White, from
"Excelsior."
Page 161
KANGAROOS.
What dissertation on the strange outward form, or stranger mode of
reproduction to which this famed member of the Marsupialia belongs,
could contain as much in little space as Charles Lamb's happy description in
his letter to Baron Field, his "distant correspondent" in New South Wales?
When that was written, and for long after, it may be necessary to tell some,
Australia was chiefly known as the land of the convict.
"Tell me," writes Elia, "what your Sidneyites do? Are they th-v-ng all day
long? Merciful heaven! what property can stand against such a depredation?
The kangaroos—your aborigines—do they keep their primitive simplicity
un-Europe-tainted, with those little short forepuds, looking like a lesson
framed by nature to the pickpocket! Marry, for diving into fobs they are
rather lamely provided a priori; but if the hue and cry were once up, they
would show as fair a pair of hind-shifters as the expertest locomotor in the
colony."[150]
In one of his letters to another of his favoured correspondents he alludes to
his friend Field having gone to a country where there are so many thieves
that even the kangaroos have to wear their pockets in front, lest they be
picked!
Kangaroo Cooke.
Major-General Henry Frederick Cooke, C.B. and K.C.H., commonly called
Kang-Cooke, was a captain in the Coldstream Guards, and aide-de-camp to
the Duke of York. He was called the kangaroo by his intimate associates. It
is said that this arose from his once having let loose a cageful of these
animals at Pidcock's Menagerie, or from his answer to the Duke of York,
who, inquiring how he fared in the Peninsula, replied that he "could get
nothing to eat but kangaroo."[151] Moore, in his Diary,[152] December 13,
1820, records that he dined with him and others at Lord Granard's. Cooke
told of Admiral Cotton once (at Lisbon, I think) saying during dinner,
What dissertation on the strange outward form, or stranger mode of
reproduction to which this famed member of the Marsupialia belongs,
could contain as much in little space as Charles Lamb's happy description in
his letter to Baron Field, his "distant correspondent" in New South Wales?
When that was written, and for long after, it may be necessary to tell some,
Australia was chiefly known as the land of the convict.
"Tell me," writes Elia, "what your Sidneyites do? Are they th-v-ng all day
long? Merciful heaven! what property can stand against such a depredation?
The kangaroos—your aborigines—do they keep their primitive simplicity
un-Europe-tainted, with those little short forepuds, looking like a lesson
framed by nature to the pickpocket! Marry, for diving into fobs they are
rather lamely provided a priori; but if the hue and cry were once up, they
would show as fair a pair of hind-shifters as the expertest locomotor in the
colony."[150]
In one of his letters to another of his favoured correspondents he alludes to
his friend Field having gone to a country where there are so many thieves
that even the kangaroos have to wear their pockets in front, lest they be
picked!
Kangaroo Cooke.
Major-General Henry Frederick Cooke, C.B. and K.C.H., commonly called
Kang-Cooke, was a captain in the Coldstream Guards, and aide-de-camp to
the Duke of York. He was called the kangaroo by his intimate associates. It
is said that this arose from his once having let loose a cageful of these
animals at Pidcock's Menagerie, or from his answer to the Duke of York,
who, inquiring how he fared in the Peninsula, replied that he "could get
nothing to eat but kangaroo."[151] Moore, in his Diary,[152] December 13,
1820, records that he dined with him and others at Lord Granard's. Cooke
told of Admiral Cotton once (at Lisbon, I think) saying during dinner,
Page 162
"Make signals for the Kangaroo to get under way;" and Cooke, who had
just been expressing his anxiety to leave Lisbon, thought the speech alluded
to his nickname, and considered it an extraordinary liberty for one who
knew so little of him as Admiral Cotton to take. He found out afterwards,
however, that his namesake was a sloop-of-war.
just been expressing his anxiety to leave Lisbon, thought the speech alluded
to his nickname, and considered it an extraordinary liberty for one who
knew so little of him as Admiral Cotton to take. He found out afterwards,
however, that his namesake was a sloop-of-war.
Page 163
THE TIGER-WOLF.
(Thylacinus cynocephalus.)
The great order, or rather division, of mammalia, the Marsupialia,[153] is
furnished with a pouch, into which the young are received and nourished at
a very early period of their existence. The first species of the group, known
to voyagers and naturalists, was the celebrated opossum of North America,
whose instinctive care to defend itself from danger causes it to feign the
appearance of death. As the great continent of Australia became known, it
was found that the great mass of its mammalia, from the gigantic kangaroo
to the pigmy, mouse-like potoroo, belonged to this singular order. The order
contains a most anomalous set of animals, some being exclusively
carnivorous, some chiefly subsisting on insects, while others browse on
grass; and many live on fruits and leaves, which they climb trees to procure;
a smaller portion subsisting on roots, for which they burrow in the ground.
The gentle and deer-faced kangaroo belongs to this order; the curious
bandicoots, the tree-frequenting phalangers and petauri, the savage "native
devil,"[154] and the voracious subject of this notice.
The "tiger-wolf" is a native of Van Diemen's Land, and is strictly confined
to that island. It was first described in the ninth volume of the "Linnean
Transactions," under the name of Didelphis cynocephalus, or "dog-headed
opossum," the English name being an exact translation of its Latin one. Its
non-prehensile tail, peculiar feet, and different arrangement of teeth,
pointed out to naturalists that it entered into a genus distinct from the
American opossums; and to this genus the name of Thylacinus[155] has been
applied; its specific name cynocephalus being still retained in conformity
with zoological nomenclature, although M. Temminck, the founder of the
genus, honoured the species with the name of its first describer, and called it
Thylacinus Harrisii.
Mr Gould has given a short account of this quadruped in his great work,
"The Mammals of Australia," accompanied with two plates, one showing
the head of the male, of the natural size, in such a point of view as to exhibit
(Thylacinus cynocephalus.)
The great order, or rather division, of mammalia, the Marsupialia,[153] is
furnished with a pouch, into which the young are received and nourished at
a very early period of their existence. The first species of the group, known
to voyagers and naturalists, was the celebrated opossum of North America,
whose instinctive care to defend itself from danger causes it to feign the
appearance of death. As the great continent of Australia became known, it
was found that the great mass of its mammalia, from the gigantic kangaroo
to the pigmy, mouse-like potoroo, belonged to this singular order. The order
contains a most anomalous set of animals, some being exclusively
carnivorous, some chiefly subsisting on insects, while others browse on
grass; and many live on fruits and leaves, which they climb trees to procure;
a smaller portion subsisting on roots, for which they burrow in the ground.
The gentle and deer-faced kangaroo belongs to this order; the curious
bandicoots, the tree-frequenting phalangers and petauri, the savage "native
devil,"[154] and the voracious subject of this notice.
The "tiger-wolf" is a native of Van Diemen's Land, and is strictly confined
to that island. It was first described in the ninth volume of the "Linnean
Transactions," under the name of Didelphis cynocephalus, or "dog-headed
opossum," the English name being an exact translation of its Latin one. Its
non-prehensile tail, peculiar feet, and different arrangement of teeth,
pointed out to naturalists that it entered into a genus distinct from the
American opossums; and to this genus the name of Thylacinus[155] has been
applied; its specific name cynocephalus being still retained in conformity
with zoological nomenclature, although M. Temminck, the founder of the
genus, honoured the species with the name of its first describer, and called it
Thylacinus Harrisii.
Mr Gould has given a short account of this quadruped in his great work,
"The Mammals of Australia," accompanied with two plates, one showing
the head of the male, of the natural size, in such a point of view as to exhibit
Page 164
the applicability of one of the names applied to it by the colonists, that of
"zebra-wolf." He justly remarks that it must be regarded as by far the most
formidable of all the marsupial animals, as it certainly is the most savage
indigenous quadruped belonging to the Australian continent. Although it is
too feeble to make a successful attack on man, it commits great havoc
among the smaller quadrupeds of the country; and to the settler it is a great
object of dread, as his poultry and other domestic animals are never safe
from its attacks. His sheep are, especially, an object of the colonist's anxious
care, as he can house his poultry, and thus secure them from the prowler;
but his flocks, wandering about over the country, are liable to be attacked at
night by the tiger-wolf, whose habits are strictly nocturnal. Mr Gunn has
seen some so large and powerful that a number of dogs would not face one
of them. It has become an object with the settler to destroy every specimen
he can fall in with, so that it is much rarer than it was at the time Mr Harris,
its first describer, wrote its history, at least in the cultivated districts. Much,
however, of Van Diemen's Land is still in a state of nature, and as large
tracts of forest-land remain yet uncleared, there is abundance of covert for it
still in the more remote parts of the colony, and it is even now often seen at
Woolnoth and among the Hampshire hills. In such places it feeds on the
smaller species of kangaroos and other marsupials,—bandicoots, and
kangaroo-rats, while even the prickle-covered echidna—a much more
formidable mouthful than any hedgehog—supplies the tiger-wolf with a
portion of its sustenance. The specimen described by Mr Harris was caught
in a trap baited with the flesh of the kangaroo. When opened, the remains of
a half-digested echidna[156] were found in its stomach.
The tiger-wolf has a certain amount of daintiness in its appetite when in a
state of nature. From the observations of Mr Gunn it would seem that
nothing will induce it to prey on the wombat,[157] a fat, sluggish, marsupial
quadruped, abundant in the districts which it frequents, and whose flesh
would seem to be very edible, seeing that it lives on fruits and roots. No
sooner, however, was the sheep introduced than the tiger-wolf began to
attack the flocks, and has ever since shown a most unmistakable appetite for
mutton, preferring the flesh of that most useful and easily-mastered
quadruped to that of any kangaroo however venison-like, or bandicoot
however savoury. The colonists of Van Diemen's land have applied various
names to this animal, according as its resemblance to other ferocious
"zebra-wolf." He justly remarks that it must be regarded as by far the most
formidable of all the marsupial animals, as it certainly is the most savage
indigenous quadruped belonging to the Australian continent. Although it is
too feeble to make a successful attack on man, it commits great havoc
among the smaller quadrupeds of the country; and to the settler it is a great
object of dread, as his poultry and other domestic animals are never safe
from its attacks. His sheep are, especially, an object of the colonist's anxious
care, as he can house his poultry, and thus secure them from the prowler;
but his flocks, wandering about over the country, are liable to be attacked at
night by the tiger-wolf, whose habits are strictly nocturnal. Mr Gunn has
seen some so large and powerful that a number of dogs would not face one
of them. It has become an object with the settler to destroy every specimen
he can fall in with, so that it is much rarer than it was at the time Mr Harris,
its first describer, wrote its history, at least in the cultivated districts. Much,
however, of Van Diemen's Land is still in a state of nature, and as large
tracts of forest-land remain yet uncleared, there is abundance of covert for it
still in the more remote parts of the colony, and it is even now often seen at
Woolnoth and among the Hampshire hills. In such places it feeds on the
smaller species of kangaroos and other marsupials,—bandicoots, and
kangaroo-rats, while even the prickle-covered echidna—a much more
formidable mouthful than any hedgehog—supplies the tiger-wolf with a
portion of its sustenance. The specimen described by Mr Harris was caught
in a trap baited with the flesh of the kangaroo. When opened, the remains of
a half-digested echidna[156] were found in its stomach.
The tiger-wolf has a certain amount of daintiness in its appetite when in a
state of nature. From the observations of Mr Gunn it would seem that
nothing will induce it to prey on the wombat,[157] a fat, sluggish, marsupial
quadruped, abundant in the districts which it frequents, and whose flesh
would seem to be very edible, seeing that it lives on fruits and roots. No
sooner, however, was the sheep introduced than the tiger-wolf began to
attack the flocks, and has ever since shown a most unmistakable appetite for
mutton, preferring the flesh of that most useful and easily-mastered
quadruped to that of any kangaroo however venison-like, or bandicoot
however savoury. The colonists of Van Diemen's land have applied various
names to this animal, according as its resemblance to other ferocious
Page 165
quadrupeds of different climates struck their fancy. The names of "tiger,"
"hyena," and "zebra-wolf," are partly acquired from its ferocity, somewhat
corresponding with that of these well-known carnivorous denizens of other
lands, and partly from the black bands which commence behind the
shoulders, and which extend in length on the haunches, and resemble in
some faint measure those on the barred tyrant of the Indian jungles, and the
other somewhat similarly ornamented mammalia implied in the names.
These bars are well relieved by the general grayish-brown colour of the fur,
which is somewhat woolly in its texture, from each of the hairs of which it
is composed being waved.
The specimens in the Zoological Gardens are very shy and restless; when
alarmed they dash and leap about their dens and utter a short guttural cry
somewhat resembling a bark. This shyness is partly to be attributed to their
imperfect vision by day, and partly to their resemblance in character to the
wolf, whose treachery and suspicious manners in confinement must have
struck every one who has gazed on this "gaunt savage" in his den in the
Regent's Park. The specimens exhibited are the first living members of the
species first brought to Europe. The male was taken in November 1849, and
the female at an earlier period in the same year, on the upper part of St
Patrick's River, about thirty miles north-east of Launceston. After being
gradually accustomed to confinement by Mr Gunn, they were shipped for
this country, and reached the Gardens in the spring of 1850. It is very
seldom, indeed, that they are caught alive; and when so caught they are
generally at once killed, so that it was with some difficulty and by offering
a considerable pecuniary inducement to the shepherds, that they were at last
secured for the Zoological Society.[158] In their den they show great activity,
and can bound upwards nearly to the roof of the place where they are
confined.—A. White, from "Excelsior."
"hyena," and "zebra-wolf," are partly acquired from its ferocity, somewhat
corresponding with that of these well-known carnivorous denizens of other
lands, and partly from the black bands which commence behind the
shoulders, and which extend in length on the haunches, and resemble in
some faint measure those on the barred tyrant of the Indian jungles, and the
other somewhat similarly ornamented mammalia implied in the names.
These bars are well relieved by the general grayish-brown colour of the fur,
which is somewhat woolly in its texture, from each of the hairs of which it
is composed being waved.
The specimens in the Zoological Gardens are very shy and restless; when
alarmed they dash and leap about their dens and utter a short guttural cry
somewhat resembling a bark. This shyness is partly to be attributed to their
imperfect vision by day, and partly to their resemblance in character to the
wolf, whose treachery and suspicious manners in confinement must have
struck every one who has gazed on this "gaunt savage" in his den in the
Regent's Park. The specimens exhibited are the first living members of the
species first brought to Europe. The male was taken in November 1849, and
the female at an earlier period in the same year, on the upper part of St
Patrick's River, about thirty miles north-east of Launceston. After being
gradually accustomed to confinement by Mr Gunn, they were shipped for
this country, and reached the Gardens in the spring of 1850. It is very
seldom, indeed, that they are caught alive; and when so caught they are
generally at once killed, so that it was with some difficulty and by offering
a considerable pecuniary inducement to the shepherds, that they were at last
secured for the Zoological Society.[158] In their den they show great activity,
and can bound upwards nearly to the roof of the place where they are
confined.—A. White, from "Excelsior."
Page 166
SQUIRREL: ARCTIC LEMMING.
The one with its long plume-like tail, organised for a life among trees, the
other with its home in the arctic regions, belong to an order not generally
distinguished for intelligence, although, the beaver, once reputed a miracle
of mind, belongs to it. The glirine or rodent animals are generally of small
or moderate size, though some, like the water-loving capybara, are of
considerable dimensions.
The squirrel is a fine subject for a painter. There is a picture by Sir Edwin
Landseer, of a squirrel and bullfinch. On an engraving of it, published in
1865, is inscribed "a pair of nut-crackers,"—a happy title, and very
apposite.
Jekyll saw in Colman's chambers a squirrel in the usual round cage. "Ah!
poor devil," said Jekyll, "he's going the home circuit."[159]
If you come upon a squirrel on the ground, he is not long in getting to the
topmost branch of the highest tree, so perfectly is he adapted for "rising" at
a "bar"!
Pets of some of the Revolutionary Butchers. A Squirrel.
Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart., in his novel, "Zanoni,"[160] pictures
Citizen Couthon fondling a little spaniel "that he invariably carried in his
bosom, even to the Convention, as a vent for the exuberant sensibilities
which overflowed his affectionate heart."
In a note the novelist remarks—
"This tenderness for some pet animal was by no means peculiar to Couthon;
it seems rather a common fashion with the gentle butchers of the
Revolution. M. George Duval informs us ('Souvenirs de la Terreur,' iii. p.
183), that Chaumette had an aviary, to which he devoted his harmless
leisure; the murderous Fournier carried, on his shoulders, a pretty little
squirrel attached by a silver chain; Panis bestowed the superfluity of his
The one with its long plume-like tail, organised for a life among trees, the
other with its home in the arctic regions, belong to an order not generally
distinguished for intelligence, although, the beaver, once reputed a miracle
of mind, belongs to it. The glirine or rodent animals are generally of small
or moderate size, though some, like the water-loving capybara, are of
considerable dimensions.
The squirrel is a fine subject for a painter. There is a picture by Sir Edwin
Landseer, of a squirrel and bullfinch. On an engraving of it, published in
1865, is inscribed "a pair of nut-crackers,"—a happy title, and very
apposite.
Jekyll saw in Colman's chambers a squirrel in the usual round cage. "Ah!
poor devil," said Jekyll, "he's going the home circuit."[159]
If you come upon a squirrel on the ground, he is not long in getting to the
topmost branch of the highest tree, so perfectly is he adapted for "rising" at
a "bar"!
Pets of some of the Revolutionary Butchers. A Squirrel.
Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart., in his novel, "Zanoni,"[160] pictures
Citizen Couthon fondling a little spaniel "that he invariably carried in his
bosom, even to the Convention, as a vent for the exuberant sensibilities
which overflowed his affectionate heart."
In a note the novelist remarks—
"This tenderness for some pet animal was by no means peculiar to Couthon;
it seems rather a common fashion with the gentle butchers of the
Revolution. M. George Duval informs us ('Souvenirs de la Terreur,' iii. p.
183), that Chaumette had an aviary, to which he devoted his harmless
leisure; the murderous Fournier carried, on his shoulders, a pretty little
squirrel attached by a silver chain; Panis bestowed the superfluity of his
Page 167
affections upon two gold pheasants; and Marat, who would not abate one of
the three hundred thousand heads he demanded, reared doves! Apropos of
the spaniel of Couthon, Duval gives us a characteristic anecdote of Sergent,
not one of the least relentless agents of the massacre of September. A lady
came to implore his protection for one of her relations confined in the
Abbaye. He scarcely deigned to speak to her. As she retired in despair, she
trod by accident on the paw of his favourite spaniel. Sergent, turning round,
enraged and furious, exclaimed, 'Madam, have you no humanity?'"
Arctic Voyager and the Lemming.
Captain Back, on his arctic land expedition, when returning in September
1835, encountered a severe gale, which forced them to land their boat, and
as the water rose they had three times to haul it higher on the bank. He
introduces an affecting little incident: "So completely cold and drenched
was everything outside, that a poor little lemming, unable to contend with
the floods, which had driven it successively from all its retreats, crept
silently under the tent, and snuggled away in precarious security within a
few paces of a sleeping terrier. Unconscious of its danger, it licked its fur
coat, and darted its bright eyes from object to object, as if pleased and
surprised with its new quarters; but soon the pricked ears of the awakened
dog announced its fate, and in another instant the poor little stranger was
quivering in his jaws!"[161]
Mr McDougall?][162] records several amusing anecdotes of the little arctic
lemming, named Arctomys Spermophilus Parryi, after the great arctic
voyager. He says,—"My own experience of those industrious little warriors
tended to prove that they possessed a strange combination of sociality and
combativeness. Industrious they most certainly are, as is shown by the
complicated excavation of their subterranean cities; besides which, every
feather and hair of bird and animal found in the vicinity of their dwellings,
is made to contribute its iota of warmth and comfort to the interior of their
winter quarters.
the three hundred thousand heads he demanded, reared doves! Apropos of
the spaniel of Couthon, Duval gives us a characteristic anecdote of Sergent,
not one of the least relentless agents of the massacre of September. A lady
came to implore his protection for one of her relations confined in the
Abbaye. He scarcely deigned to speak to her. As she retired in despair, she
trod by accident on the paw of his favourite spaniel. Sergent, turning round,
enraged and furious, exclaimed, 'Madam, have you no humanity?'"
Arctic Voyager and the Lemming.
Captain Back, on his arctic land expedition, when returning in September
1835, encountered a severe gale, which forced them to land their boat, and
as the water rose they had three times to haul it higher on the bank. He
introduces an affecting little incident: "So completely cold and drenched
was everything outside, that a poor little lemming, unable to contend with
the floods, which had driven it successively from all its retreats, crept
silently under the tent, and snuggled away in precarious security within a
few paces of a sleeping terrier. Unconscious of its danger, it licked its fur
coat, and darted its bright eyes from object to object, as if pleased and
surprised with its new quarters; but soon the pricked ears of the awakened
dog announced its fate, and in another instant the poor little stranger was
quivering in his jaws!"[161]
Mr McDougall?][162] records several amusing anecdotes of the little arctic
lemming, named Arctomys Spermophilus Parryi, after the great arctic
voyager. He says,—"My own experience of those industrious little warriors
tended to prove that they possessed a strange combination of sociality and
combativeness. Industrious they most certainly are, as is shown by the
complicated excavation of their subterranean cities; besides which, every
feather and hair of bird and animal found in the vicinity of their dwellings,
is made to contribute its iota of warmth and comfort to the interior of their
winter quarters.
Page 168
"I had," continues the master of the Resolute, "many opportunities of
watching their movements during my detention at Winter Harbour. My tent
happened to be pitched immediately over one of their large towns, causing
its inhabitants to issue forth from its thousand gates to catch a view of the
strangers. Frequently on waking we have found the little animals, rolled up
in a ball, snugly ensconced within the folds of our blanket-bags; nor would
they be expelled from such a warm and desirable position without showing
fight. On several occasions I observed Naps, the dog, fast asleep with one
or two lemmings huddled away between its legs, like so many pups."
He says that Lieutenant Mecham noticed an Esquimaux dog, named Buffer,
trudging along, nose to the ground, quite unconscious of danger, when a
lemming, suddenly starting from its cavern, seized poor Buffer by the nose,
inflicting a severe wound. The dog, astounded at such an unsuspected
assault, gave a dismal howl, and at length shook the enemy off, after which
he became the attacking party, and in less than a minute the presumptuous
assailant disappeared between the jaws of the Tartar he had attempted to
catch.
watching their movements during my detention at Winter Harbour. My tent
happened to be pitched immediately over one of their large towns, causing
its inhabitants to issue forth from its thousand gates to catch a view of the
strangers. Frequently on waking we have found the little animals, rolled up
in a ball, snugly ensconced within the folds of our blanket-bags; nor would
they be expelled from such a warm and desirable position without showing
fight. On several occasions I observed Naps, the dog, fast asleep with one
or two lemmings huddled away between its legs, like so many pups."
He says that Lieutenant Mecham noticed an Esquimaux dog, named Buffer,
trudging along, nose to the ground, quite unconscious of danger, when a
lemming, suddenly starting from its cavern, seized poor Buffer by the nose,
inflicting a severe wound. The dog, astounded at such an unsuspected
assault, gave a dismal howl, and at length shook the enemy off, after which
he became the attacking party, and in less than a minute the presumptuous
assailant disappeared between the jaws of the Tartar he had attempted to
catch.
Page 169
RATS AND MICE.
Why should we not, like Grainger, begin this section as the writer of "The
Sugar-Cane" does one of his paragraphs—
"Come muse! let's sing of rats."
The "restless rottens" and mice need little introduction. They are a most
fertile race, and some species of them seem only to be in human habitations.
They are terrible nuisances, and yet rat-skins are said to be manufactured in
Paris into gloves.
Sydney Smith's comparison of some one dying like a poisoned rat in a ditch
is a powerful one. The same writer, in hunting down an unworthy man, with
his cutting criticism, says, that he did it not on account of his power, but to
put down what might prove noisome if not settled, much as a Dutch
burgomaster might hunt a rat, not for its value, but because by its boring it
might cause the water to break through his dikes, and thus flood his native
land.
Robert Browning, in one of his poems, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," has
powerfully described an incursion of rats. A few lines may be quoted:—
"Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
"Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in their cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
Why should we not, like Grainger, begin this section as the writer of "The
Sugar-Cane" does one of his paragraphs—
"Come muse! let's sing of rats."
The "restless rottens" and mice need little introduction. They are a most
fertile race, and some species of them seem only to be in human habitations.
They are terrible nuisances, and yet rat-skins are said to be manufactured in
Paris into gloves.
Sydney Smith's comparison of some one dying like a poisoned rat in a ditch
is a powerful one. The same writer, in hunting down an unworthy man, with
his cutting criticism, says, that he did it not on account of his power, but to
put down what might prove noisome if not settled, much as a Dutch
burgomaster might hunt a rat, not for its value, but because by its boring it
might cause the water to break through his dikes, and thus flood his native
land.
Robert Browning, in one of his poems, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," has
powerfully described an incursion of rats. A few lines may be quoted:—
"Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
"Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in their cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
Page 170
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
"And ere three shrill notes the pipes had uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats;
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped, advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished,
Save one."
The Duke of Wellington and the Musk-rat.
Mr Taylor, in his notes to the artist Haydon's Autobiography, tells us that a
favourite expression of the Duke of Wellington, when people tried to coax
him to do what he had resolved not to do, was, "The rat has got into the
bottle." This not very intelligible expression may refer to an anecdote I have
heard of the Duke's once telling, in his later days, how the musk-rats in
India got into bottles, which ever after retained the odour of musk. "Either
the rats must be very small," said a lady who heard him, "or the bottles very
large." "On the contrary, madam," was the Duke's reply, "very small bottles
and very large rats." "That is the style of logic we have to deal with at the
Horse Guards," whispered Lord ——.
In fifty different sharps and flats.
"And ere three shrill notes the pipes had uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats;
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped, advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished,
Save one."
The Duke of Wellington and the Musk-rat.
Mr Taylor, in his notes to the artist Haydon's Autobiography, tells us that a
favourite expression of the Duke of Wellington, when people tried to coax
him to do what he had resolved not to do, was, "The rat has got into the
bottle." This not very intelligible expression may refer to an anecdote I have
heard of the Duke's once telling, in his later days, how the musk-rats in
India got into bottles, which ever after retained the odour of musk. "Either
the rats must be very small," said a lady who heard him, "or the bottles very
large." "On the contrary, madam," was the Duke's reply, "very small bottles
and very large rats." "That is the style of logic we have to deal with at the
Horse Guards," whispered Lord ——.
Page 171
Lady Eglintoun and the Rats.
Mr Robert Chambers, in his "Traditions of Edinburgh" (p. 191), gives an
interesting account of the elegant Susanna, Countess of Eglintoun, who was
in her eighty-fifth year when Johnson and Boswell visited her. She died in
1780, at the age of ninety-one, having preserved to the last her stately mien
and fine complexion. She is said to have washed her face periodically with
sow's milk.
"This venerable woman amused herself latterly in taming and patronising
rats. She kept a vast number of these animals in her pay at Auchans, and
they succeeded in her affections the poets and artists she had loved in early
life. It does not reflect much credit upon the latter, that her ladyship used to
complain of never having met with true gratitude except from four-footed
animals. She had a panel in the oak wainscot of her dining-room, which she
tapped upon and opened at meal times, when ten or twelve jolly rats came
tripping forth, and joined her at table. At the word of command or a signal
from her ladyship, they retired again to their native obscurity—a trait of
good sense in the character and habits of the animals which, it is hardly
necessary to remark, patrons do not always find in two-legged protégés."
General Douglas and the Rats.
The biographer of this highly-distinguished military engineer-officer relates
an anecdote of him when a lieutenant at Tynemouth. The future author of
well-known works on Gunnery and Military Bridges, early began to show
ability in mechanics. "Lieutenant Douglas occupied a room barely
habitable, and had to contest the tenancy with rats, which asserted their
claim with such tenacity, that he went to sleep at the risk of being devoured.
Their incursions compelled him to furnish himself with loaded pistols and a
tinder-box, and he kept watch one night, remaining quiet till there was an
irruption, when he started up and struck a light. But his vigilance proved of
no avail, for the clink of the flint and steel caused a stampede, and not a rat
remained by the time he had kindled the tinder. Their flight suggested to
him another device. He looked out all the holes, and covered them with
slides, connected with each other by wires, and these he fastened to a string,
which enabled him to draw them all with one pull, and thus close the
Mr Robert Chambers, in his "Traditions of Edinburgh" (p. 191), gives an
interesting account of the elegant Susanna, Countess of Eglintoun, who was
in her eighty-fifth year when Johnson and Boswell visited her. She died in
1780, at the age of ninety-one, having preserved to the last her stately mien
and fine complexion. She is said to have washed her face periodically with
sow's milk.
"This venerable woman amused herself latterly in taming and patronising
rats. She kept a vast number of these animals in her pay at Auchans, and
they succeeded in her affections the poets and artists she had loved in early
life. It does not reflect much credit upon the latter, that her ladyship used to
complain of never having met with true gratitude except from four-footed
animals. She had a panel in the oak wainscot of her dining-room, which she
tapped upon and opened at meal times, when ten or twelve jolly rats came
tripping forth, and joined her at table. At the word of command or a signal
from her ladyship, they retired again to their native obscurity—a trait of
good sense in the character and habits of the animals which, it is hardly
necessary to remark, patrons do not always find in two-legged protégés."
General Douglas and the Rats.
The biographer of this highly-distinguished military engineer-officer relates
an anecdote of him when a lieutenant at Tynemouth. The future author of
well-known works on Gunnery and Military Bridges, early began to show
ability in mechanics. "Lieutenant Douglas occupied a room barely
habitable, and had to contest the tenancy with rats, which asserted their
claim with such tenacity, that he went to sleep at the risk of being devoured.
Their incursions compelled him to furnish himself with loaded pistols and a
tinder-box, and he kept watch one night, remaining quiet till there was an
irruption, when he started up and struck a light. But his vigilance proved of
no avail, for the clink of the flint and steel caused a stampede, and not a rat
remained by the time he had kindled the tinder. Their flight suggested to
him another device. He looked out all the holes, and covered them with
slides, connected with each other by wires, and these he fastened to a string,
which enabled him to draw them all with one pull, and thus close the
Page 172
outlets. The contrivance claims to be mentioned as his first success in
mechanics, foreshadowing his future expertness. It came into use the same
night: he pulled the string without rising from bed, then struck a light, while
the rats flew off to the holes to find them blocked, and he shot them at
leisure. Two or three such massacres cleared off the intruders, and left him
undisturbed in his quarters."[163]
Hanover Rats.
How amusingly does Mr Waterton show his attachment to the extinct
Stuarts in his essays. Go where he may, "a Hanover rat" pops up before
him. In his charming autobiography appended to the three series of his
graphic essays, whether he be in Rome or Cologne, in York or London, at a
farm-house, or on board a steamer on the Rhine, "a Hanover rat" is sure to
be encountered. We could cite many amusing illustrations.
Earl Stanhope[164] speaks of the Jacobites after the death of Anne reviling
all adherents of the court as "a parcel of Roundheads and Hanover rats."
This is the phrase used by Squire Western in Fielding's novel of "Tom
Jones." He tells us that the former of these titles was the by-word first
applied to the Calvinistic preachers in the civil wars, from the close cropped
hair which they affected as distinguished from the flowing curls of the
cavaliers. The second phrase was of far more recent origin. It so chanced
that not long after the accession of the House of Hanover, some of the
brown, that is, the German or Norway rats, were first brought over to this
country in some timber, as is said; and being much stronger than the black,
or till then, the common rats, they in many places quite extirpated the latter.
The word, both the noun and the verb "to rat," was first levelled at the
converts to the government of George the First, but has by degrees obtained
a wider meaning, and come to be applied to any sudden and mercenary
change in politics. The ravages of rats might form the subject of a curious
volume. They are not at all literary in their tastes, though they are known to
eat through bales of books, should they be placed in the way of their runs.
The booksellers in the Row always leave room between the wall and the
books in their cellars, to allow room for this predacious vermin.
mechanics, foreshadowing his future expertness. It came into use the same
night: he pulled the string without rising from bed, then struck a light, while
the rats flew off to the holes to find them blocked, and he shot them at
leisure. Two or three such massacres cleared off the intruders, and left him
undisturbed in his quarters."[163]
Hanover Rats.
How amusingly does Mr Waterton show his attachment to the extinct
Stuarts in his essays. Go where he may, "a Hanover rat" pops up before
him. In his charming autobiography appended to the three series of his
graphic essays, whether he be in Rome or Cologne, in York or London, at a
farm-house, or on board a steamer on the Rhine, "a Hanover rat" is sure to
be encountered. We could cite many amusing illustrations.
Earl Stanhope[164] speaks of the Jacobites after the death of Anne reviling
all adherents of the court as "a parcel of Roundheads and Hanover rats."
This is the phrase used by Squire Western in Fielding's novel of "Tom
Jones." He tells us that the former of these titles was the by-word first
applied to the Calvinistic preachers in the civil wars, from the close cropped
hair which they affected as distinguished from the flowing curls of the
cavaliers. The second phrase was of far more recent origin. It so chanced
that not long after the accession of the House of Hanover, some of the
brown, that is, the German or Norway rats, were first brought over to this
country in some timber, as is said; and being much stronger than the black,
or till then, the common rats, they in many places quite extirpated the latter.
The word, both the noun and the verb "to rat," was first levelled at the
converts to the government of George the First, but has by degrees obtained
a wider meaning, and come to be applied to any sudden and mercenary
change in politics. The ravages of rats might form the subject of a curious
volume. They are not at all literary in their tastes, though they are known to
eat through bales of books, should they be placed in the way of their runs.
The booksellers in the Row always leave room between the wall and the
books in their cellars, to allow room for this predacious vermin.
Page 173
Mr Cole, when examined before the Committee of the House on the
condition of the depositories of the Records some time ago, stated that "six
or seven perfect skeletons of rats were found imbedded (in the Rolls); bones
of these vermin were generally distributed throughout the mass, and a dog
was employed in hunting the live ones."
Irishman Employed Shooting Rats.
Luttrell visited Sydney Smith at his parsonage in Somersetshire. The
London wit told some amusing Irish stories, and his manner of telling them
was so good. "One: 'Is your master at home, Paddy?' 'No, your honour.'
'Why, I saw him go in five minutes ago.' 'Faith, your honour, he's not
exactly at home; he's only there in the back yard a-shooting rats with
cannon, your honour, for his devarsion.'"[165]
James Watt and the Rat's Whiskers.
Mrs Schimmelpenninck in her youth lived at Birmingham, where she often
met James Watt. In her autobiography (p. 34), she says, "Everybody
practically knew the infinite variety of his talents and stores of knowledge.
When Mr Watt entered a room, men of letters, men of science, nay, military
men, artists, ladies, even little children thronged round him. I remember a
celebrated Swedish artist having been instructed by him that rats' whiskers
made the most pliant and elastic painting-brush; ladies would appeal to him
on the best means of devising grates, curing smoky chimneys, warming
their houses, and obtaining fast colours. I can speak from experience of his
teaching me how to make a dulcimer, and improve a Jew's harp."
The Poet Gray compares the Poet-Laureate to a Rat-catcher.
The poet Gray very much despised such offices as that of the poet-laureate,
or that held by Elkanah Settle, the last of the city poets whose name is held
up to ridicule by Pope in the "Dunciad." In a letter to the Rev. Wm. Mason,
[166]
he puts this very strikingly:—
condition of the depositories of the Records some time ago, stated that "six
or seven perfect skeletons of rats were found imbedded (in the Rolls); bones
of these vermin were generally distributed throughout the mass, and a dog
was employed in hunting the live ones."
Irishman Employed Shooting Rats.
Luttrell visited Sydney Smith at his parsonage in Somersetshire. The
London wit told some amusing Irish stories, and his manner of telling them
was so good. "One: 'Is your master at home, Paddy?' 'No, your honour.'
'Why, I saw him go in five minutes ago.' 'Faith, your honour, he's not
exactly at home; he's only there in the back yard a-shooting rats with
cannon, your honour, for his devarsion.'"[165]
James Watt and the Rat's Whiskers.
Mrs Schimmelpenninck in her youth lived at Birmingham, where she often
met James Watt. In her autobiography (p. 34), she says, "Everybody
practically knew the infinite variety of his talents and stores of knowledge.
When Mr Watt entered a room, men of letters, men of science, nay, military
men, artists, ladies, even little children thronged round him. I remember a
celebrated Swedish artist having been instructed by him that rats' whiskers
made the most pliant and elastic painting-brush; ladies would appeal to him
on the best means of devising grates, curing smoky chimneys, warming
their houses, and obtaining fast colours. I can speak from experience of his
teaching me how to make a dulcimer, and improve a Jew's harp."
The Poet Gray compares the Poet-Laureate to a Rat-catcher.
The poet Gray very much despised such offices as that of the poet-laureate,
or that held by Elkanah Settle, the last of the city poets whose name is held
up to ridicule by Pope in the "Dunciad." In a letter to the Rev. Wm. Mason,
[166]
he puts this very strikingly:—
Page 174
"Though I very well know the bland emolient saponaceous qualities both of
sack and silver, yet if any great man would say to me, 'I make you rat-
catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of £300 a year, and two butts of the
best Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse or two, for
form's sake, in public once a year, yet to you, sir, we shall not stand upon
these things,' I cannot say I should jump at it; nay, if they would drop the
very name of the office, and call me Sinecure to the King's Majesty, I
should still feel a little awkward, and think everybody I saw smelt a rat
about me: but I do not pretend to blame any one else that has not the same
sensations. For my part, I would rather be serjeant-trumpeter or pinmaker to
the palace."
Jeremy Bentham and the Mice.
The biographer of Jeremy Bentham[167] tells us that among the animals he
was fond of were mice. They were encouraged "to play" about in his
workshop. I remember, when one got among his papers, that he exclaimed,
"Ho! ho! here's a mouse at work; why won't he come into my lap?—but
then I ought to be writing legislation, and that would not do."
One day, while we were at dinner, mice had got, as they frequently did, into
the drawers of the dinner-table, and were making no small noise. "O you
rascals," exclaimed Bentham, "there's an uproar among you. I'll tell puss of
you;" and then added, "I became once very intimate with a colony of mice.
They used to run up my legs, and eat crumbs from my lap. I love everything
that has four legs; so did George Wilson. We were fond of mice, and fond of
cats; but it was difficult to reconcile the two affections."
Jeremy Bentham records: "George Wilson had a disorder which kept him
two months to his couch. The mouses used to run up his back and eat the
powder and pomatum from his hair. They used also to run up my knees
when I went to see him. I remember they did so to Lord Glenbervie, who
thought it odd."[168]
Burns and the Field Mouse.
sack and silver, yet if any great man would say to me, 'I make you rat-
catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of £300 a year, and two butts of the
best Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse or two, for
form's sake, in public once a year, yet to you, sir, we shall not stand upon
these things,' I cannot say I should jump at it; nay, if they would drop the
very name of the office, and call me Sinecure to the King's Majesty, I
should still feel a little awkward, and think everybody I saw smelt a rat
about me: but I do not pretend to blame any one else that has not the same
sensations. For my part, I would rather be serjeant-trumpeter or pinmaker to
the palace."
Jeremy Bentham and the Mice.
The biographer of Jeremy Bentham[167] tells us that among the animals he
was fond of were mice. They were encouraged "to play" about in his
workshop. I remember, when one got among his papers, that he exclaimed,
"Ho! ho! here's a mouse at work; why won't he come into my lap?—but
then I ought to be writing legislation, and that would not do."
One day, while we were at dinner, mice had got, as they frequently did, into
the drawers of the dinner-table, and were making no small noise. "O you
rascals," exclaimed Bentham, "there's an uproar among you. I'll tell puss of
you;" and then added, "I became once very intimate with a colony of mice.
They used to run up my legs, and eat crumbs from my lap. I love everything
that has four legs; so did George Wilson. We were fond of mice, and fond of
cats; but it was difficult to reconcile the two affections."
Jeremy Bentham records: "George Wilson had a disorder which kept him
two months to his couch. The mouses used to run up his back and eat the
powder and pomatum from his hair. They used also to run up my knees
when I went to see him. I remember they did so to Lord Glenbervie, who
thought it odd."[168]
Burns and the Field Mouse.
Page 175
The history of the origin of this well-known piece of the Scottish poet is
thus given by Mr Chambers in that edition of the Life and Works of Robert
Burns,[169] which will ever be regarded, by Scotchmen at least, as the most
complete and carefully-edited of the numerous editions of that most popular
poet.
"We have the testimony of Gilbert Burns that this beautiful poem was
composed while the author was following the plough. Burns ploughed with
four horses, being twice the amount of power now required on most of the
soils of Scotland. He required an assistant, called a gaudsman, to drive the
horses, his own duty being to hold and guide the plough. John Blane, who
had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterwards, had
a distinct recollection of the turning-up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless
youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and
recalled by his master, who, he observed, became thereafter thoughtful and
abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-
labourers, soon after read the poem to Blane.
TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
NOVEMBER 1785.
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle.[170]
"I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!
"I doubt na whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
thus given by Mr Chambers in that edition of the Life and Works of Robert
Burns,[169] which will ever be regarded, by Scotchmen at least, as the most
complete and carefully-edited of the numerous editions of that most popular
poet.
"We have the testimony of Gilbert Burns that this beautiful poem was
composed while the author was following the plough. Burns ploughed with
four horses, being twice the amount of power now required on most of the
soils of Scotland. He required an assistant, called a gaudsman, to drive the
horses, his own duty being to hold and guide the plough. John Blane, who
had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterwards, had
a distinct recollection of the turning-up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless
youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and
recalled by his master, who, he observed, became thereafter thoughtful and
abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-
labourers, soon after read the poem to Blane.
TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
NOVEMBER 1785.
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle.[170]
"I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!
"I doubt na whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
Page 176
A daimen icker in a thrave[171]
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,
And never miss't.
"Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin"!
And naething now to big a new ane
O, foggage green,
And bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell and keen!
"Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter passed
Out through thy cell.
"That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!
"But, mousie, thou art no thy lane;
Improving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.
"Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,
And never miss't.
"Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin"!
And naething now to big a new ane
O, foggage green,
And bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell and keen!
"Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter passed
Out through thy cell.
"That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!
"But, mousie, thou art no thy lane;
Improving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.
"Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
Page 177
And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear."
It was on the farm of Mossgiel, in the parish of Mauchline, where he
resided nearly nine years, that the occurrence took place so pathetically
recorded and gloriously commented on in this piece.
Destructive Field Mice.
Thomas Fuller, in "The Farewell" to his description of the "Worthies of
Essex," says, "I wish the sad casualties may never return which lately have
happened in this county; the one, 1581, in the Hundred of Dengy, the other,
1648, in the Hundred of Rochford and Isle of Foulness (rented in part by
two of my credible parishioners, who attested it, having paid dear for the
truth thereof); when an army of mice, nesting in ant-hills, as conies in
burrows, shaved off the grass at the bare roots, which, withering to dung,
was infectious to cattle. The March following, numberless flocks of owls
from all parts flew thither, and destroyed them, which otherwise had ruined
the country, if continuing another year. Thus, though great the distance
betwixt a man and a mouse, the meanest may become formidable to the
mightiest creature by their multitudes; and this may render the punishment
of the Philistines more clearly to our apprehensions, at the same time
pestered with mice in their barns and pained with emerods in their bodies."
[172]
The Baron Von Trenck and the Tame Mouse in Prison.
The unfortunate Baron Von Trenck was a Prussian officer, whose
adventures, imprisonments, and escape form the subject of memoirs which
he wrote in Hungary. He at last settled in France, and there, in 1794,
perished by the guillotine.
Before he obtained his liberty, he lost a companion which had for two years
helped to beguile the solitude of his captivity. This was a mouse, which he
had tamed so perfectly, that the little creature was continually playing with
him, and would eat out of his mouth. "One night it skipped about so much
that the sentinels heard a noise and reported it to the officer of the guard. As
I guess and fear."
It was on the farm of Mossgiel, in the parish of Mauchline, where he
resided nearly nine years, that the occurrence took place so pathetically
recorded and gloriously commented on in this piece.
Destructive Field Mice.
Thomas Fuller, in "The Farewell" to his description of the "Worthies of
Essex," says, "I wish the sad casualties may never return which lately have
happened in this county; the one, 1581, in the Hundred of Dengy, the other,
1648, in the Hundred of Rochford and Isle of Foulness (rented in part by
two of my credible parishioners, who attested it, having paid dear for the
truth thereof); when an army of mice, nesting in ant-hills, as conies in
burrows, shaved off the grass at the bare roots, which, withering to dung,
was infectious to cattle. The March following, numberless flocks of owls
from all parts flew thither, and destroyed them, which otherwise had ruined
the country, if continuing another year. Thus, though great the distance
betwixt a man and a mouse, the meanest may become formidable to the
mightiest creature by their multitudes; and this may render the punishment
of the Philistines more clearly to our apprehensions, at the same time
pestered with mice in their barns and pained with emerods in their bodies."
[172]
The Baron Von Trenck and the Tame Mouse in Prison.
The unfortunate Baron Von Trenck was a Prussian officer, whose
adventures, imprisonments, and escape form the subject of memoirs which
he wrote in Hungary. He at last settled in France, and there, in 1794,
perished by the guillotine.
Before he obtained his liberty, he lost a companion which had for two years
helped to beguile the solitude of his captivity. This was a mouse, which he
had tamed so perfectly, that the little creature was continually playing with
him, and would eat out of his mouth. "One night it skipped about so much
that the sentinels heard a noise and reported it to the officer of the guard. As
Page 178
the garrison had been changed at the peace (between Austria and Prussia),
and as Trenck had not been able to form at once so close a connexion with
the officers of the regular troops as he had done with those of the militia,
one of the former, after ascertaining the truth of the report with his own
ears, sent to inform the commandant that something extraordinary was
going on in the prison. The town-major arrived in consequence early in the
morning, accompanied by locksmiths and masons. The floor, the walls, the
baron's chains, his body, everything in short, were strictly examined.
Finding all in order, they asked the cause of the last evening's bustle. Trenck
had heard the mouse, and told them frankly by what it had been occasioned.
They desired him to call his little favourite; he whistled, and the mouse
immediately leaped upon his shoulder. He solicited that its life might be
spared; but the officer of the guard took it into his possession, promising,
however, on his word of honour, to give it to a lady who would take great
care of it. Turning it afterwards loose in his chamber, the mouse, who knew
nobody but Trenck, soon disappeared, and hid himself in a hole. At the
usual hour of visiting his prison, when the officers were just going away,
the poor little animal darted in, climbed up his legs, seated itself on his
shoulder, and played a thousand tricks to express the joy it felt on seeing
him again. Every one was astonished, and wished to have it. The major, to
terminate the dispute, carried it away, gave it to his wife, who had a light
cage made for it; but the mouse refused to eat, and a few days after was
found dead."[173]
Alexander Wilson and the Mouse.
About the time when Alexander Wilson formed the design of drawing the
American birds, and writing those descriptions which, when published,
gave him that name which has clung to him, "the American Ornithologist"
he had a school within a few miles of Philadelphia. He was then a keen
student of the animal life around him. In 1802 he wrote to his friend
Bertram, and tells him of his having had "live crows, hawks, and owls;
opossums, squirrels, snakes, lizards," &c. He tells him that his room
sometimes reminded him of Noah's ark, and comically adds, "but Noah had
a wife in one corner of it, and in this particular our parallel does not
altogether tally. I receive every subject of natural history that is brought to
me; and, though they do not march into my ark from all quarters, as they
and as Trenck had not been able to form at once so close a connexion with
the officers of the regular troops as he had done with those of the militia,
one of the former, after ascertaining the truth of the report with his own
ears, sent to inform the commandant that something extraordinary was
going on in the prison. The town-major arrived in consequence early in the
morning, accompanied by locksmiths and masons. The floor, the walls, the
baron's chains, his body, everything in short, were strictly examined.
Finding all in order, they asked the cause of the last evening's bustle. Trenck
had heard the mouse, and told them frankly by what it had been occasioned.
They desired him to call his little favourite; he whistled, and the mouse
immediately leaped upon his shoulder. He solicited that its life might be
spared; but the officer of the guard took it into his possession, promising,
however, on his word of honour, to give it to a lady who would take great
care of it. Turning it afterwards loose in his chamber, the mouse, who knew
nobody but Trenck, soon disappeared, and hid himself in a hole. At the
usual hour of visiting his prison, when the officers were just going away,
the poor little animal darted in, climbed up his legs, seated itself on his
shoulder, and played a thousand tricks to express the joy it felt on seeing
him again. Every one was astonished, and wished to have it. The major, to
terminate the dispute, carried it away, gave it to his wife, who had a light
cage made for it; but the mouse refused to eat, and a few days after was
found dead."[173]
Alexander Wilson and the Mouse.
About the time when Alexander Wilson formed the design of drawing the
American birds, and writing those descriptions which, when published,
gave him that name which has clung to him, "the American Ornithologist"
he had a school within a few miles of Philadelphia. He was then a keen
student of the animal life around him. In 1802 he wrote to his friend
Bertram, and tells him of his having had "live crows, hawks, and owls;
opossums, squirrels, snakes, lizards," &c. He tells him that his room
sometimes reminded him of Noah's ark, and comically adds, "but Noah had
a wife in one corner of it, and in this particular our parallel does not
altogether tally. I receive every subject of natural history that is brought to
me; and, though they do not march into my ark from all quarters, as they
Page 179
did into that of our great ancestor, yet I find means, by the distribution of a
few fivepenny bits, to make them find the way fast enough. A boy, not long
ago, brought me a large basketful of crows. I expect his next load will be
bull-frogs, if I don't soon issue orders to the contrary. One of my boys
caught a mouse in school a few days ago, and directly marched up to me
with his prisoner. I set about drawing it the same evening, and all the while
the pantings of its little heart showed it to be in the most extreme agonies of
fear. I had intended to kill it, in order to fix it in the claws of a stuffed owl;
but, happening to spill a few drops of water near where it was tied, it lapped
it up with such eagerness, and looked in my face with such an eye of
supplicating terror, as perfectly overcame me. I immediately restored it to
life and liberty. The agonies of a prisoner at the stake, while the fire and
instruments of torture are preparing, could not be more severe than the
sufferings of that poor mouse; and, insignificant as the object was, I felt at
that moment the sweet sensation that mercy leaves in the mind when she
triumphs over cruelty."[174]
few fivepenny bits, to make them find the way fast enough. A boy, not long
ago, brought me a large basketful of crows. I expect his next load will be
bull-frogs, if I don't soon issue orders to the contrary. One of my boys
caught a mouse in school a few days ago, and directly marched up to me
with his prisoner. I set about drawing it the same evening, and all the while
the pantings of its little heart showed it to be in the most extreme agonies of
fear. I had intended to kill it, in order to fix it in the claws of a stuffed owl;
but, happening to spill a few drops of water near where it was tied, it lapped
it up with such eagerness, and looked in my face with such an eye of
supplicating terror, as perfectly overcame me. I immediately restored it to
life and liberty. The agonies of a prisoner at the stake, while the fire and
instruments of torture are preparing, could not be more severe than the
sufferings of that poor mouse; and, insignificant as the object was, I felt at
that moment the sweet sensation that mercy leaves in the mind when she
triumphs over cruelty."[174]
Page 180
HARES, RABBITS, GUINEA-PIG.
All gnawing creatures, belonging to the Glirine or Rodentia order. Charles
Lamb has written on the hare, in one view of that finely-flavoured beast, as
only Elia could write. But the poet Cowper has made the hare's history
peculiarly pleasing and familiar. How often in his letters he alludes to his
hares! Mrs E. B. Browning, in her exquisitely delicate and pathetic poem,
"Cowper's Grave," thus alludes to Cowper's pets—
"Wild, timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses;
The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing,
Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving."
Not many years ago the compiler saw traces of the holes the poet had cut in
the skirting-boards of the room for their ingress and egress, that they might
have ampler room for wandering. His epitaphs on two of them are often
quoted. Rabbits are peculiarly the pets of boys, and though, when wild,
often great vermin, from their destructive habits and their mining
operations, are yet said to contribute much to the revenue of one European
monarch.
How Mr Malthus ought to have hated guinea-pigs, those fertile little lumps
of blotched fur! Few creatures can be more productive.
William Cowper on his Hares.
What a model description of the habits of an animal we have in the gentle
Cowper's account of his hares! Would that he had made pets of other
animals, and written descriptions of them, like that which follows, and
which is here copied from the original place to which he contributed it.[175]
"May 28.
"Mr Urban,—Convinced that you despise no communications that may
gratify curiosity, amuse rationally, or add, though but a little, to the stock of
All gnawing creatures, belonging to the Glirine or Rodentia order. Charles
Lamb has written on the hare, in one view of that finely-flavoured beast, as
only Elia could write. But the poet Cowper has made the hare's history
peculiarly pleasing and familiar. How often in his letters he alludes to his
hares! Mrs E. B. Browning, in her exquisitely delicate and pathetic poem,
"Cowper's Grave," thus alludes to Cowper's pets—
"Wild, timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses;
The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing,
Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving."
Not many years ago the compiler saw traces of the holes the poet had cut in
the skirting-boards of the room for their ingress and egress, that they might
have ampler room for wandering. His epitaphs on two of them are often
quoted. Rabbits are peculiarly the pets of boys, and though, when wild,
often great vermin, from their destructive habits and their mining
operations, are yet said to contribute much to the revenue of one European
monarch.
How Mr Malthus ought to have hated guinea-pigs, those fertile little lumps
of blotched fur! Few creatures can be more productive.
William Cowper on his Hares.
What a model description of the habits of an animal we have in the gentle
Cowper's account of his hares! Would that he had made pets of other
animals, and written descriptions of them, like that which follows, and
which is here copied from the original place to which he contributed it.[175]
"May 28.
"Mr Urban,—Convinced that you despise no communications that may
gratify curiosity, amuse rationally, or add, though but a little, to the stock of
Page 181
public knowledge, I send you a circumstantial account of an animal, which,
though its general properties are pretty well known, is for the most part
such a stranger to man, that we are but little aware of its peculiarities. We
know indeed that the hare is good to hunt and good to eat; but in all other
respects poor Puss is a neglected subject. In the year 1774, being much
indisposed, both in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either
with company or books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion
necessary, I was glad of anything that would engage my attention without
fatiguing it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them
for a plaything; it was at that time about three months old. Understanding
better how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming
weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father, who saw it
pining and growing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I
was willing enough to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving
that in the management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I
should find just that sort of employment which my case required. It was
soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with the present; and
the consequence was, that in a short time, I had as many leverets offered to
me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it
is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I gave them—Puss,
Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must
inform you that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I
built them houses to sleep in. Each had a separate apartment, so contrived
that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed
under each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and washed,
they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the daytime they had the
range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into
that of another.
"Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon
his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He would suffer me to
take him up, and to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once
fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I
nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows that they might not molest him
(for, like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species
that is sick), and by constant care, and trying him with a variety of herbs,
restored him to perfect health. No creature could be more grateful than my
though its general properties are pretty well known, is for the most part
such a stranger to man, that we are but little aware of its peculiarities. We
know indeed that the hare is good to hunt and good to eat; but in all other
respects poor Puss is a neglected subject. In the year 1774, being much
indisposed, both in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either
with company or books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion
necessary, I was glad of anything that would engage my attention without
fatiguing it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them
for a plaything; it was at that time about three months old. Understanding
better how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming
weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father, who saw it
pining and growing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I
was willing enough to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving
that in the management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I
should find just that sort of employment which my case required. It was
soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with the present; and
the consequence was, that in a short time, I had as many leverets offered to
me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it
is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I gave them—Puss,
Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must
inform you that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I
built them houses to sleep in. Each had a separate apartment, so contrived
that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed
under each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and washed,
they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the daytime they had the
range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into
that of another.
"Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon
his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He would suffer me to
take him up, and to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once
fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I
nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows that they might not molest him
(for, like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species
that is sick), and by constant care, and trying him with a variety of herbs,
restored him to perfect health. No creature could be more grateful than my
Page 182
patient after his recovery,—a sentiment which he most significantly
expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every
finger separately; then between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part
of it unsaluted,—a ceremony which he never performed but once again
upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my
custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid
himself generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing
the cud till evening; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite
repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he began
to be impatient for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would
invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such
expression as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not
immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his teeth,
and pull at it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly
tamed; the shyness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it was
visible, by many symptoms which I have not room to enumerate, that he
was happier in human society than when shut up with his natural
companions.
"Not so Tiney. Upon him the kindest treatment had not the least effect. He,
too, was sick, and in his sickness, had an equal share of my attention; but if,
after his recovery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike
with his fore-feet, spring forward, and bite. He was, however, very
entertaining in his way, even his surliness was matter of mirth, and in his
play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a
solemnity of manner, that in him, too, I had an agreeable companion.
"Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death was
occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been washed, while
it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was tamed
by gentle usage; Tiney was not to be tamed at all; and Bess had a courage
and confidence that made him tame from the beginning. I always admitted
them into the parlour after supper, where the carpet affording their feet a
firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in
which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to
the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat,
being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an
indignity which he resented by drumming upon her back with such
expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every
finger separately; then between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part
of it unsaluted,—a ceremony which he never performed but once again
upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my
custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid
himself generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing
the cud till evening; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite
repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he began
to be impatient for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would
invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such
expression as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not
immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his teeth,
and pull at it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly
tamed; the shyness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it was
visible, by many symptoms which I have not room to enumerate, that he
was happier in human society than when shut up with his natural
companions.
"Not so Tiney. Upon him the kindest treatment had not the least effect. He,
too, was sick, and in his sickness, had an equal share of my attention; but if,
after his recovery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike
with his fore-feet, spring forward, and bite. He was, however, very
entertaining in his way, even his surliness was matter of mirth, and in his
play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a
solemnity of manner, that in him, too, I had an agreeable companion.
"Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death was
occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been washed, while
it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was tamed
by gentle usage; Tiney was not to be tamed at all; and Bess had a courage
and confidence that made him tame from the beginning. I always admitted
them into the parlour after supper, where the carpet affording their feet a
firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in
which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to
the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat,
being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an
indignity which he resented by drumming upon her back with such
Page 183
violence, that the cat was happy to escape from under his paws and hide
herself.
"You observe, sir, that I describe these animals as having each a character of
his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive
of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either, I
immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd, however
numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he
can by that indication only distinguish each from all the rest, and yet to a
common observer the difference is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the
same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be discoverable in
hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be
found exactly similar; a circumstance little suspected by those who have not
had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in
discovering the minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they
are accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a new
object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch,
and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem, too,
to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of their favourites; to
some persons, though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled,
and would even scream when they attempted to touch them; but a miller
coming in, engaged their affections at once—his powdered coat had charms
that were irresistible. You will not wonder, sir, that my intimate
acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the
sportsman's amusement in abhorrence. He little knows what amiable
creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful
they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that,
impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man
gives them peculiar cause for it.
"That I may not be tedious, I will just give you a short summary of those
articles of diet that suit them best, and then retire to make room for some
more important correspondent.
"I take it to be a general opinion that they graze, but it is an erroneous one,
at least grass is not their staple; they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon
quitting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dent-de-lion, and
lettuce are their favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered, by
herself.
"You observe, sir, that I describe these animals as having each a character of
his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive
of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either, I
immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd, however
numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he
can by that indication only distinguish each from all the rest, and yet to a
common observer the difference is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the
same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be discoverable in
hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be
found exactly similar; a circumstance little suspected by those who have not
had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in
discovering the minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they
are accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a new
object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch,
and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem, too,
to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of their favourites; to
some persons, though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled,
and would even scream when they attempted to touch them; but a miller
coming in, engaged their affections at once—his powdered coat had charms
that were irresistible. You will not wonder, sir, that my intimate
acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the
sportsman's amusement in abhorrence. He little knows what amiable
creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful
they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that,
impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man
gives them peculiar cause for it.
"That I may not be tedious, I will just give you a short summary of those
articles of diet that suit them best, and then retire to make room for some
more important correspondent.
"I take it to be a general opinion that they graze, but it is an erroneous one,
at least grass is not their staple; they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon
quitting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dent-de-lion, and
lettuce are their favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered, by
Page 184
accident, that fine white sand is in great estimation with them, I suppose as
a digestive. It happened that I was cleaning a bird cage while the hares were
with me; I placed a pot filled with such sand upon the floor, to which being
at once directed by a strong instinct, they devoured it voraciously; since that
time I have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They
account green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom
eat; straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties;
they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw, never
want them; it serves them also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be
kept sweet and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require
aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish, and
are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to resemble sheep
in this, that if their pastures be too succulent, they are very subject to the
rot; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal nourishment; and,
filling a pan with it cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their
chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night; during the winter,
when vegetables are not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds
of carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin; for, though they
are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These, however, not
being a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer herbs, they must at this
time be supplied with water; but so placed that they cannot overset it into
their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with
twigs of hawthorn and of the common briar, eating even the very wood
when it is of considerable thickness.
"Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine years old, and died at
last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall. Puss is still
living, and has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay
nor even of age, except that he is grown more discreet and less frolicsome
than he was. I cannot conclude, sir, without informing you that I have lately
introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a hare,
to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but there
was no real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the
least symptom of hostility. There is, therefore, it should seem, no natural
antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the
flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it; they eat
a digestive. It happened that I was cleaning a bird cage while the hares were
with me; I placed a pot filled with such sand upon the floor, to which being
at once directed by a strong instinct, they devoured it voraciously; since that
time I have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They
account green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom
eat; straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties;
they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw, never
want them; it serves them also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be
kept sweet and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require
aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish, and
are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to resemble sheep
in this, that if their pastures be too succulent, they are very subject to the
rot; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal nourishment; and,
filling a pan with it cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their
chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night; during the winter,
when vegetables are not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds
of carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin; for, though they
are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These, however, not
being a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer herbs, they must at this
time be supplied with water; but so placed that they cannot overset it into
their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with
twigs of hawthorn and of the common briar, eating even the very wood
when it is of considerable thickness.
"Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine years old, and died at
last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall. Puss is still
living, and has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay
nor even of age, except that he is grown more discreet and less frolicsome
than he was. I cannot conclude, sir, without informing you that I have lately
introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a hare,
to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but there
was no real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the
least symptom of hostility. There is, therefore, it should seem, no natural
antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the
flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it; they eat
Page 185
bread at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all respects sociable
and friendly.—Yours &c.,
W. C.
"P.S.—I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add, that
they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are indefatigably nice in
keeping themselves clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them
with a brush under each foot; and that they are never infested by any
vermin."
Our readers know his fine verses or epitaphs on his hares. We may quote
from the biographer to whom Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington
left all their papers and memoirs, a sentence or two on Cowper's hares, and
on the other pets of that lovable man. Earl Stanhope[176] says of this poet
and "best letter-writer in the English language—"Such, indeed, were his
powers of description and felicity of language, that even the most trivial
objects drew life and colour from his touch. In his pages, the training of
three tame hares, or the building of a frame for cucumbers, excite a warmer
interest than many accounts compiled by other writers, of great battles
deciding the fate of empires. In his pages, the sluggish waters of the Ouse,
—the floating lilies which he stooped to gather from them,—the poplars, in
whose shade he sat, and over whose fall he mourned, rise before us as
though we had known and loved them too. As Cowper himself declares,
'My descriptions are all from nature, not one of them second-handed; my
delineations of the heart are from my own experience, not one of them
borrowed from books.'"
Hairs or Hares!
A gentleman on circuit, narrating to Lord Norbury some extravagant feat in
sporting, mentioned that he had lately shot thirty-three hares before
breakfast. "Thirty-three hairs!" exclaimed Lord Norbury; "zounds, sir! then
you must have been firing at a wig."[177]
Sportsmen are very apt to exaggerate. They did so at least in Horace's days.
We have heard of a man of rank, who actually made a gamekeeper, who
and friendly.—Yours &c.,
W. C.
"P.S.—I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add, that
they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are indefatigably nice in
keeping themselves clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them
with a brush under each foot; and that they are never infested by any
vermin."
Our readers know his fine verses or epitaphs on his hares. We may quote
from the biographer to whom Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington
left all their papers and memoirs, a sentence or two on Cowper's hares, and
on the other pets of that lovable man. Earl Stanhope[176] says of this poet
and "best letter-writer in the English language—"Such, indeed, were his
powers of description and felicity of language, that even the most trivial
objects drew life and colour from his touch. In his pages, the training of
three tame hares, or the building of a frame for cucumbers, excite a warmer
interest than many accounts compiled by other writers, of great battles
deciding the fate of empires. In his pages, the sluggish waters of the Ouse,
—the floating lilies which he stooped to gather from them,—the poplars, in
whose shade he sat, and over whose fall he mourned, rise before us as
though we had known and loved them too. As Cowper himself declares,
'My descriptions are all from nature, not one of them second-handed; my
delineations of the heart are from my own experience, not one of them
borrowed from books.'"
Hairs or Hares!
A gentleman on circuit, narrating to Lord Norbury some extravagant feat in
sporting, mentioned that he had lately shot thirty-three hares before
breakfast. "Thirty-three hairs!" exclaimed Lord Norbury; "zounds, sir! then
you must have been firing at a wig."[177]
Sportsmen are very apt to exaggerate. They did so at least in Horace's days.
We have heard of a man of rank, who actually made a gamekeeper, who
Page 186
was a first-rate marksman, fire whenever he discharged his piece. The story
goes, that that man was regarded as having shot everything that fell.
The Duke of L.'s reply, when it was observed to him that the gentlemen
bordering on his estates were continually hunting upon them, and that he
ought not to suffer it, is worthy of imitation. "I had much rather," said he,
"have friends than hares."[178]
The time must be coming, when every farmer or peasant will be allowed to
shoot hares. It is surely cruel to imprison or fine a man for shooting and
shouldering a hare. Having lately traversed a goodly part of the Perthshire
Highlands, we were struck with the numbers of Arctic hares that scudded
away out of our path. What a fine help one of them would be to a poor
family.
S. Bisset and his trained Hare and Turtle.
S. Bisset, whose training of other animals is elsewhere recorded, like the
poet Cowper, procured a leveret, and reared it to beat several marches on
the drum with its hind legs, until it became a good stout hare. This creature,
which is always set down as the most timid, he declared to be as
mischievous and bold an animal, to the extent of its power, as any with
which he was acquainted. He taught canary-birds, linnets, and sparrows, to
spell the name of any person in company, to distinguish the hour and
minute of time, and play many other surprising tricks. He trained six
turkey-cocks to go through a regular country dance; but in doing this he
confessed he adopted the eastern method, by which camels are made to
dance, by heating the floor. In the course of six months' teaching, he made a
turtle fetch and carry like a dog; and having chalked the floor, and
blackened its claws, could direct it to trace out any given name of the
company.[179]
A Family of Rabbits all Blind of one Eye.
Lady Anne Barnard, in her Cape Journal,[180] referring to Dessin or Rabbit
Island at the Cape of Good Hope, says that it is "dreadfully exposed to the
south-east winds. A gentleman told me of a natural phenomenon he had met
goes, that that man was regarded as having shot everything that fell.
The Duke of L.'s reply, when it was observed to him that the gentlemen
bordering on his estates were continually hunting upon them, and that he
ought not to suffer it, is worthy of imitation. "I had much rather," said he,
"have friends than hares."[178]
The time must be coming, when every farmer or peasant will be allowed to
shoot hares. It is surely cruel to imprison or fine a man for shooting and
shouldering a hare. Having lately traversed a goodly part of the Perthshire
Highlands, we were struck with the numbers of Arctic hares that scudded
away out of our path. What a fine help one of them would be to a poor
family.
S. Bisset and his trained Hare and Turtle.
S. Bisset, whose training of other animals is elsewhere recorded, like the
poet Cowper, procured a leveret, and reared it to beat several marches on
the drum with its hind legs, until it became a good stout hare. This creature,
which is always set down as the most timid, he declared to be as
mischievous and bold an animal, to the extent of its power, as any with
which he was acquainted. He taught canary-birds, linnets, and sparrows, to
spell the name of any person in company, to distinguish the hour and
minute of time, and play many other surprising tricks. He trained six
turkey-cocks to go through a regular country dance; but in doing this he
confessed he adopted the eastern method, by which camels are made to
dance, by heating the floor. In the course of six months' teaching, he made a
turtle fetch and carry like a dog; and having chalked the floor, and
blackened its claws, could direct it to trace out any given name of the
company.[179]
A Family of Rabbits all Blind of one Eye.
Lady Anne Barnard, in her Cape Journal,[180] referring to Dessin or Rabbit
Island at the Cape of Good Hope, says that it is "dreadfully exposed to the
south-east winds. A gentleman told me of a natural phenomenon he had met
Page 187
with when shooting there; his dog pointed at a rabbit's hole, where the
company within were placed so near the opening that he could see
Mynheer, Madame, and the whole rabbit family. Pompey, encouraged,
brought out the old coney, his wife, and seven young ones,—all, like the
callenders in the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments,' blind of one eye, and that
the same eye. The question was, on which side of the island was the rabbit's
hole? With a very little reasoning and comparing, it was found that from its
position, the keen blast must have produced this effect. The oddest part of
this story is, that it is true, but I do not expect you to believe it."
Thomas Fuller on Norfolk Rabbits.
"These are an army of natural pioneers whence men have learned cuniculos
agere, the art of undermining. They thrive best on barren ground, and grow
fattest in the hardest frosts. Their flesh is fine and wholesome. If Scottish
men tax our language as improper, and smile at our wing of a rabbit, let us
laugh at their shoulder of a capon.
Their skins were formerly much used, when furs were in fashion; till of late
our citizens, of Romans are turned Grecians, have laid down their grave
gowns and taken up their light cloaks; men generally disliking all habits,
though emblems of honour, if also badges of age.
Their rich or silver-hair skins, formerly so dear, are now levelled in prices
with other colours; yea, are lower than black in estimation, because their
wool is most used in making of hats, commonly (for the more credit) called
half-beavers, though many of them hardly amount to the proportion of
semi-demi castors."[181]
Dr Chalmers and the Guinea-Pig.
Mr Aitken alludes in a pleasing manner to an instance of Dr Chalmers's
fondness for animals. He had just been appointed the head-master of one of
the Glasgow parish schools (St John's). "Early in the week following my
appointment, I received my first private call. One circumstance occurred
during the visit which I still remember most vividly. One of my children
had been presented with a pair of guinea-pigs. These had found their way
company within were placed so near the opening that he could see
Mynheer, Madame, and the whole rabbit family. Pompey, encouraged,
brought out the old coney, his wife, and seven young ones,—all, like the
callenders in the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments,' blind of one eye, and that
the same eye. The question was, on which side of the island was the rabbit's
hole? With a very little reasoning and comparing, it was found that from its
position, the keen blast must have produced this effect. The oddest part of
this story is, that it is true, but I do not expect you to believe it."
Thomas Fuller on Norfolk Rabbits.
"These are an army of natural pioneers whence men have learned cuniculos
agere, the art of undermining. They thrive best on barren ground, and grow
fattest in the hardest frosts. Their flesh is fine and wholesome. If Scottish
men tax our language as improper, and smile at our wing of a rabbit, let us
laugh at their shoulder of a capon.
Their skins were formerly much used, when furs were in fashion; till of late
our citizens, of Romans are turned Grecians, have laid down their grave
gowns and taken up their light cloaks; men generally disliking all habits,
though emblems of honour, if also badges of age.
Their rich or silver-hair skins, formerly so dear, are now levelled in prices
with other colours; yea, are lower than black in estimation, because their
wool is most used in making of hats, commonly (for the more credit) called
half-beavers, though many of them hardly amount to the proportion of
semi-demi castors."[181]
Dr Chalmers and the Guinea-Pig.
Mr Aitken alludes in a pleasing manner to an instance of Dr Chalmers's
fondness for animals. He had just been appointed the head-master of one of
the Glasgow parish schools (St John's). "Early in the week following my
appointment, I received my first private call. One circumstance occurred
during the visit which I still remember most vividly. One of my children
had been presented with a pair of guinea-pigs. These had found their way
Page 188
into the apartment where we were sitting, and ran about in all directions. I
could have wished to turn them out, but had not the power to rise from my
chair. He soon observed them, followed them with his eye as they now
retreated under his chair and again ventured out into his presence—he even
changed the position of his feet to give them scope. That same kindly eye,
one glance of which we all loved so much to catch in after-life, beamed
only the more warmly as the creatures frisked in greater confidence around
him. It was to me an omen for good. He who could enjoy thus the innocent
gamble of these guinea-pigs could not fail to be accessible for good when
occasion required. It was the first flush of that largeness of heart which
afterwards appeared in all I ever heard him say or saw him do."[182]
could have wished to turn them out, but had not the power to rise from my
chair. He soon observed them, followed them with his eye as they now
retreated under his chair and again ventured out into his presence—he even
changed the position of his feet to give them scope. That same kindly eye,
one glance of which we all loved so much to catch in after-life, beamed
only the more warmly as the creatures frisked in greater confidence around
him. It was to me an omen for good. He who could enjoy thus the innocent
gamble of these guinea-pigs could not fail to be accessible for good when
occasion required. It was the first flush of that largeness of heart which
afterwards appeared in all I ever heard him say or saw him do."[182]
Page 189
SLOTH.
Reverend Sydney Smith on the Sloth.
Few anecdotes can be published of this curious creature, though Waterton
and Burchell, or Dr Buckland, for him and his friend Bates, have recorded
much that is interesting of its habits. The following bit is peculiarly happy:
"The sloth, in its wild state, spends its life in trees, and never leaves them
but from force or accident. The eagle to the sky, the mole to the ground, the
sloth to the tree; but what is most extraordinary, he lives not upon the
branches, but under them. He moves suspended, rests suspended, sleeps
suspended, and passes his life in suspense—like a young clergyman
distantly related to a bishop."[183]
Reverend Sydney Smith on the Sloth.
Few anecdotes can be published of this curious creature, though Waterton
and Burchell, or Dr Buckland, for him and his friend Bates, have recorded
much that is interesting of its habits. The following bit is peculiarly happy:
"The sloth, in its wild state, spends its life in trees, and never leaves them
but from force or accident. The eagle to the sky, the mole to the ground, the
sloth to the tree; but what is most extraordinary, he lives not upon the
branches, but under them. He moves suspended, rests suspended, sleeps
suspended, and passes his life in suspense—like a young clergyman
distantly related to a bishop."[183]
Page 190
THE GREAT ANT-EATER.
(Myrmecophaga jubata, L.)[184]
(Myrmecophaga jubata, L.)[184]
Page 191
The Great Ant-Eater. (Myrmecophaga jabata).
A few months ago a handbill was distributed in the neighbourhood of Seven
Dials, inviting the public to visit a "wonderful animal fed with ants, and
possessing strength to kill the lion, tiger, or any other animal under its
claws." We entered the miserable apartment where it was exhibited, and any
spectator must at once have been struck with the creature's want of
resemblance to any other he had ever seen. Its head so small, so long and
slender; the straight, wiry, dry hair with which it was covered, and its
singularly large and bushy tail, first attracted notice. A second glance
showed its enormously thick fore-legs, and the claws of its feet turned in, so
that it walked on the sides of its soles. Oken and St Hilaire would have said
that it was "all extremity." A cup, with the contents of one or two eggs, was
brought, and it sucked them with great avidity, every now and then darting
from its small mouth a very long tongue, which looked like a great, black
worm, whisking about in the custard. One of its showmen told us that it had
attacked the woman of the house the preceding day, and had scratched her
arm. Whether this was true or grossly exaggerated, we know not; but if so,
we suspect that the woman herself must have been in fault, and not the
inoffensive stranger.
A few months ago a handbill was distributed in the neighbourhood of Seven
Dials, inviting the public to visit a "wonderful animal fed with ants, and
possessing strength to kill the lion, tiger, or any other animal under its
claws." We entered the miserable apartment where it was exhibited, and any
spectator must at once have been struck with the creature's want of
resemblance to any other he had ever seen. Its head so small, so long and
slender; the straight, wiry, dry hair with which it was covered, and its
singularly large and bushy tail, first attracted notice. A second glance
showed its enormously thick fore-legs, and the claws of its feet turned in, so
that it walked on the sides of its soles. Oken and St Hilaire would have said
that it was "all extremity." A cup, with the contents of one or two eggs, was
brought, and it sucked them with great avidity, every now and then darting
from its small mouth a very long tongue, which looked like a great, black
worm, whisking about in the custard. One of its showmen told us that it had
attacked the woman of the house the preceding day, and had scratched her
arm. Whether this was true or grossly exaggerated, we know not; but if so,
we suspect that the woman herself must have been in fault, and not the
inoffensive stranger.
Page 192
On the payment of a handsome consideration to her owners, the poor
captive was transferred from her unwholesome lodging in St Giles's, to the
Gardens of the Zoological Society in the Regent's Park. And within the last
few weeks her solitude has been cheered by the arrival of a companion from
her native forests. The new-comer is in beautiful condition, though not
nearly so large. He has a head decidedly shorter and stronger, and is
probably not yet fully grown.
The great ant-eater seems to be scattered over a wide extent of South
America—Guiana, Brazil, and Paraguay, being its places of abode. It is a
stout animal, measuring from the end of the snout to the tip of the long tail
six or seven feet, of which the tail takes nearly the half; so that the actual
size of its body is much reduced. In Paraguay it is named Nurumi or Yogui.
The former name is altered from the native word for small mouth, and
indicates a striking peculiarity in its structure. The Portuguese call it
Tamandua; the Spaniards, Osa hormiguero (i.e., ant-hill bear). In Paraguay
it prefers sides of lakes where ants, at least termites or white ants, are
abundant; but it also frequents woods. In Guiana, Mr Waterton found it
chiefly "in the inmost recesses of the forest," where it "seems partial to the
low and swampy parts near creeks, where the troely tree grows."[185] It
sleeps a great deal, reclining on its side, as the visitor to the Gardens may
frequently see it do, with its head between its fore-legs, joining its fore and
hindfeet, and spreading the tail so as to cover the whole body. Huddled up
under this thatch, it might almost be taken for a bundle of coarse and badly
dried hay. The tail is thickly covered with long hairs, placed vertically, the
hairs draggling on the ground. When the creature is irritated, the tail is
shaken straight and elevated. The natives of Paraguay, like other persecutors
of harmlessness, kill every specimen they meet, so that the ant-eater gets
rare, and so rare is it on the Amazon that Mr Wallace, who travelled there
from 1848 to 1852, honestly tells us he never saw one. He heard, however,
that during rain it turns its bushy tail over its head and stands still. The
Indians, knowing this habit, when they meet an ant-eater, make a rustling
noise among the leaves. The creature instantly turns up its tail, and is easily
killed by the stroke of a stick on its little head.[186]
The ant-eater is slow in its movements—never attempting to escape. When
hard pressed it stops, and, seated on its hind-legs, waits for the aggressor. Its
object is to receive him between its fore-legs; and one has only to look at its
captive was transferred from her unwholesome lodging in St Giles's, to the
Gardens of the Zoological Society in the Regent's Park. And within the last
few weeks her solitude has been cheered by the arrival of a companion from
her native forests. The new-comer is in beautiful condition, though not
nearly so large. He has a head decidedly shorter and stronger, and is
probably not yet fully grown.
The great ant-eater seems to be scattered over a wide extent of South
America—Guiana, Brazil, and Paraguay, being its places of abode. It is a
stout animal, measuring from the end of the snout to the tip of the long tail
six or seven feet, of which the tail takes nearly the half; so that the actual
size of its body is much reduced. In Paraguay it is named Nurumi or Yogui.
The former name is altered from the native word for small mouth, and
indicates a striking peculiarity in its structure. The Portuguese call it
Tamandua; the Spaniards, Osa hormiguero (i.e., ant-hill bear). In Paraguay
it prefers sides of lakes where ants, at least termites or white ants, are
abundant; but it also frequents woods. In Guiana, Mr Waterton found it
chiefly "in the inmost recesses of the forest," where it "seems partial to the
low and swampy parts near creeks, where the troely tree grows."[185] It
sleeps a great deal, reclining on its side, as the visitor to the Gardens may
frequently see it do, with its head between its fore-legs, joining its fore and
hindfeet, and spreading the tail so as to cover the whole body. Huddled up
under this thatch, it might almost be taken for a bundle of coarse and badly
dried hay. The tail is thickly covered with long hairs, placed vertically, the
hairs draggling on the ground. When the creature is irritated, the tail is
shaken straight and elevated. The natives of Paraguay, like other persecutors
of harmlessness, kill every specimen they meet, so that the ant-eater gets
rare, and so rare is it on the Amazon that Mr Wallace, who travelled there
from 1848 to 1852, honestly tells us he never saw one. He heard, however,
that during rain it turns its bushy tail over its head and stands still. The
Indians, knowing this habit, when they meet an ant-eater, make a rustling
noise among the leaves. The creature instantly turns up its tail, and is easily
killed by the stroke of a stick on its little head.[186]
The ant-eater is slow in its movements—never attempting to escape. When
hard pressed it stops, and, seated on its hind-legs, waits for the aggressor. Its
object is to receive him between its fore-legs; and one has only to look at its
Page 193
arms and claws in order to fancy what a frightful squeeze it would give.
Nothing but death, they say, will make the creature relax its grasp. It is
asserted that the jaguar—the tiger of South America, and the most
formidable beast of the New World—dares not attack it. This Azara, with
good reason, doubts. A single bite from a jaguar, or the stroke of his paw,
would fracture an ant-eater's skull before it had time to turn round; for the
movements of this edentate quadruped are as sluggish as those of the
toothed carnivorous tyrant are rapid.
As seen in its handsome and roomy cage, the ant-eater gives us an
impression of dulness and stupidity; and always smelling and listening and
looking at the door where its keeper introduces its food, its mind, when
awake, appears to be constantly occupied about "creature comforts." In the
course of the day it laps up with its darting tongue, and sucks in through its
long taper snout a dozen eggs, and almost the whole of a rabbit, chopped
into a fine mince-meat. With such dainty fare, and with the anxious
attention which it receives from its sagacious curators, it is scarcely
surprising that it thrives; and when the warm weather comes, it will be a
fine sight to see these animals enjoying the range of a paddock, which will
doubtless be provided for their use, and exercising their brawny forelimbs
and powerful claws in pulling down conical mounds, which may remind
them of departed joys and balmier climes. Nor will it be the least charm of
the spectacle that it will enable us to compare this living species with other
Edentata of South America—such as the Megatherium, now only found in
the fossil state, but so admirably restored by Mr Hawkins for the Crystal
Palace.
We need not dwell on the admirable adaptation of the ant-eater to its
position and to its few and simple wants. To those who have not studied
"the works of the Lord," it may appear uncouth and unattractive. Compared
with a dog, it is stupid; and alongside of a lion, it is slow. It has not the
symmetry of the horse, nor the beautiful markings of the zebra and leopard.
But its Creator has given it the instincts, the form, the muscular powers, and
the colours which best answer its purpose. And no one can say that it is
plain and ugly, who looks at its legs so prettily variegated with white and
black, and its noble black collar.
Nothing but death, they say, will make the creature relax its grasp. It is
asserted that the jaguar—the tiger of South America, and the most
formidable beast of the New World—dares not attack it. This Azara, with
good reason, doubts. A single bite from a jaguar, or the stroke of his paw,
would fracture an ant-eater's skull before it had time to turn round; for the
movements of this edentate quadruped are as sluggish as those of the
toothed carnivorous tyrant are rapid.
As seen in its handsome and roomy cage, the ant-eater gives us an
impression of dulness and stupidity; and always smelling and listening and
looking at the door where its keeper introduces its food, its mind, when
awake, appears to be constantly occupied about "creature comforts." In the
course of the day it laps up with its darting tongue, and sucks in through its
long taper snout a dozen eggs, and almost the whole of a rabbit, chopped
into a fine mince-meat. With such dainty fare, and with the anxious
attention which it receives from its sagacious curators, it is scarcely
surprising that it thrives; and when the warm weather comes, it will be a
fine sight to see these animals enjoying the range of a paddock, which will
doubtless be provided for their use, and exercising their brawny forelimbs
and powerful claws in pulling down conical mounds, which may remind
them of departed joys and balmier climes. Nor will it be the least charm of
the spectacle that it will enable us to compare this living species with other
Edentata of South America—such as the Megatherium, now only found in
the fossil state, but so admirably restored by Mr Hawkins for the Crystal
Palace.
We need not dwell on the admirable adaptation of the ant-eater to its
position and to its few and simple wants. To those who have not studied
"the works of the Lord," it may appear uncouth and unattractive. Compared
with a dog, it is stupid; and alongside of a lion, it is slow. It has not the
symmetry of the horse, nor the beautiful markings of the zebra and leopard.
But its Creator has given it the instincts, the form, the muscular powers, and
the colours which best answer its purpose. And no one can say that it is
plain and ugly, who looks at its legs so prettily variegated with white and
black, and its noble black collar.
Page 194
Those of our readers who wish further information will find it in the
Literary Gazette for October 8, 1853. In that article it is easy to recognise
the Roman hand of the facile princeps among living comparative
anatomists. Long may it be before either of our new acquaintances in the
Garden afford him a subject for dissection; but when that day arrives, we
hope that he will not delay to publish the memoir.[187]—A. White, in
"Excelsior" (with additions).
Literary Gazette for October 8, 1853. In that article it is easy to recognise
the Roman hand of the facile princeps among living comparative
anatomists. Long may it be before either of our new acquaintances in the
Garden afford him a subject for dissection; but when that day arrives, we
hope that he will not delay to publish the memoir.[187]—A. White, in
"Excelsior" (with additions).
Page 195
RHINOCEROS AND ELEPHANT.
Two genera of the bulkiest among terrestrial beasts. Just imagine the great
rhinoceros at the Zoological Gardens taking it into its head, with that little
eye, target hide, and bulky bones, and other items about it, to fondle its
keeper!—he was nearly crushed to death. How the great thick-skinned
creature enjoys a bath!
As for the elephant, he is a mountain of matter as well as of animal
intelligence. Sir Emerson Tennant in his "Ceylon," but especially in his
"Natural History," volumes, has given some truly readable chapters on the
Asiatic elephant. We could have extracted many an anecdote, even from
recent works, of the intelligent sagacity of the Indian as well as the African
elephants. The account of the shooting of Mr Cross's well-known elephant
Chunie, at Exeter Change, has been very curiously and fully detailed by
Hone in his "Every-Day Book." A skull of an elephant in the British
Museum, shows how wonderfully an elephant is at times able to defend
itself from attack. Many a shot that "rogue elephant" had received, years
before the three or four Indian sportsmen, who presented its skull as a
trophy, succeeded in planting a shot in its brain, or in its heart. Think of the
feelings of Lord Clive's relations, at the prospect of his sending home an
elephant for a pet. The good folks, not without some motive, as the great
Indian ruler conceived, other than mere love for him, had been sending him
presents. Samuel Rogers, who wrote the neatest of hands, records that Clive
wrote the worst and certainly the most illegible of scrawls. Instead of
"elephant," as they read it, their liberal relative had written "equivalent!"
The Lord Keeper Guilford and his Visit to the Rhinoceros in the
City of London.[188]
It is strange to read in the life of the Lord Keeper Guilford, that his
lordship's court enemies, "hard put to it to find, or invent, something
tending to the diminution of his character," took advantage of his going to
see a rhinoceros, to circulate a foolish story of him, which much annoyed
Two genera of the bulkiest among terrestrial beasts. Just imagine the great
rhinoceros at the Zoological Gardens taking it into its head, with that little
eye, target hide, and bulky bones, and other items about it, to fondle its
keeper!—he was nearly crushed to death. How the great thick-skinned
creature enjoys a bath!
As for the elephant, he is a mountain of matter as well as of animal
intelligence. Sir Emerson Tennant in his "Ceylon," but especially in his
"Natural History," volumes, has given some truly readable chapters on the
Asiatic elephant. We could have extracted many an anecdote, even from
recent works, of the intelligent sagacity of the Indian as well as the African
elephants. The account of the shooting of Mr Cross's well-known elephant
Chunie, at Exeter Change, has been very curiously and fully detailed by
Hone in his "Every-Day Book." A skull of an elephant in the British
Museum, shows how wonderfully an elephant is at times able to defend
itself from attack. Many a shot that "rogue elephant" had received, years
before the three or four Indian sportsmen, who presented its skull as a
trophy, succeeded in planting a shot in its brain, or in its heart. Think of the
feelings of Lord Clive's relations, at the prospect of his sending home an
elephant for a pet. The good folks, not without some motive, as the great
Indian ruler conceived, other than mere love for him, had been sending him
presents. Samuel Rogers, who wrote the neatest of hands, records that Clive
wrote the worst and certainly the most illegible of scrawls. Instead of
"elephant," as they read it, their liberal relative had written "equivalent!"
The Lord Keeper Guilford and his Visit to the Rhinoceros in the
City of London.[188]
It is strange to read in the life of the Lord Keeper Guilford, that his
lordship's court enemies, "hard put to it to find, or invent, something
tending to the diminution of his character," took advantage of his going to
see a rhinoceros, to circulate a foolish story of him, which much annoyed
Page 196
him. It was in the reign of James II. his biographer thus records it. The
rhinoceros, referred to, was the first ever brought to England. Evelyn, in his
"Memoirs," says, that it was sold for £2000, a most enormous sum in those
days (1685).
Roger North relates the story:—"It fell out thus—a merchant of Sir Dudley
North's acquaintance had brought over an enormous rhinoceros, to be sold
to showmen for profit. It is a noble beast, wonderfully armed by nature for
offence, but more for defence, being covered with impenetrable shields,
which no weapon would make any impression upon, and a rarity so great
that few men, in our country, have in their whole lives the opportunity of
seeing so singular an animal. This merchant told Sir Dudley North that if
he, with a friend or two, had a mind to see it, they might take the
opportunity at his house before it was sold. Hereupon Sir Dudley North
proposed to his brother, the Lord Keeper, to go with him upon this
exhibition, which he did, and came away exceedingly satisfied with the
curiosity he had seen. But whether he was dogged to find out where he and
his brother housed in the city, or flying fame carried an account of the
voyage to court, I know not; but it is certain that the very next morning a
bruit went from thence all over the town, and (as factious reports used to
run) in a very short time, viz., that his lordship rode upon the rhinoceros,
than which a more infantine exploit could not have been fastened upon him.
And most people were struck with amazement at it, and divers ran here and
there to find out whether it was true or no. And soon after dinner some lords
and others came to his lordship to know the truth from himself, for the
setters of the lie affirmed it positively as of their own knowledge. That did
not give his lordship much disturbance, for he expected no better from his
adversaries. But that his friends, intelligent persons, who must know him to
be far from guilty of any childish levity, should believe it, was what roiled
him extremely, and much more when they had the face to come to him to
know if it were true. I never saw him in such a rage, and to lay about him
with affronts (which he keenly bestowed upon the minor courtiers that came
on that errand) as then; for he sent them away with fleas in their ear. And he
was seriously angry with his own brother, Sir Dudley North, because he did
not contradict the lie in sudden and direct terms, but laughed as taking the
question put to him for a banter, till, by iteration, he was brought to it. For
some lords came, and because they seemed to attribute somewhat to the
rhinoceros, referred to, was the first ever brought to England. Evelyn, in his
"Memoirs," says, that it was sold for £2000, a most enormous sum in those
days (1685).
Roger North relates the story:—"It fell out thus—a merchant of Sir Dudley
North's acquaintance had brought over an enormous rhinoceros, to be sold
to showmen for profit. It is a noble beast, wonderfully armed by nature for
offence, but more for defence, being covered with impenetrable shields,
which no weapon would make any impression upon, and a rarity so great
that few men, in our country, have in their whole lives the opportunity of
seeing so singular an animal. This merchant told Sir Dudley North that if
he, with a friend or two, had a mind to see it, they might take the
opportunity at his house before it was sold. Hereupon Sir Dudley North
proposed to his brother, the Lord Keeper, to go with him upon this
exhibition, which he did, and came away exceedingly satisfied with the
curiosity he had seen. But whether he was dogged to find out where he and
his brother housed in the city, or flying fame carried an account of the
voyage to court, I know not; but it is certain that the very next morning a
bruit went from thence all over the town, and (as factious reports used to
run) in a very short time, viz., that his lordship rode upon the rhinoceros,
than which a more infantine exploit could not have been fastened upon him.
And most people were struck with amazement at it, and divers ran here and
there to find out whether it was true or no. And soon after dinner some lords
and others came to his lordship to know the truth from himself, for the
setters of the lie affirmed it positively as of their own knowledge. That did
not give his lordship much disturbance, for he expected no better from his
adversaries. But that his friends, intelligent persons, who must know him to
be far from guilty of any childish levity, should believe it, was what roiled
him extremely, and much more when they had the face to come to him to
know if it were true. I never saw him in such a rage, and to lay about him
with affronts (which he keenly bestowed upon the minor courtiers that came
on that errand) as then; for he sent them away with fleas in their ear. And he
was seriously angry with his own brother, Sir Dudley North, because he did
not contradict the lie in sudden and direct terms, but laughed as taking the
question put to him for a banter, till, by iteration, he was brought to it. For
some lords came, and because they seemed to attribute somewhat to the
Page 197
avowed positiveness of the reporters, he rather chose to send for his brother
to attest than to impose his bare denial, and so it passed; and the noble earl
(of Sunderland), with Jeffries, and others of that crew, made merry, and
never blushed at the lie of their own making, but valued themselves upon it
as a very good jest."
And so it passed. What a sensation would have been caused by the sudden
apparition in that age of a few numbers of Punch. What a subject for a
cartoon, some John Leech of 1685 would have made of the stately Lord
Keeper on the back of a rhinoceros, and the infamous Judge Jeffries leering
at him from a window.
The Elephant and his Trunk.
Canning and another gentleman were looking at a picture of the deluge; the
ark was seen in the middle distance, while in the fore-sea an elephant was
struggling with his fate. "I wonder," said the gentleman, "that the elephant
did not secure an inside place!"—"He was too late, my friend," replied
Canning; "he was detained packing up his trunk."[189]
Sir Richard Phillips and Jelly made of Ivory Dust.—A Vegetarian
taken in.
The biographers of James Montgomery[190] relate an amusing anecdote of
Sir Richard Phillips, the eccentric London bookseller and author. He visited
Sheffield in October 1828. "He had lived too long amidst the bustle and
business of the great world, and was too little conscious of any feeling at all
like diffidence, to allow him to hesitate about calling upon any person,
whether of rank, genius, or eccentricity, when the success of his project was
likely to be thereby promoted. The time selected by the free and easy knight
for his unannounced visitation of Montgomery was Sunday at dinner time.
He was at once asked to sit down and partake of the chickens and bacon
which had just been placed on the table, but here was a dilemma; Sir
Richard, although neither a Brahmin nor a Jew, avowed himself a staunch
Pythagorean—he could eat no flesh! Luckily there was a plentiful supply of
carrots and turnips, and—jelly. But was the latter made from calves' feet?
Montgomery assured his guest that it was not; but, added he, with a
to attest than to impose his bare denial, and so it passed; and the noble earl
(of Sunderland), with Jeffries, and others of that crew, made merry, and
never blushed at the lie of their own making, but valued themselves upon it
as a very good jest."
And so it passed. What a sensation would have been caused by the sudden
apparition in that age of a few numbers of Punch. What a subject for a
cartoon, some John Leech of 1685 would have made of the stately Lord
Keeper on the back of a rhinoceros, and the infamous Judge Jeffries leering
at him from a window.
The Elephant and his Trunk.
Canning and another gentleman were looking at a picture of the deluge; the
ark was seen in the middle distance, while in the fore-sea an elephant was
struggling with his fate. "I wonder," said the gentleman, "that the elephant
did not secure an inside place!"—"He was too late, my friend," replied
Canning; "he was detained packing up his trunk."[189]
Sir Richard Phillips and Jelly made of Ivory Dust.—A Vegetarian
taken in.
The biographers of James Montgomery[190] relate an amusing anecdote of
Sir Richard Phillips, the eccentric London bookseller and author. He visited
Sheffield in October 1828. "He had lived too long amidst the bustle and
business of the great world, and was too little conscious of any feeling at all
like diffidence, to allow him to hesitate about calling upon any person,
whether of rank, genius, or eccentricity, when the success of his project was
likely to be thereby promoted. The time selected by the free and easy knight
for his unannounced visitation of Montgomery was Sunday at dinner time.
He was at once asked to sit down and partake of the chickens and bacon
which had just been placed on the table, but here was a dilemma; Sir
Richard, although neither a Brahmin nor a Jew, avowed himself a staunch
Pythagorean—he could eat no flesh! Luckily there was a plentiful supply of
carrots and turnips, and—jelly. But was the latter made from calves' feet?
Montgomery assured his guest that it was not; but, added he, with a
Page 198
conscientious regard for his visitor's scruples, from ivory dust. We believe
the poet fancied the hypothesis of an animal origin of this viand could not
be very obscure; it was, however, swallowed; the clever bibliopole perhaps
believing, with some of the Sheffield ivory-cutters, that elephants, instead
of being hunted and killed for their tusks, shed them when fully grown, as
bucks do their antlers!"
J. T. Smith and the Elephant.
That gossiping man, J. T. Smith, once Keeper of the Prints in the British
Museum, and author of "Nollekens and his Times," relates, that when he
and a friend were returning late from a club, and were approaching Temple
Bar, "about one o'clock, a most unaccountable appearance claimed our
attention,—it was no less than an elephant, whose keepers were coaxing it
to pass through the gateway. He had been accompanied with several
persons from the Tower wharf with tall poles, but was principally guided by
two men with ropes, each walking on either side of the street, to keep him
as much as possible in the middle, on his way to the menagerie, Exeter
Change, to which destination, after passing St Clement's Church, he
steadily trudged on, with strict obedience to the command of his keepers.
[191]
"I had the honour afterwards of partaking of a pot of Barclay's entire with
this same elephant, which high mark of his condescension was bestowed
when I accompanied my friend, the late Sir James Wintel Lake, Bart., to
view the rare animals in Exeter Change,—that gentleman being assured by
the elephant's keeper that, if he would offer the beast a shilling, he would
see the noble animal nod his head and drink a pot of porter. The elephant
had no sooner taken the shilling, which he did in the mildest manner from
the palm of Sir James's hand, than he gave it to the keeper, and eagerly
watched his return with the beer. The elephant then, after placing his
proboscis to the top of the tankard, drew up nearly the whole of the
beverage. The keeper observed, 'You will hardly believe, gentlemen, but the
little he has left is quite warm;' upon this we were tempted to taste it, and it
really was so. This animal was afterwards disposed of for the sum of one
thousand guineas."
the poet fancied the hypothesis of an animal origin of this viand could not
be very obscure; it was, however, swallowed; the clever bibliopole perhaps
believing, with some of the Sheffield ivory-cutters, that elephants, instead
of being hunted and killed for their tusks, shed them when fully grown, as
bucks do their antlers!"
J. T. Smith and the Elephant.
That gossiping man, J. T. Smith, once Keeper of the Prints in the British
Museum, and author of "Nollekens and his Times," relates, that when he
and a friend were returning late from a club, and were approaching Temple
Bar, "about one o'clock, a most unaccountable appearance claimed our
attention,—it was no less than an elephant, whose keepers were coaxing it
to pass through the gateway. He had been accompanied with several
persons from the Tower wharf with tall poles, but was principally guided by
two men with ropes, each walking on either side of the street, to keep him
as much as possible in the middle, on his way to the menagerie, Exeter
Change, to which destination, after passing St Clement's Church, he
steadily trudged on, with strict obedience to the command of his keepers.
[191]
"I had the honour afterwards of partaking of a pot of Barclay's entire with
this same elephant, which high mark of his condescension was bestowed
when I accompanied my friend, the late Sir James Wintel Lake, Bart., to
view the rare animals in Exeter Change,—that gentleman being assured by
the elephant's keeper that, if he would offer the beast a shilling, he would
see the noble animal nod his head and drink a pot of porter. The elephant
had no sooner taken the shilling, which he did in the mildest manner from
the palm of Sir James's hand, than he gave it to the keeper, and eagerly
watched his return with the beer. The elephant then, after placing his
proboscis to the top of the tankard, drew up nearly the whole of the
beverage. The keeper observed, 'You will hardly believe, gentlemen, but the
little he has left is quite warm;' upon this we were tempted to taste it, and it
really was so. This animal was afterwards disposed of for the sum of one
thousand guineas."
Page 199
The Elephant and the Tailor.
This old story has been often told, but never so well as by Sydney Smith in
one of his lectures at the Royal Institution. "Every one knows the old story
of the tailor and the elephant, which, if it be not true, at least shows the
opinion the Orientals, who know the animal well, entertain of his sagacity.
An eastern tailor to the Court was making a magnificent doublet for a
bashaw of nine tails, and covering it, after the manner of eastern doublets,
with gold, silver, and every species of metallic magnificence. As he was
busying himself on this momentous occasion, there passed by, to the pools
of water, one of the royal elephants, about the size of a broad-wheeled
waggon, rich in ivory teeth, and shaking, with its ponderous tread, the
tailor's shop to its remotest thimble. As he passed near the window, the
elephant happened to look in; the tailor lifted up his eyes, perceived the
proboscis of the elephant near him, and, being seized with a fit of
facetiousness, pricked the animal with his needle; the mass of matter
immediately retired, stalked away to the pool, filled his trunk full of muddy
water, and, returning to the shop, overwhelmed the artisan and his doublet
with the dirty effects of his vengeance."
Dr Johnson alluded to as "an Elephant."
"If an elephant could write a book, perhaps one that had read a great deal
would say, that an Arabian horse is a very clumsy, ungraceful animal." This
was written by Horace Walpole to Miss Berry, in 1791, in allusion to Dr
Johnson's depreciation of Thomas Gray the poet.[192] It is an acute
observation, well worth being wrought out. There is a grandeur and even a
grace about this bulky beast and its motions well deserving the study of any
one who has the opportunity. Elephants in our streets are not now so rare as
they used to be. We saw three in one procession in the streets of Edinburgh
in 1865.
Elephant's Skin.
"Did any of you ever see an elephant's skin?" asked the master of an infant
school in a fast neighbourhood. "I have!" shouted a six-year-old at the foot
This old story has been often told, but never so well as by Sydney Smith in
one of his lectures at the Royal Institution. "Every one knows the old story
of the tailor and the elephant, which, if it be not true, at least shows the
opinion the Orientals, who know the animal well, entertain of his sagacity.
An eastern tailor to the Court was making a magnificent doublet for a
bashaw of nine tails, and covering it, after the manner of eastern doublets,
with gold, silver, and every species of metallic magnificence. As he was
busying himself on this momentous occasion, there passed by, to the pools
of water, one of the royal elephants, about the size of a broad-wheeled
waggon, rich in ivory teeth, and shaking, with its ponderous tread, the
tailor's shop to its remotest thimble. As he passed near the window, the
elephant happened to look in; the tailor lifted up his eyes, perceived the
proboscis of the elephant near him, and, being seized with a fit of
facetiousness, pricked the animal with his needle; the mass of matter
immediately retired, stalked away to the pool, filled his trunk full of muddy
water, and, returning to the shop, overwhelmed the artisan and his doublet
with the dirty effects of his vengeance."
Dr Johnson alluded to as "an Elephant."
"If an elephant could write a book, perhaps one that had read a great deal
would say, that an Arabian horse is a very clumsy, ungraceful animal." This
was written by Horace Walpole to Miss Berry, in 1791, in allusion to Dr
Johnson's depreciation of Thomas Gray the poet.[192] It is an acute
observation, well worth being wrought out. There is a grandeur and even a
grace about this bulky beast and its motions well deserving the study of any
one who has the opportunity. Elephants in our streets are not now so rare as
they used to be. We saw three in one procession in the streets of Edinburgh
in 1865.
Elephant's Skin.
"Did any of you ever see an elephant's skin?" asked the master of an infant
school in a fast neighbourhood. "I have!" shouted a six-year-old at the foot
Page 200
of the class. "Where?" inquired the master, amused by his earnestness. "On
the elephant!" was the reply.
the elephant!" was the reply.
Page 201
FOSSIL PACHYDERMATA.
Cuvier and the Fossil.
George Cuvier was perhaps the first man who, by his admirable works and
researches, gave zoology its true place among the sciences.
His discoveries of the structure of molluscous and other animals of the
obscurer orders are perhaps eclipsed by his researches in osteology. He has
enabled the comparative anatomist to tell from a small portion of bone not
only the class, but the order, genus, and even the species to which animal
that bone belonged.
Mrs Lee,[193] in her Life of the Baron, gives an example of his enthusiasm
in his researches.
M. Laurillard was afterwards his secretary and the draftsman who executed
nearly all the drawings in his "Ossemens fossiles." At the time of this story
he had not particularly attracted Cuvier's notice.
"One day Cuvier came to his brother Frederic to ask him to disengage a
fossil from its surrounding mass, an office he had frequently performed. M.
Laurillard was applied to in the absence of F. Cuvier. Little aware of the
value of the specimen confided to his care, he cheerfully set to work, and
succeeded in getting the bone entire from its position. M. Cuvier, after a
short time, returned for his treasure, and when he saw how perfect it was,
his ecstasies became incontrollable; he danced, he shook his hands, he
uttered expressions of delight, till M. Laurillard, in his ignorance both of the
importance of what he had done, and of the ardent character of M. Cuvier,
thought he was mad. Taking, however, his fossil foot in one hand, and
dragging Laurillard's arm with the other, he led him up-stairs to present him
to his wife and sister-in-law, saying, 'I have got my foot, and M. Laurillard
found it for me.' It seems that this skilful operation confirmed all M.
Cuvier's previous conjecture concerning a foot, the existence and form of
which he had already guessed, but for which he had long and vainly sought.
Cuvier and the Fossil.
George Cuvier was perhaps the first man who, by his admirable works and
researches, gave zoology its true place among the sciences.
His discoveries of the structure of molluscous and other animals of the
obscurer orders are perhaps eclipsed by his researches in osteology. He has
enabled the comparative anatomist to tell from a small portion of bone not
only the class, but the order, genus, and even the species to which animal
that bone belonged.
Mrs Lee,[193] in her Life of the Baron, gives an example of his enthusiasm
in his researches.
M. Laurillard was afterwards his secretary and the draftsman who executed
nearly all the drawings in his "Ossemens fossiles." At the time of this story
he had not particularly attracted Cuvier's notice.
"One day Cuvier came to his brother Frederic to ask him to disengage a
fossil from its surrounding mass, an office he had frequently performed. M.
Laurillard was applied to in the absence of F. Cuvier. Little aware of the
value of the specimen confided to his care, he cheerfully set to work, and
succeeded in getting the bone entire from its position. M. Cuvier, after a
short time, returned for his treasure, and when he saw how perfect it was,
his ecstasies became incontrollable; he danced, he shook his hands, he
uttered expressions of delight, till M. Laurillard, in his ignorance both of the
importance of what he had done, and of the ardent character of M. Cuvier,
thought he was mad. Taking, however, his fossil foot in one hand, and
dragging Laurillard's arm with the other, he led him up-stairs to present him
to his wife and sister-in-law, saying, 'I have got my foot, and M. Laurillard
found it for me.' It seems that this skilful operation confirmed all M.
Cuvier's previous conjecture concerning a foot, the existence and form of
which he had already guessed, but for which he had long and vainly sought.
Page 202
So occupied had he been by it, that, when he appeared to be particularly
absent, his family were wont to accuse him of seeking his fore-foot. The
next morning the able operator and draftsman was engaged as secretary."
absent, his family were wont to accuse him of seeking his fore-foot. The
next morning the able operator and draftsman was engaged as secretary."
Page 203
SOW.
A very gross but useful animal, which can, by feeding, be stuffed into such
a state of fatness as only one who has seen a Christmas cattle show in
England could believe it possible for beast to acquire. Dean Ramsay, in a
happy anecdote, refers to a good quality of the sow as food. He tells, that a
Scottish minister had been persuaded to keep a pig, and that the good wife
had been duly instructed in the mysteries of black-puddings, pork-chops,
pig's-head, and other modes of turning poor piggy to account. The minister
remarked to a friend, "Nae doubt there's a hantle o' miscellaneous eating
aboot a pig." The author of "A Ramble," published by Edmonstone and
Douglas in 1865, has devoted some most amusing pages of his work to an
account of "Pig-sticking in Chicago," as witnessed by him during the late
American war. The wholesale and scientific off-hand way in which living
pigs enter into one part of a machine, and come out prepared pork, could
only have been devised by a Yankee.
The essay of Charles Lamb on Roast Pig, and his history of how the
Chinaman discovered it, is a most characteristic bit of the productions of
Elia. We have cut from a recent paper, what seems an authentic story, of one
of this race having obtained a kind of mausoleum. We hope it is not a hoax,
but that it is as genuine as all that is in one of "Murray's Handbooks:"—
A very gross but useful animal, which can, by feeding, be stuffed into such
a state of fatness as only one who has seen a Christmas cattle show in
England could believe it possible for beast to acquire. Dean Ramsay, in a
happy anecdote, refers to a good quality of the sow as food. He tells, that a
Scottish minister had been persuaded to keep a pig, and that the good wife
had been duly instructed in the mysteries of black-puddings, pork-chops,
pig's-head, and other modes of turning poor piggy to account. The minister
remarked to a friend, "Nae doubt there's a hantle o' miscellaneous eating
aboot a pig." The author of "A Ramble," published by Edmonstone and
Douglas in 1865, has devoted some most amusing pages of his work to an
account of "Pig-sticking in Chicago," as witnessed by him during the late
American war. The wholesale and scientific off-hand way in which living
pigs enter into one part of a machine, and come out prepared pork, could
only have been devised by a Yankee.
The essay of Charles Lamb on Roast Pig, and his history of how the
Chinaman discovered it, is a most characteristic bit of the productions of
Elia. We have cut from a recent paper, what seems an authentic story, of one
of this race having obtained a kind of mausoleum. We hope it is not a hoax,
but that it is as genuine as all that is in one of "Murray's Handbooks:"—
Page 204
The Wild Boar of Syria and Egypt. (Sus Scrofa.)
Monument to a Pig.—"Up to the present time," says the Europe of
Frankfort, "no monument that we are aware of had ever been erected to the
memory of a pig. The town of Luneburg, in Hanover, has wished to fill up
that blank; and at the Hotel de Ville, in that town, there is to be seen a kind
of mausoleum to the memory of a member of the swinish race. In the
interior of that commemorative structure is to be seen a glass case, inclosing
a ham still in good preservation. A slab of black marble attracts the eye of
visitors, who find thereon the following inscription in Latin, engraved in
letters of gold—'Passer-by, contemplate here the mortal remains of the pig
which acquired for itself imperishable glory by the discovery of the salt
springs of Luneburg.'"
The Wild Boar (Sus scrofa).
We have a specimen of the family of swine in that well-known and useful
animal, with whose portrait Sir Charles Bell furnishes the reader, as an
example of a head as remote as possible from the head of him who designed
and executed the Elgin marbles. Although the learned anatomist brought
forward the profile of this animal as the type of a "non-intellectual" being,
Monument to a Pig.—"Up to the present time," says the Europe of
Frankfort, "no monument that we are aware of had ever been erected to the
memory of a pig. The town of Luneburg, in Hanover, has wished to fill up
that blank; and at the Hotel de Ville, in that town, there is to be seen a kind
of mausoleum to the memory of a member of the swinish race. In the
interior of that commemorative structure is to be seen a glass case, inclosing
a ham still in good preservation. A slab of black marble attracts the eye of
visitors, who find thereon the following inscription in Latin, engraved in
letters of gold—'Passer-by, contemplate here the mortal remains of the pig
which acquired for itself imperishable glory by the discovery of the salt
springs of Luneburg.'"
The Wild Boar (Sus scrofa).
We have a specimen of the family of swine in that well-known and useful
animal, with whose portrait Sir Charles Bell furnishes the reader, as an
example of a head as remote as possible from the head of him who designed
and executed the Elgin marbles. Although the learned anatomist brought
forward the profile of this animal as the type of a "non-intellectual" being,
Page 205
yet there are instances enough on record to show that pigs are not devoid of
intelligence, and are even, when trained, capable of considerable docility.
"Learned pigs," however, such as are exhibited at country fairs, are a rare
occurrence, and the family to which they belong is essentially one "gross"
in character, and far from gainly in appearance. The most handsome of the
race is one from West Africa, recently added to the Zoological Gardens, and
described by Dr Gray under the name of Potamochærus penicillatus. The
wild swine of Africa are, with this bright exception, anything but handsome,
either in shape or colour; and the large excrescences on their cheeks and
face give the "warthogs" a ferocious look, which corresponds with their
habits. In the East there are several species of wild swine. One of the most
celebrated is the Babyrusa of the Malay peninsula, distinguished by its long
recurved teeth, with which it was once fancied that they suspended
themselves from trees, or rather supported themselves when asleep. Mrs
M'Dougall[194] refers to the wild hogs of Borneo, which seem to be dainty
in their diet, as they think nothing of a swim of four miles from their jungle
home to places on the river where they know there are trees laden with ripe
fruit. These Borneo swine are active creatures too, as they can leap fences
nearly six feet high. In South America the sow family is represented by the
Peccaries (Dicotyles), of which there are two species, one of which is very
abundant in the woods, and forms a most important article in the diet of the
poor Indians. They, too, can swim across rivers, and although their legs are
short, they can run very fast.
It is chiefly in the warmer parts of the world that the species of this family
are found. They are all distinguished by the middle toes of each foot being
larger than the others, and armed with hoofs,[195] the side toe or toes being
shorter, and scarcely reaching the ground. The nose terminates in a
truncated, tough, grissly disk, which is singularly well adapted for the
purpose of the animals, which all grub in the ground for their food. In some
parts of France it is said that they are trained to search for truffles.
Having briefly alluded to different species "de grege porci," we now limit
ourselves to our immediate subject.
The wild boar, at no very remote period, was found in the extensive woods
which covered great portions of this island. The family of Baird derives its
heraldic crest of a wild boar's head from a grant of David I., King of
intelligence, and are even, when trained, capable of considerable docility.
"Learned pigs," however, such as are exhibited at country fairs, are a rare
occurrence, and the family to which they belong is essentially one "gross"
in character, and far from gainly in appearance. The most handsome of the
race is one from West Africa, recently added to the Zoological Gardens, and
described by Dr Gray under the name of Potamochærus penicillatus. The
wild swine of Africa are, with this bright exception, anything but handsome,
either in shape or colour; and the large excrescences on their cheeks and
face give the "warthogs" a ferocious look, which corresponds with their
habits. In the East there are several species of wild swine. One of the most
celebrated is the Babyrusa of the Malay peninsula, distinguished by its long
recurved teeth, with which it was once fancied that they suspended
themselves from trees, or rather supported themselves when asleep. Mrs
M'Dougall[194] refers to the wild hogs of Borneo, which seem to be dainty
in their diet, as they think nothing of a swim of four miles from their jungle
home to places on the river where they know there are trees laden with ripe
fruit. These Borneo swine are active creatures too, as they can leap fences
nearly six feet high. In South America the sow family is represented by the
Peccaries (Dicotyles), of which there are two species, one of which is very
abundant in the woods, and forms a most important article in the diet of the
poor Indians. They, too, can swim across rivers, and although their legs are
short, they can run very fast.
It is chiefly in the warmer parts of the world that the species of this family
are found. They are all distinguished by the middle toes of each foot being
larger than the others, and armed with hoofs,[195] the side toe or toes being
shorter, and scarcely reaching the ground. The nose terminates in a
truncated, tough, grissly disk, which is singularly well adapted for the
purpose of the animals, which all grub in the ground for their food. In some
parts of France it is said that they are trained to search for truffles.
Having briefly alluded to different species "de grege porci," we now limit
ourselves to our immediate subject.
The wild boar, at no very remote period, was found in the extensive woods
which covered great portions of this island. The family of Baird derives its
heraldic crest of a wild boar's head from a grant of David I., King of
Page 206
Scotland. This monarch was hunting in Aberdeenshire, and when separated
from his attendants, the infuriated pig turned upon him; one of his people
came up and killed it, and in memory of his feat received from the grateful
king the device still borne by the family. The name of a Scottish parish, and
of one of the oldest baronial families in Scotland—Swinton of Swinton, in
Berwickshire—is derived also from this animal, the first of the Swintons
having cleared that part of the country from the wild swine which then
infested it. It is curious to know that some large fields in the neighbourhood
of Swinton still carry in their names traces of these early occupants. Dr
Baird informed the writer that there are four of these fields so distinguished:
—"Sow-causeway," and "Pikerigg," where the wild swine used to feed
("pick their food"); "Stab's Cross," where Sir Alan Swinton with his spear
pierced some monarch of the race; and "Alan's Cairn," where a heap of
stones was raised as a monument of his hardihood. In the southern part of
our island only the nobility and gentry were allowed to hunt this animal;
and in the reign of William the Conqueror any one convicted of killing a
wild boar in any of the royal demesnes was punished with the loss of his
eyes.
In many parts of the Continent the wild boar is still far from rare, and
affords, to those who are fond of excitement, that peculiar kind of
"pleasure" which involves a certain amount of danger. Scenes somewhat
similar to those depicted by Snyders may still be witnessed in some parts of
Germany; and in the sketches of Mr Wolf, the able artist whose designs
illustrate these papers, we have seen animated studies of this truly
hazardous sport.
The nose of the wild boar is very acute in the sense of smell. A zealous
sportsman tells us, "I have often been surprised, when stealing upon one in
the woods, to observe how soon he has become aware of my
neighbourhood. Lifting his head, he would sniff the air inquiringly, then,
uttering a short grunt, make off as fast as he could."[196] The same writer
has also sometimes noticed in a family of wild boars one, generally a
weakling, who was buffeted and ill-treated by the rest. "Do what he would,
nothing was right; sometimes the mother, uttering a disapproving grunt,
would give him a nudge to make him move more quickly, and that would be
a sign for all the rest of his relations to begin showing their contempt for
him too. One would push him, and then another; for, go where he might, he
from his attendants, the infuriated pig turned upon him; one of his people
came up and killed it, and in memory of his feat received from the grateful
king the device still borne by the family. The name of a Scottish parish, and
of one of the oldest baronial families in Scotland—Swinton of Swinton, in
Berwickshire—is derived also from this animal, the first of the Swintons
having cleared that part of the country from the wild swine which then
infested it. It is curious to know that some large fields in the neighbourhood
of Swinton still carry in their names traces of these early occupants. Dr
Baird informed the writer that there are four of these fields so distinguished:
—"Sow-causeway," and "Pikerigg," where the wild swine used to feed
("pick their food"); "Stab's Cross," where Sir Alan Swinton with his spear
pierced some monarch of the race; and "Alan's Cairn," where a heap of
stones was raised as a monument of his hardihood. In the southern part of
our island only the nobility and gentry were allowed to hunt this animal;
and in the reign of William the Conqueror any one convicted of killing a
wild boar in any of the royal demesnes was punished with the loss of his
eyes.
In many parts of the Continent the wild boar is still far from rare, and
affords, to those who are fond of excitement, that peculiar kind of
"pleasure" which involves a certain amount of danger. Scenes somewhat
similar to those depicted by Snyders may still be witnessed in some parts of
Germany; and in the sketches of Mr Wolf, the able artist whose designs
illustrate these papers, we have seen animated studies of this truly
hazardous sport.
The nose of the wild boar is very acute in the sense of smell. A zealous
sportsman tells us, "I have often been surprised, when stealing upon one in
the woods, to observe how soon he has become aware of my
neighbourhood. Lifting his head, he would sniff the air inquiringly, then,
uttering a short grunt, make off as fast as he could."[196] The same writer
has also sometimes noticed in a family of wild boars one, generally a
weakling, who was buffeted and ill-treated by the rest. "Do what he would,
nothing was right; sometimes the mother, uttering a disapproving grunt,
would give him a nudge to make him move more quickly, and that would be
a sign for all the rest of his relations to begin showing their contempt for
him too. One would push him, and then another; for, go where he might, he
Page 207
was sure to be in the way." In the extensive woods frequented by this
animal in Europe, abundant supplies of food are met with in the roots of
various plants which it grubs up, in the beech-mast, acorns, and other tree
productions, which, during two or three months of the year, it finds on the
ground. Although well able to defend itself, it is a harmless animal, and
being shy, retires to those parts of the forests most remote from the presence
of man. A site in the neighbourhood of water is preferred to any other.
Travellers in the East frequently refer to this animal and to its ravages when
it gets into a rice-field or a vineyard; for although its natural food be wild
roots and wild fruits, if cultivated grounds be in the neighbourhood, its
ravages are very annoying to the husbandmen, who can fully and feelingly
understand the words of the Psalmist, "The boar out of the wood doth waste
it" (Ps. lxxx. 13).
Messrs Irby and Mangles,[197] as they approached the Jordan, saw a herd of
nine wild pigs, and they found the trees on the banks of a stream near that
river all marked with mud, left by the wild swine in rubbing themselves. A
valley which they passed was grubbed up in all directions with furrows
made by these animals, so that the soil had all the appearance of having
been ploughed up.
Burckhardt mentions the occurrence of the wild boar and panther together,
or the ounce, as he calls it, on the mountain of Rieha, and also in the
wooded part of Tabor. He mentions "a common saying and belief among the
Turks, that all the animal kingdom was converted by their prophet to the
true faith, except the wild boar and buffalo, which remained unbelievers; it
is on this account that both these animals are often called Christians. We are
not surprised that the boar should be so denominated; but as the flesh of the
buffalo, as well as its Leben or sour milk, is much esteemed by the Turks, it
is difficult to account for the disgrace into which that animal has fallen
among them; the only reason I could learn for it is, that the buffalo, like the
hog, has a habit of rolling in the mud, and of plunging into the muddy
ponds in the summer time up to the very nose, which alone remains visible
above the surface."[198] Wild boars were frequently fallen in with by this
traveller during his Syrian travels in the neighbourhood of rush-covered
springs, where they could easily return to their "wallowing in the mire;" he
also met with them on all the mountains he visited in his tour. In the Ghor
animal in Europe, abundant supplies of food are met with in the roots of
various plants which it grubs up, in the beech-mast, acorns, and other tree
productions, which, during two or three months of the year, it finds on the
ground. Although well able to defend itself, it is a harmless animal, and
being shy, retires to those parts of the forests most remote from the presence
of man. A site in the neighbourhood of water is preferred to any other.
Travellers in the East frequently refer to this animal and to its ravages when
it gets into a rice-field or a vineyard; for although its natural food be wild
roots and wild fruits, if cultivated grounds be in the neighbourhood, its
ravages are very annoying to the husbandmen, who can fully and feelingly
understand the words of the Psalmist, "The boar out of the wood doth waste
it" (Ps. lxxx. 13).
Messrs Irby and Mangles,[197] as they approached the Jordan, saw a herd of
nine wild pigs, and they found the trees on the banks of a stream near that
river all marked with mud, left by the wild swine in rubbing themselves. A
valley which they passed was grubbed up in all directions with furrows
made by these animals, so that the soil had all the appearance of having
been ploughed up.
Burckhardt mentions the occurrence of the wild boar and panther together,
or the ounce, as he calls it, on the mountain of Rieha, and also in the
wooded part of Tabor. He mentions "a common saying and belief among the
Turks, that all the animal kingdom was converted by their prophet to the
true faith, except the wild boar and buffalo, which remained unbelievers; it
is on this account that both these animals are often called Christians. We are
not surprised that the boar should be so denominated; but as the flesh of the
buffalo, as well as its Leben or sour milk, is much esteemed by the Turks, it
is difficult to account for the disgrace into which that animal has fallen
among them; the only reason I could learn for it is, that the buffalo, like the
hog, has a habit of rolling in the mud, and of plunging into the muddy
ponds in the summer time up to the very nose, which alone remains visible
above the surface."[198] Wild boars were frequently fallen in with by this
traveller during his Syrian travels in the neighbourhood of rush-covered
springs, where they could easily return to their "wallowing in the mire;" he
also met with them on all the mountains he visited in his tour. In the Ghor
Page 208
they are very abundant, and so injurious to the Arabs of that valley that they
are unable to cultivate the common barley on account of the eagerness with
which the wild swine feed on it, and are obliged to grow a less esteemed
kind, with six rows of grains which the swine will not touch.
Messrs Hemprich and Ehrenberg tell us that the wild boar is far from scarce
in the marshy districts around Rosetta and Damietta, and that it does not
seem to differ from the European species. The head of a wild boar which
these travellers saw at Bischerre, a village of Lebanon, closely resembled
the European variety, except in being a little longer. The Maronites there,
who ate its flesh in their company, called it chansir,[199] a name evidently
identical with the Hebrew word chasir, which occurs in the Bible. The
Turks, according to Ehrenberg, keep swine in their stables, from a
persuasion that all devils who may enter will be more likely to go into the
pigs than the horses, from their alliance to the former unclean animals.—A.
White, in "Excelsior."
The River Pig, or Painted Pig of the Camaroon.[200]
The River Pig.
are unable to cultivate the common barley on account of the eagerness with
which the wild swine feed on it, and are obliged to grow a less esteemed
kind, with six rows of grains which the swine will not touch.
Messrs Hemprich and Ehrenberg tell us that the wild boar is far from scarce
in the marshy districts around Rosetta and Damietta, and that it does not
seem to differ from the European species. The head of a wild boar which
these travellers saw at Bischerre, a village of Lebanon, closely resembled
the European variety, except in being a little longer. The Maronites there,
who ate its flesh in their company, called it chansir,[199] a name evidently
identical with the Hebrew word chasir, which occurs in the Bible. The
Turks, according to Ehrenberg, keep swine in their stables, from a
persuasion that all devils who may enter will be more likely to go into the
pigs than the horses, from their alliance to the former unclean animals.—A.
White, in "Excelsior."
The River Pig, or Painted Pig of the Camaroon.[200]
The River Pig.
Page 209
The other day we revisited the Zoological Gardens, and found that two old
friends had got—the one, a companion, the other, a neighbour. The latter
was the bulky hippopotamus, now most bearish, and more and more
unmistakably showing the minute accuracy of those master lines in the
Book of Job, in which Behemoth's portrait, pose, and character are depicted.
The former was the subject of this article—evidently, as far as colour goes,
"the chieftain of the porcine race."
The poet tells us, however, "Nimium ne crede colori;" and observation, as
well as the Scripture, shows us daily that "fair havens" in summer are but
foul places to "winter in;" that fair speeches, and a flattering tongue, and the
kisses of an enemy, "are deceitful;" and that beneath a fine spotted or barred
coat, the jaguar and the tiger, the cobra and the hornet, conceal both the
power and the propensity for mischief. So with our old friend
Potamochœrus. The pretty creature,—beauty is relative—the Cameroon pig
is the prettiest, the gaudiest of the race,—the pretty creature, we repeat, is of
a fine bay red, made to look more bright from the circumstance of the face,
ears, and front of the legs being black, while the red is relieved, and the
black is defined, by the pencilled lines of white which edge the ears, streak
over and under the eye, and ornament the long whiskers, another long white
line traversing the middle of the back; a very attractive combination of
colour—the painting of "Him who made the world"—and one which must
make the Potamochœrus penicellatus most conspicuous among the bright
green shrubs and dark marshes of the rivers of equinoctial Africa, on whose
banks the race has been planted. The present largest specimen was taken,
when a "piggie," by a trading captain, as it was swimming across the
Cameroon River. He brought it to Liverpool; Dr Gray, of the British
Museum, gave an account of it in the "Illustrated Proceedings of the
Zoological Society of London for 1852"—an excellent work—where its
figure, drawn and coloured by the hand of Wolf, shows the condition of the
African sow four years ago. It was then a round, comfortable, kind-looking
creature, which one might almost have fondled as a pet. The pig now looks
rather a dangerous beast, and its beauty is not increased by its face having
grown longer, and by the bump and hollow on each cheek being larger and
deeper; nor is its mouth so attractive or innocent, now that its tusks—those
ivory daggers and knives of the family of Swine—have grown longer. The
creature, partly it may be from familiarity, jumps up against the iron
friends had got—the one, a companion, the other, a neighbour. The latter
was the bulky hippopotamus, now most bearish, and more and more
unmistakably showing the minute accuracy of those master lines in the
Book of Job, in which Behemoth's portrait, pose, and character are depicted.
The former was the subject of this article—evidently, as far as colour goes,
"the chieftain of the porcine race."
The poet tells us, however, "Nimium ne crede colori;" and observation, as
well as the Scripture, shows us daily that "fair havens" in summer are but
foul places to "winter in;" that fair speeches, and a flattering tongue, and the
kisses of an enemy, "are deceitful;" and that beneath a fine spotted or barred
coat, the jaguar and the tiger, the cobra and the hornet, conceal both the
power and the propensity for mischief. So with our old friend
Potamochœrus. The pretty creature,—beauty is relative—the Cameroon pig
is the prettiest, the gaudiest of the race,—the pretty creature, we repeat, is of
a fine bay red, made to look more bright from the circumstance of the face,
ears, and front of the legs being black, while the red is relieved, and the
black is defined, by the pencilled lines of white which edge the ears, streak
over and under the eye, and ornament the long whiskers, another long white
line traversing the middle of the back; a very attractive combination of
colour—the painting of "Him who made the world"—and one which must
make the Potamochœrus penicellatus most conspicuous among the bright
green shrubs and dark marshes of the rivers of equinoctial Africa, on whose
banks the race has been planted. The present largest specimen was taken,
when a "piggie," by a trading captain, as it was swimming across the
Cameroon River. He brought it to Liverpool; Dr Gray, of the British
Museum, gave an account of it in the "Illustrated Proceedings of the
Zoological Society of London for 1852"—an excellent work—where its
figure, drawn and coloured by the hand of Wolf, shows the condition of the
African sow four years ago. It was then a round, comfortable, kind-looking
creature, which one might almost have fondled as a pet. The pig now looks
rather a dangerous beast, and its beauty is not increased by its face having
grown longer, and by the bump and hollow on each cheek being larger and
deeper; nor is its mouth so attractive or innocent, now that its tusks—those
ivory daggers and knives of the family of Swine—have grown longer. The
creature, partly it may be from familiarity, jumps up against the iron
Page 210
palisade which separates the visitor from its walk, but a poor pannage as a
substitute for its African home. We would advise him to read the notice:
"Visitors are requested not to tease the animals;" "not to touch" would be a
good reprint—for few, we fancy, would try to tease.
One, however, especially a lady, likes to know and to feel texture; and sadly
used the fine, mild Edward Cross, of Exeter Change and the Surrey
Zoological Gardens, once the Nestor as well as the King among keepers of
wild beasts—a gentle, gentlemanly, white-haired, venerable man,—sadly,
we say, used Mr Cross to lament that there were parasols, and that he could
not keep them out of his garden. Mr C. told the writer that he lost many a
beast and bird from the pokes of that insinuating weapon. We dissuade any
lady from touching or going near a zebra's mouth, or the horns of an ibex or
an algazel, or the pointed bill of a heron or stork, or from putting her hand
near this fine painted pig.
Up jumps Potamochœrus—eye rather vindictive, however—and mark, as
that big specimen is foreshortened before you, the profile of the little
companion pig of the same species, standing within a few feet, but safe
from the poke of any umbrella or parasol; look how innocent and inviting—
how quiet, and sleek, and polished, and painted, and mild it looks, all but
that little suspicious eye, with its wink oblique, and its malicious twinkle.
Of the habits of this pig we can find no written record, though in the
journals of the Scottish or Wesleyan Missionaries there may be some
notices of it. We do not know whence the Society procured the second
specimen, but it shows that Africa's wild animals, like its chain of internal
Caspian seas, and its mountain-ranges and rivers, are becoming gradually
known. Old Bosman, who was chief factor for the Dutch on the Gold Coast
150 years ago, refers to the swine near Fort St George d'Elmina being not
nearly so wild as those of Europe, and adds, "I have several times eaten of
them here, and found them very delicious and very tender meat, the fat
being extraordinarily fine."[201] He evidently refers to some other species.
Travellers in South Africa have made us familiar with the habits, and
specimens in the Zoological Gardens, in a pannage close to that of the
"painted pig," show us the form and ugliness, of the bush pig and flat pig
(Choiropotamus Africanus) of that southern land, with their long heads,
substitute for its African home. We would advise him to read the notice:
"Visitors are requested not to tease the animals;" "not to touch" would be a
good reprint—for few, we fancy, would try to tease.
One, however, especially a lady, likes to know and to feel texture; and sadly
used the fine, mild Edward Cross, of Exeter Change and the Surrey
Zoological Gardens, once the Nestor as well as the King among keepers of
wild beasts—a gentle, gentlemanly, white-haired, venerable man,—sadly,
we say, used Mr Cross to lament that there were parasols, and that he could
not keep them out of his garden. Mr C. told the writer that he lost many a
beast and bird from the pokes of that insinuating weapon. We dissuade any
lady from touching or going near a zebra's mouth, or the horns of an ibex or
an algazel, or the pointed bill of a heron or stork, or from putting her hand
near this fine painted pig.
Up jumps Potamochœrus—eye rather vindictive, however—and mark, as
that big specimen is foreshortened before you, the profile of the little
companion pig of the same species, standing within a few feet, but safe
from the poke of any umbrella or parasol; look how innocent and inviting—
how quiet, and sleek, and polished, and painted, and mild it looks, all but
that little suspicious eye, with its wink oblique, and its malicious twinkle.
Of the habits of this pig we can find no written record, though in the
journals of the Scottish or Wesleyan Missionaries there may be some
notices of it. We do not know whence the Society procured the second
specimen, but it shows that Africa's wild animals, like its chain of internal
Caspian seas, and its mountain-ranges and rivers, are becoming gradually
known. Old Bosman, who was chief factor for the Dutch on the Gold Coast
150 years ago, refers to the swine near Fort St George d'Elmina being not
nearly so wild as those of Europe, and adds, "I have several times eaten of
them here, and found them very delicious and very tender meat, the fat
being extraordinarily fine."[201] He evidently refers to some other species.
Travellers in South Africa have made us familiar with the habits, and
specimens in the Zoological Gardens, in a pannage close to that of the
"painted pig," show us the form and ugliness, of the bush pig and flat pig
(Choiropotamus Africanus) of that southern land, with their long heads,
Page 211
long legs, upturned tails, and horrid tusks. They have a strange habit of
kneeling on their fore-legs. In South Africa they abound; and the natives—
our excellent friend, the Rev. Henry Methuen, tells us—often bring their
jaws for barter. They are of a dingy, dirty gray; the boar is two feet and a
half high, and his tusks sometimes measure "eleven inches and a half each
from the jawbone," are five inches and a half in circumference at the base,
and are thirteen inches apart at their extremities.
No animal is more formidably armed; and his rapidity and lightness of
movement make him a very marked object to the African Nimrod, who,
midst "clumps of bush"—be they Proteacæ, heaths, or Diosmeæ—not
unfrequently comes on a herd of wild pigs "headed by a noble boar," with
tail erect. We could enter largely on the history of this active species, and
quote many a stirring anecdote of travellers' rencontres with this fearless
animal. The lion skulks away from him, but the rhinoceros—at least one
species—the buffalo, with his formidable front of horn and bone, and the
bush pig, with his dreaded tusks, show but little fear; and it is well for the
huntsman that he has a sure eye, a steady hand, and a double-barrelled gun,
and not a few Caffir followers to help him, should his eye be dim, his hand
waver, or his gun "flash in the pan." Dogs avail but little; a deadly gash lays
open their ribs, and a side-thrust of a wild boar will cut into the most
muscular leg, and for ever destroy its tendons. We have done with pigs, and
would only recommend a visit—a frequent visit—to that paradise of
animals, the Zoological Gardens, where, a fortnight ago, we saw wild boars
from Hesse Darmstadt; wild boars from Egypt; bush pigs from Africa;
peccaries from South America; and two painted pigs from West Africa; all
"de grege porci," and in excellent health: to say nothing of two
hippopotamuses; four "seraphic" giraffes; antelopes (we did not number
them); brush turkeys from Australia; an apteryx from New Zealand; the
curious white sheathbills from the South Seas; the refulgent metallic green
and purple-tinted monaul, or Impeyan pheasant, strutting with outspread,
light-coloured tail, just as he courts his plain hen-mate on the Indian
mountains; a family of the funny pelicans—cleanliness, ugliness, and
contentment in one happy combination; a band of flamingoes; eagles and
vultures; the harpy—that Picton of the birds—looking defiance as he
stands, with upraised crest, flashing eye, and clenched talons, over his food;
the wily otter; the amiable seal, which carries us to the seas and rocks of
kneeling on their fore-legs. In South Africa they abound; and the natives—
our excellent friend, the Rev. Henry Methuen, tells us—often bring their
jaws for barter. They are of a dingy, dirty gray; the boar is two feet and a
half high, and his tusks sometimes measure "eleven inches and a half each
from the jawbone," are five inches and a half in circumference at the base,
and are thirteen inches apart at their extremities.
No animal is more formidably armed; and his rapidity and lightness of
movement make him a very marked object to the African Nimrod, who,
midst "clumps of bush"—be they Proteacæ, heaths, or Diosmeæ—not
unfrequently comes on a herd of wild pigs "headed by a noble boar," with
tail erect. We could enter largely on the history of this active species, and
quote many a stirring anecdote of travellers' rencontres with this fearless
animal. The lion skulks away from him, but the rhinoceros—at least one
species—the buffalo, with his formidable front of horn and bone, and the
bush pig, with his dreaded tusks, show but little fear; and it is well for the
huntsman that he has a sure eye, a steady hand, and a double-barrelled gun,
and not a few Caffir followers to help him, should his eye be dim, his hand
waver, or his gun "flash in the pan." Dogs avail but little; a deadly gash lays
open their ribs, and a side-thrust of a wild boar will cut into the most
muscular leg, and for ever destroy its tendons. We have done with pigs, and
would only recommend a visit—a frequent visit—to that paradise of
animals, the Zoological Gardens, where, a fortnight ago, we saw wild boars
from Hesse Darmstadt; wild boars from Egypt; bush pigs from Africa;
peccaries from South America; and two painted pigs from West Africa; all
"de grege porci," and in excellent health: to say nothing of two
hippopotamuses; four "seraphic" giraffes; antelopes (we did not number
them); brush turkeys from Australia; an apteryx from New Zealand; the
curious white sheathbills from the South Seas; the refulgent metallic green
and purple-tinted monaul, or Impeyan pheasant, strutting with outspread,
light-coloured tail, just as he courts his plain hen-mate on the Indian
mountains; a family of the funny pelicans—cleanliness, ugliness, and
contentment in one happy combination; a band of flamingoes; eagles and
vultures; the harpy—that Picton of the birds—looking defiance as he
stands, with upraised crest, flashing eye, and clenched talons, over his food;
the wily otter; the amiable seal, which carries us to the seas and rocks of
Page 212
much-loved Shetland, with their long, winding voes, their bird-frequented
cliffs, and outlying skerries; the Indian thrush, which reminds one of a
"mavis" at home; the parrot-house, with its fine contrasts of colour and its
discordant noises; Penny's Esquimaux dog—poor fellow, a prisoner, unlike
to what he was when, with our dear friends Dr Sutherland and Captain
Stewart, this very dog breasted the blast before a sledge in the Wellington
Channel.[202] Look at that wondrous sloth, organised for a life in a Brazilian
forest—those two restless Polar bears; and though last, not least, those
wonders of the great deep, "the sea-anemones," the exquisite red and white
"feathery" tentacles of the long cylindrical-twisted serpulæ, and
marvellously-transparent streaked shrimps, all leg, and feeler, and eye, and
"nose"—in the salt-water tanks in the Vivarium.—A. White, in "Excelsior."
S. Bisset and his Learned Pig.
S. Bisset, formerly referred to, when at Belfast bought a black sucking pig,
and after several experiments succeeded in training a creature, so obstinate
and perverse by nature, to become most tractable and docile. In August
1783, he took his learned pig to Dublin for exhibition. "It was not only
under full command, but appeared as pliant and good-natured as a spaniel.
He had taught it to spell the names of any one in the company, to tell the
hour, minute, and second, to make his obeisance to the company, and he
occasioned many a laugh by his pointing out the married and the unmarried.
Some one in authority forced him to leave Dublin, and he died broken-
hearted shortly after at Chester, on his way to London, where forty and
more years before he had first been induced to train animals."[203]
Quixote Bowles fond of Pigs.
Southey records of Quixote Bowles that he "had a great love for pigs; he
thought them the happiest of all God's creatures, and would walk twenty
miles to see one that was remarkably fat. This love extended to bacon; he
was an epicure in it; and whenever he went out to dinner, took a piece of his
own curing in his pocket, and requested the cook to dress it."[204]
On Jekyll nearly thrown down by a very small Pig.
cliffs, and outlying skerries; the Indian thrush, which reminds one of a
"mavis" at home; the parrot-house, with its fine contrasts of colour and its
discordant noises; Penny's Esquimaux dog—poor fellow, a prisoner, unlike
to what he was when, with our dear friends Dr Sutherland and Captain
Stewart, this very dog breasted the blast before a sledge in the Wellington
Channel.[202] Look at that wondrous sloth, organised for a life in a Brazilian
forest—those two restless Polar bears; and though last, not least, those
wonders of the great deep, "the sea-anemones," the exquisite red and white
"feathery" tentacles of the long cylindrical-twisted serpulæ, and
marvellously-transparent streaked shrimps, all leg, and feeler, and eye, and
"nose"—in the salt-water tanks in the Vivarium.—A. White, in "Excelsior."
S. Bisset and his Learned Pig.
S. Bisset, formerly referred to, when at Belfast bought a black sucking pig,
and after several experiments succeeded in training a creature, so obstinate
and perverse by nature, to become most tractable and docile. In August
1783, he took his learned pig to Dublin for exhibition. "It was not only
under full command, but appeared as pliant and good-natured as a spaniel.
He had taught it to spell the names of any one in the company, to tell the
hour, minute, and second, to make his obeisance to the company, and he
occasioned many a laugh by his pointing out the married and the unmarried.
Some one in authority forced him to leave Dublin, and he died broken-
hearted shortly after at Chester, on his way to London, where forty and
more years before he had first been induced to train animals."[203]
Quixote Bowles fond of Pigs.
Southey records of Quixote Bowles that he "had a great love for pigs; he
thought them the happiest of all God's creatures, and would walk twenty
miles to see one that was remarkably fat. This love extended to bacon; he
was an epicure in it; and whenever he went out to dinner, took a piece of his
own curing in his pocket, and requested the cook to dress it."[204]
On Jekyll nearly thrown down by a very small Pig.
Page 213
"As Jekyll walk'd out in his gown and his wig,
He happen'd to tread on a very small pig;
'Pig of science,' he said, 'or else I'm mistaken,
For surely thou art an abridgment of Bacon.'"[205]
Good Enough for a Pig.
An Irish peasant being asked why he permitted his pig to take up its
quarters with his family, made an answer abounding with satirical naïveté.
"Why not? Doesn't the place afford every convenience that a pig can
require?"[206]
Mrs Fry, in 1827, visited Ireland on one of her Christian and philanthropic
tours. In a letter to her children from Armagh she says—"Pigs abound; I
think they have rather a more elegant appearance than ours, their hair often
rather curled. Perhaps naturalists may attribute this to their intimate
association with their betters!"[207]
The Countryman's Criticism on the Pigs in Gainsborough's Picture of
the Girl and Pigs.
Thomas Gainsborough, the great English painter, exhibited, in 1782, among
pictures of noblemen, gentlemen, and ladies, his well-known "Girl and
Pigs."[208]
Wolcot, better known as "Peter Pindar," in his first "Ode to the Royal
Academicians," refers to this picture.
"And now, O Muse, with song so big,
Turn round to Gainsborough's Girl and Pig,
Or Pig and Girl, I rather should have said;
The pig in white, I must allow,
Is really a well painted sow,
I wish to say the same thing of the maid."
"The expression and truth of nature in the Girl and Pigs," remarks
Northcote, "were never surpassed. Sir Joshua Reynolds was struck with it,
He happen'd to tread on a very small pig;
'Pig of science,' he said, 'or else I'm mistaken,
For surely thou art an abridgment of Bacon.'"[205]
Good Enough for a Pig.
An Irish peasant being asked why he permitted his pig to take up its
quarters with his family, made an answer abounding with satirical naïveté.
"Why not? Doesn't the place afford every convenience that a pig can
require?"[206]
Mrs Fry, in 1827, visited Ireland on one of her Christian and philanthropic
tours. In a letter to her children from Armagh she says—"Pigs abound; I
think they have rather a more elegant appearance than ours, their hair often
rather curled. Perhaps naturalists may attribute this to their intimate
association with their betters!"[207]
The Countryman's Criticism on the Pigs in Gainsborough's Picture of
the Girl and Pigs.
Thomas Gainsborough, the great English painter, exhibited, in 1782, among
pictures of noblemen, gentlemen, and ladies, his well-known "Girl and
Pigs."[208]
Wolcot, better known as "Peter Pindar," in his first "Ode to the Royal
Academicians," refers to this picture.
"And now, O Muse, with song so big,
Turn round to Gainsborough's Girl and Pig,
Or Pig and Girl, I rather should have said;
The pig in white, I must allow,
Is really a well painted sow,
I wish to say the same thing of the maid."
"The expression and truth of nature in the Girl and Pigs," remarks
Northcote, "were never surpassed. Sir Joshua Reynolds was struck with it,
Page 214
though he thought Gainsborough ought to have made her a beauty."
Reynolds, indeed, became the purchaser of the painting at one hundred
guineas, Gainsborough asking but sixty. During its exhibition, it is said to
have attracted the attention of a countryman, who remarked—"They be
deadly like pigs, but nobody ever saw pigs feeding together but what one on
'em had a foot in the trough."
Hook and the Litter of Pigs.
Once a gentleman, who had the marvellous gift of shaping a great many
things out of orange-peel, was displaying his abilities at a dinner-party
before Theodore Hook and Mr Thomas Hill, and succeeded in
counterfeiting a pig. Mr Hill tried the same feat; and after destroying and
strewing the table with the peel of a dozen oranges, gave it up, with the
exclamation, "Hang the pig! I can't make him." "Nay, Hill," exclaimed
Hook, glancing at the mess on the table, "you have done more; instead of
one pig, you have made a litter."[209]
Hook, we may add, was an original wit. He did not, like most professed
wits, study his sayings before, and arrange with his seeming opponent for
an imaginary war of words. He was an impromptu wit.
Jests about Swine.
Lord Chancellor Hardwicke's bailiff, having been ordered by his lady to
procure a sow of a particular description, came one day into the dining-
room when full of company, proclaiming with a burst of joy he could not
suppress—"I have been at Royston Fair, my lady, and I have got a sow
exactly of your ladyship's size."[210]
John was thought to be very stupid. He was sent to a mill one day, and the
miller said—"John, some people say you are a fool! Now, tell me, what you
do know, and what you don't know."—"Well," replied John, "I know
Reynolds, indeed, became the purchaser of the painting at one hundred
guineas, Gainsborough asking but sixty. During its exhibition, it is said to
have attracted the attention of a countryman, who remarked—"They be
deadly like pigs, but nobody ever saw pigs feeding together but what one on
'em had a foot in the trough."
Hook and the Litter of Pigs.
Once a gentleman, who had the marvellous gift of shaping a great many
things out of orange-peel, was displaying his abilities at a dinner-party
before Theodore Hook and Mr Thomas Hill, and succeeded in
counterfeiting a pig. Mr Hill tried the same feat; and after destroying and
strewing the table with the peel of a dozen oranges, gave it up, with the
exclamation, "Hang the pig! I can't make him." "Nay, Hill," exclaimed
Hook, glancing at the mess on the table, "you have done more; instead of
one pig, you have made a litter."[209]
Hook, we may add, was an original wit. He did not, like most professed
wits, study his sayings before, and arrange with his seeming opponent for
an imaginary war of words. He was an impromptu wit.
Jests about Swine.
Lord Chancellor Hardwicke's bailiff, having been ordered by his lady to
procure a sow of a particular description, came one day into the dining-
room when full of company, proclaiming with a burst of joy he could not
suppress—"I have been at Royston Fair, my lady, and I have got a sow
exactly of your ladyship's size."[210]
John was thought to be very stupid. He was sent to a mill one day, and the
miller said—"John, some people say you are a fool! Now, tell me, what you
do know, and what you don't know."—"Well," replied John, "I know
Page 215
millers' hogs are fat!"—"Yes, that's well, John; now, what don't you
know?"—"I don't know whose corn fats 'em."[211]
Pigs and Silver Spoon.
The Earl of P—— kept a number of swine at his seat in Wiltshire, and
crossing the yard one day, he was surprised to see the pigs gathered round
one trough, and making a great noise. Curiosity prompted him to see what
was the cause, and on looking into the trough he perceived a large silver
spoon. A servant-maid came out, and began to abuse the pigs for crying so.
"Well they may," said his lordship, "when they have got but one silver
spoon among them all."
We have heard of one nobleman in Strathearn, who, when a young man,
used to be thus addressed by his mother—"William! how are the children
and your pigs?"[212]
Sydney Smith on Beautiful Pigs.
definition of beauty by a utilitarian.
"Go to the Duke of Bedford's piggery at Woburn, and you will see a breed
of pigs with legs so short, that their stomachs trail upon the ground; a breed
of animals entombed in their own fat, overwhelmed with prosperity,
success, and farina. No animal could possibly be so disgusting, if it were
not useful; but a breeder who has accurately attended to the small quantity
of food it requires to swell this pig out to such extraordinary dimensions,—
the extraordinary genius it displays for obesity,—and the laudable
propensity of the flesh to desert the cheap regions of the body, and to
agglomerate on those parts which are worth ninepence a pound,—such an
observer of its utility does not scruple to call these otherwise hideous
quadrupeds a beautiful race of pigs!"[213]
know?"—"I don't know whose corn fats 'em."[211]
Pigs and Silver Spoon.
The Earl of P—— kept a number of swine at his seat in Wiltshire, and
crossing the yard one day, he was surprised to see the pigs gathered round
one trough, and making a great noise. Curiosity prompted him to see what
was the cause, and on looking into the trough he perceived a large silver
spoon. A servant-maid came out, and began to abuse the pigs for crying so.
"Well they may," said his lordship, "when they have got but one silver
spoon among them all."
We have heard of one nobleman in Strathearn, who, when a young man,
used to be thus addressed by his mother—"William! how are the children
and your pigs?"[212]
Sydney Smith on Beautiful Pigs.
definition of beauty by a utilitarian.
"Go to the Duke of Bedford's piggery at Woburn, and you will see a breed
of pigs with legs so short, that their stomachs trail upon the ground; a breed
of animals entombed in their own fat, overwhelmed with prosperity,
success, and farina. No animal could possibly be so disgusting, if it were
not useful; but a breeder who has accurately attended to the small quantity
of food it requires to swell this pig out to such extraordinary dimensions,—
the extraordinary genius it displays for obesity,—and the laudable
propensity of the flesh to desert the cheap regions of the body, and to
agglomerate on those parts which are worth ninepence a pound,—such an
observer of its utility does not scruple to call these otherwise hideous
quadrupeds a beautiful race of pigs!"[213]
Page 216
Joseph Sturge, when a boy, and the Pigs.
When Joseph Sturge, that good Quaker, was in his sixth year, his
biographer, Henry Richard,[214] records that he was on a visit to a friend of
his mother's at Frenchay, near Bristol. Sauntering about one day, he came
near the house of an eccentric man, a Quaker, who was much annoyed by
the depredations of his neighbour's pigs. Half in jest, and half in earnest, he
told the lad to drive the pigs into a pond close by. Joseph, nothing loath, set
to work with a will, delighted with the fun. The woman, to whom the pigs
belonged, came out presently, broom in hand, flourishing it over the young
sinner's head. The tempter was standing by, and sought to cover his share of
the transaction by shaking his head and saying—"Ah,
'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'
The child looked up at him indignantly, and said, 'Thee bee'st Satan then,
for thee told'st me to do it.'"
When Joseph Sturge, that good Quaker, was in his sixth year, his
biographer, Henry Richard,[214] records that he was on a visit to a friend of
his mother's at Frenchay, near Bristol. Sauntering about one day, he came
near the house of an eccentric man, a Quaker, who was much annoyed by
the depredations of his neighbour's pigs. Half in jest, and half in earnest, he
told the lad to drive the pigs into a pond close by. Joseph, nothing loath, set
to work with a will, delighted with the fun. The woman, to whom the pigs
belonged, came out presently, broom in hand, flourishing it over the young
sinner's head. The tempter was standing by, and sought to cover his share of
the transaction by shaking his head and saying—"Ah,
'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'
The child looked up at him indignantly, and said, 'Thee bee'st Satan then,
for thee told'st me to do it.'"
Page 217
HORSE.
The noblest animal employed by man, and consequently the subject of
many volumes of anecdote,—a study for the painter and sculptor, from the
days of the Greek and Assyrian artists to the present day. Charles Darwin
and Sir Francis Head have given graphic descriptions of the catching of the
wild horse, which swarms on the Pampas of South America.
How pathetic to see the led horse following the bier of a soldier! It was,
perhaps, the most affecting incident in the long array of the funeral of the
great Duke.
In the Museum at Brussels, Dr Patrick Neill observed, in 1817, "the stuffed
skin of the horse belonging to one of the Alberts, who governed the Low
Countries in the time of the Spaniards. It was shot under him in the field,
and the holes made in the thorax by the musket bullets are still very
evident."[215]
Poor Copenhagen, the Duke's charger at Waterloo, was buried. Many would
have liked his skin or skeleton. The Duke resisted all attempts to give his
old friend up for such a purpose. We hope no resurrectionist succeeded in
getting up his bones, years after his burial at Strathfieldsaye.
Bell-Rock Horse.
The Bell-Rock Lighthouse, built on a dangerous range of rocks twelve
miles south by east from Arbroath, was begun by Robert Stevenson on the
17th August 1807, and finished in October 1810. Mr Jervise[216] records
that "one horse, the property of James Craw, a labourer in Arbroath, is
believed to have drawn the entire materials of the building. The animal
latterly became a pensioner of the Lighthouse Commissioners, and was sent
by them to graze on the Island of Inchkeith, where it died of old age in
1813. Dr John Barclay, the celebrated anatomist, had its bones collected and
arranged in his museum, which he bequeathed at his death to the Royal
The noblest animal employed by man, and consequently the subject of
many volumes of anecdote,—a study for the painter and sculptor, from the
days of the Greek and Assyrian artists to the present day. Charles Darwin
and Sir Francis Head have given graphic descriptions of the catching of the
wild horse, which swarms on the Pampas of South America.
How pathetic to see the led horse following the bier of a soldier! It was,
perhaps, the most affecting incident in the long array of the funeral of the
great Duke.
In the Museum at Brussels, Dr Patrick Neill observed, in 1817, "the stuffed
skin of the horse belonging to one of the Alberts, who governed the Low
Countries in the time of the Spaniards. It was shot under him in the field,
and the holes made in the thorax by the musket bullets are still very
evident."[215]
Poor Copenhagen, the Duke's charger at Waterloo, was buried. Many would
have liked his skin or skeleton. The Duke resisted all attempts to give his
old friend up for such a purpose. We hope no resurrectionist succeeded in
getting up his bones, years after his burial at Strathfieldsaye.
Bell-Rock Horse.
The Bell-Rock Lighthouse, built on a dangerous range of rocks twelve
miles south by east from Arbroath, was begun by Robert Stevenson on the
17th August 1807, and finished in October 1810. Mr Jervise[216] records
that "one horse, the property of James Craw, a labourer in Arbroath, is
believed to have drawn the entire materials of the building. The animal
latterly became a pensioner of the Lighthouse Commissioners, and was sent
by them to graze on the Island of Inchkeith, where it died of old age in
1813. Dr John Barclay, the celebrated anatomist, had its bones collected and
arranged in his museum, which he bequeathed at his death to the Royal
Page 218
College of Surgeons, and in their museum at Edinburgh the skeleton of the
Bell-Rock horse may yet be seen."
Burke and the Horse.
An anecdote of the humanity of the great Edmund Burke in the year 1762
has been preserved.[217] "An Irishman, of the name of Johnson, was
astonishing the town by his horsemanship. All London crowded to see his
feats of agility and his highly-trained steeds. Dr Johnson and Boswell talked
of this man's wonderful ability, and the Doctor thought that he fully
deserved encouragement on philosophical grounds. He proved what human
perseverance could do. One who saw him riding on three horses at once, or
dancing upon a wire, might hope, that with the same application in the
profession of his choice, he should attain the same success. Burke, always
ready to encourage his countrymen, and curious in all the ramifications of
ingenuity, went frequently to the circus. The favourite performance of the
evening was that of a handsome black horse, which, at the sound of
Johnson's whip, would leave the stable, stand with much docility at his side,
then gallop about the ring, and on hearing the crack of the lash again return
obediently to its master. On one unfortunate occasion, the signal was
disregarded. The horse-rider flew into a rage, and by a blow between the
ears, struck the noble animal to the earth. The spectators thought the horse
was dying, but they had little time to reflect on the sight before they were
surprised at seeing a gentleman jump into the ring, rush up to Johnson, and
with his eyes flashing, and every muscle in the face quivering with emotion,
shout out, 'You scoundrel! I have a mind to knock you down.' And Johnson
would certainly have been laid sprawling in the sawdust beside his panting
steed, had not the friends of the gentleman interposed, and prevented him
inflicting such summary chastisement. This incident was long remembered.
When the relater of it, many years afterwards, heard Burke declaiming, on
the floor of the House of Commons, against injustice and oppression, his
mind naturally reverted to the time when he saw the same hatred of all
cruelty displayed by the same individual as he stood over the prostrate body
of the poor black horse, prepared to punish the miscreant who had felled it
to the ground."
Bell-Rock horse may yet be seen."
Burke and the Horse.
An anecdote of the humanity of the great Edmund Burke in the year 1762
has been preserved.[217] "An Irishman, of the name of Johnson, was
astonishing the town by his horsemanship. All London crowded to see his
feats of agility and his highly-trained steeds. Dr Johnson and Boswell talked
of this man's wonderful ability, and the Doctor thought that he fully
deserved encouragement on philosophical grounds. He proved what human
perseverance could do. One who saw him riding on three horses at once, or
dancing upon a wire, might hope, that with the same application in the
profession of his choice, he should attain the same success. Burke, always
ready to encourage his countrymen, and curious in all the ramifications of
ingenuity, went frequently to the circus. The favourite performance of the
evening was that of a handsome black horse, which, at the sound of
Johnson's whip, would leave the stable, stand with much docility at his side,
then gallop about the ring, and on hearing the crack of the lash again return
obediently to its master. On one unfortunate occasion, the signal was
disregarded. The horse-rider flew into a rage, and by a blow between the
ears, struck the noble animal to the earth. The spectators thought the horse
was dying, but they had little time to reflect on the sight before they were
surprised at seeing a gentleman jump into the ring, rush up to Johnson, and
with his eyes flashing, and every muscle in the face quivering with emotion,
shout out, 'You scoundrel! I have a mind to knock you down.' And Johnson
would certainly have been laid sprawling in the sawdust beside his panting
steed, had not the friends of the gentleman interposed, and prevented him
inflicting such summary chastisement. This incident was long remembered.
When the relater of it, many years afterwards, heard Burke declaiming, on
the floor of the House of Commons, against injustice and oppression, his
mind naturally reverted to the time when he saw the same hatred of all
cruelty displayed by the same individual as he stood over the prostrate body
of the poor black horse, prepared to punish the miscreant who had felled it
to the ground."
Page 219
David Garrick and his Horse.
In 1778 Sir Joshua Reynolds visited Dr Warton at Winchester College. Here
he was particularly noticed by George III. and his queen, who were then
making a tour through the summer encampments. The father of Lord
Palmerston, and David Garrick, the great actor, with others, visited Warton
at the same time.
Mr Northcote[218] relates that a whimsical accident occurred to Garrick at
one of the reviews, which Sir Joshua afterwards recounted with great
humour.
"At one of those field-days in the vicinity, Garrick found it necessary to
dismount, when his horse escaped from his hold and ran off; throwing
himself immediately into his professional attitude, he cried out, as if on
Bosworth field, 'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!'"
This exclamation, and the accompanying attitude, excited great amazement
amongst the surrounding spectators, who knew him not; but it could not
escape his majesty's quick apprehension, for, it being within his hearing, he
immediately said, "Those must be the tones of Garrick! see if he is not on
the ground." The theatrical and dismounted monarch was immediately
brought to his majesty, who not only condoled with him most good
humouredly on his misfortune, but flatteringly added, that his delivery of
Shakspeare could never pass undiscovered.
This anecdote of Garrick at Winchester is told in the Rev. John Wool's "Life
of Warton." Mr Taylor says—"One can't help suspecting Roscius took care
to make his speech when he knew the king was within earshot—a little bit
of that 'artifice' of his which has left such an impression in the theatre, that
the phrase, 'As deep as Garrick,' is still current stage slang."[219]
Bernard Gilpin's Horses Stolen and Recovered.[220]
The biographer of the saintly Bernard Gilpin, the apostle of the northern
counties of England in the days of Edward VI., and Queens Mary and
Elizabeth, relates that, by the carelessness of his servant, his horses were
one day stolen. The news was quickly propagated, and every one expressed
In 1778 Sir Joshua Reynolds visited Dr Warton at Winchester College. Here
he was particularly noticed by George III. and his queen, who were then
making a tour through the summer encampments. The father of Lord
Palmerston, and David Garrick, the great actor, with others, visited Warton
at the same time.
Mr Northcote[218] relates that a whimsical accident occurred to Garrick at
one of the reviews, which Sir Joshua afterwards recounted with great
humour.
"At one of those field-days in the vicinity, Garrick found it necessary to
dismount, when his horse escaped from his hold and ran off; throwing
himself immediately into his professional attitude, he cried out, as if on
Bosworth field, 'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!'"
This exclamation, and the accompanying attitude, excited great amazement
amongst the surrounding spectators, who knew him not; but it could not
escape his majesty's quick apprehension, for, it being within his hearing, he
immediately said, "Those must be the tones of Garrick! see if he is not on
the ground." The theatrical and dismounted monarch was immediately
brought to his majesty, who not only condoled with him most good
humouredly on his misfortune, but flatteringly added, that his delivery of
Shakspeare could never pass undiscovered.
This anecdote of Garrick at Winchester is told in the Rev. John Wool's "Life
of Warton." Mr Taylor says—"One can't help suspecting Roscius took care
to make his speech when he knew the king was within earshot—a little bit
of that 'artifice' of his which has left such an impression in the theatre, that
the phrase, 'As deep as Garrick,' is still current stage slang."[219]
Bernard Gilpin's Horses Stolen and Recovered.[220]
The biographer of the saintly Bernard Gilpin, the apostle of the northern
counties of England in the days of Edward VI., and Queens Mary and
Elizabeth, relates that, by the carelessness of his servant, his horses were
one day stolen. The news was quickly propagated, and every one expressed
Page 220
the highest indignation. The thief was rejoicing over his prize, when, by the
report of the country, he found whose horses he had taken. Terrified at what
he had done, he instantly came trembling back, confessed the fact, returned
the horses, and declared he believed the devil would have seized him
directly had he carried them off, knowing them to have been Mr Gilpin's.
The biographer gives an instance of his benevolent temper. "One day
returning home, he saw in a field several people crowding together; and
judging that something more than ordinary had happened, he rode up to
them, and found that one of the horses in a team had suddenly dropped
down, which they were endeavouring to raise; but in vain, for the horse was
dead. The owner of it seeming much dejected with his misfortune, and
declaring how grievous a loss it was to him, Mr Gilpin bade him not be
disheartened; "I'll let you have, honest man, that horse of mine," and
pointed to his servant's. "Ah! master," replied the countryman, "my pocket
will not reach such a beast as that." "Come, come," says Mr Gilpin, "take
him, take him; and when I demand my money, then thou shalt pay me."[221]
No wonder that the horses of the apostolic rector of Houghton-le-Spring
were safe, even in those horse-stealing times, and in that Border county.
The Herald and George III.'s Horse.
One day, when Sir Isaac Heard was in company with George III., it was
announced that his majesty's horse was ready for hunting. "Sir Isaac," said
the king, "are you a judge of horses?"—"In my younger days, please your
majesty, I was a great deal among them," was the reply.—"What do you
think of this, then?" said the king, who was by this time preparing to mount
his favourite; and, without waiting for an answer, added, "We call him
Perfection."—"A most appropriate name," replied the courtly herald,
bowing as his majesty reached the saddle, "for he bears the best of
characters."[222]
Rowland Hill and his Horse at Dunbar.
Many stories of the excellent but eccentric Rowland Hill are told, but often
with considerable exaggeration. The following may be depended on for its
report of the country, he found whose horses he had taken. Terrified at what
he had done, he instantly came trembling back, confessed the fact, returned
the horses, and declared he believed the devil would have seized him
directly had he carried them off, knowing them to have been Mr Gilpin's.
The biographer gives an instance of his benevolent temper. "One day
returning home, he saw in a field several people crowding together; and
judging that something more than ordinary had happened, he rode up to
them, and found that one of the horses in a team had suddenly dropped
down, which they were endeavouring to raise; but in vain, for the horse was
dead. The owner of it seeming much dejected with his misfortune, and
declaring how grievous a loss it was to him, Mr Gilpin bade him not be
disheartened; "I'll let you have, honest man, that horse of mine," and
pointed to his servant's. "Ah! master," replied the countryman, "my pocket
will not reach such a beast as that." "Come, come," says Mr Gilpin, "take
him, take him; and when I demand my money, then thou shalt pay me."[221]
No wonder that the horses of the apostolic rector of Houghton-le-Spring
were safe, even in those horse-stealing times, and in that Border county.
The Herald and George III.'s Horse.
One day, when Sir Isaac Heard was in company with George III., it was
announced that his majesty's horse was ready for hunting. "Sir Isaac," said
the king, "are you a judge of horses?"—"In my younger days, please your
majesty, I was a great deal among them," was the reply.—"What do you
think of this, then?" said the king, who was by this time preparing to mount
his favourite; and, without waiting for an answer, added, "We call him
Perfection."—"A most appropriate name," replied the courtly herald,
bowing as his majesty reached the saddle, "for he bears the best of
characters."[222]
Rowland Hill and his Horse at Dunbar.
Many stories of the excellent but eccentric Rowland Hill are told, but often
with considerable exaggeration. The following may be depended on for its
Page 221
accuracy, as it was told by Robert Haldane.[223] It occurred at Dunbar, in
September 1797, during an evangelistic tour Hill and Haldane were making
in Scotland. They were sleeping at Mr Cunningham's, when, in the
morning, intending to proceed southward, on Mr Hill's carriage being
brought to the door, his horse was found to be dead lame. A farrier was sent
for, who, after careful examination, reported that the seat of the mischief
was in the shoulder, that the disease was incurable, and that they might
shoot the poor animal as soon as they pleased. To this proposal Mr Hill was
by no means prepared to accede. Indeed, it seemed to Mr Haldane as
precipitate as the conduct of an Irish sailor on board the Monarch, who, on
seeing another knocked down senseless by a splinter, and supposing his
companion to be dead, went up to Captain Duncan, on the quarter-deck, in
the midst of the action with Languara, off St Vincent, and exclaimed, "Shall
we jerk him overboard, sir?" On that occasion the sailor revived in a short
time, and was even able to work at his gun. In the present instance the
horse, too, recovered, and was able to carry his master on many a future
errand of mercy. Meanwhile, however, the travellers availed themselves of
Mr Cunningham's hospitality, and remained for two days more at his place,
near Dunbar. In the evening Mr Hill conducted family worship, and after
the supplications for the family, domestics, and friends, added a fervent
prayer for the restoration of the valuable animal which had carried him so
many thousands of miles, preaching the everlasting gospel to his fellow-
sinners. Mr Cunningham, who was remarkable for the staid and orderly, if
not stiff, demeanour, which characterised the anti-burghers, was not only
surprised but grieved, and even scandalised, at what he deemed so great an
impropriety. He remonstrated with his guest. But Mr Hill stoutly defended
his conduct by an appeal to Scripture, and the superintending watchfulness
of Him without whom a sparrow falls not to the ground. He persisted in his
prayer during the two days he continued at Dunbar, and, although he left the
horse, in a hopeless state, to follow in charge of his servant by easy stages,
he continued his prayer, night and morning, till one day, at an inn in
Yorkshire, while the two travellers were sitting at breakfast, they heard a
horse and chaise trot briskly into the yard, and, looking out, saw that Mr
Hill's servant had arrived, bringing up the horse perfectly restored. Mr Hill
did not fail to return thanks, and begged his fellow-traveller to consider
whether the minuteness of his prayers had deserved the censure which had
been directed against them.
September 1797, during an evangelistic tour Hill and Haldane were making
in Scotland. They were sleeping at Mr Cunningham's, when, in the
morning, intending to proceed southward, on Mr Hill's carriage being
brought to the door, his horse was found to be dead lame. A farrier was sent
for, who, after careful examination, reported that the seat of the mischief
was in the shoulder, that the disease was incurable, and that they might
shoot the poor animal as soon as they pleased. To this proposal Mr Hill was
by no means prepared to accede. Indeed, it seemed to Mr Haldane as
precipitate as the conduct of an Irish sailor on board the Monarch, who, on
seeing another knocked down senseless by a splinter, and supposing his
companion to be dead, went up to Captain Duncan, on the quarter-deck, in
the midst of the action with Languara, off St Vincent, and exclaimed, "Shall
we jerk him overboard, sir?" On that occasion the sailor revived in a short
time, and was even able to work at his gun. In the present instance the
horse, too, recovered, and was able to carry his master on many a future
errand of mercy. Meanwhile, however, the travellers availed themselves of
Mr Cunningham's hospitality, and remained for two days more at his place,
near Dunbar. In the evening Mr Hill conducted family worship, and after
the supplications for the family, domestics, and friends, added a fervent
prayer for the restoration of the valuable animal which had carried him so
many thousands of miles, preaching the everlasting gospel to his fellow-
sinners. Mr Cunningham, who was remarkable for the staid and orderly, if
not stiff, demeanour, which characterised the anti-burghers, was not only
surprised but grieved, and even scandalised, at what he deemed so great an
impropriety. He remonstrated with his guest. But Mr Hill stoutly defended
his conduct by an appeal to Scripture, and the superintending watchfulness
of Him without whom a sparrow falls not to the ground. He persisted in his
prayer during the two days he continued at Dunbar, and, although he left the
horse, in a hopeless state, to follow in charge of his servant by easy stages,
he continued his prayer, night and morning, till one day, at an inn in
Yorkshire, while the two travellers were sitting at breakfast, they heard a
horse and chaise trot briskly into the yard, and, looking out, saw that Mr
Hill's servant had arrived, bringing up the horse perfectly restored. Mr Hill
did not fail to return thanks, and begged his fellow-traveller to consider
whether the minuteness of his prayers had deserved the censure which had
been directed against them.
Page 222
A Saying of Rowland Hill's.
Rowland Hill rode a great deal, and exercise preserved him in vigorous
health. On one occasion, when asked by a medical friend, who was
commenting on his invariably good health, what physician and apothecary
he employed, he replied, "My physician has always been a horse, and my
apothecary an ass!"[224]
Holcroft on the Horse.
Thomas Holcroft, the novelist and play-writer, when a lad, was a stable boy
to a trainer of running horses. In his memoirs he has written a good deal
about the habits of the race-horse. He says of them:—"I soon learned that
the safehold for sitting steady was to keep the knee and the calf of the leg
strongly pressed against the sides of the animal that endeavours to unhorse
you; and as little accidents afford frequent occasions to remind the boys of
this rule, it becomes so rooted in the memory of the intelligent, that their
danger is comparatively trifling. Of the temperaments and habits of blood-
horses there are great varieties, and those very strongly contrasted. The
majority of them are playful, but their gambols are dangerous to the timid
or unskilful. They are all easily and suddenly alarmed, when anything they
do not understand forcibly catches their attention, and they are then to be
feared by the bad horseman, and carefully guarded against by the good.
Very serious accidents have happened to the best. But, besides their general
disposition to playfulness, there is a great propensity in them to become
what the jockeys call vicious. High bred, hot in blood, exercised, fed and
dressed so as to bring that heat to perfection, their tender skins at all times
subject to a sharp curry-comb, hard brushing, and when they take sweats, to
scraping with wooden instruments, it cannot be but that they are frequently
and exceedingly irritated. Intending to make themselves felt and feared,
they will watch their opportunity to bite, stamp, or kick; I mean those
among them that are vicious. Tom, the brother of Jack Clarke, after
sweating a gray horse that belonged to Lord March, with whom he lived,
while he was either scraping or dressing him, was seized by the animal by
the shoulder, lifted from the ground, and carried two or three hundred yards
before the horse loosened his hold. Old Forrester, a horse that belonged to
Rowland Hill rode a great deal, and exercise preserved him in vigorous
health. On one occasion, when asked by a medical friend, who was
commenting on his invariably good health, what physician and apothecary
he employed, he replied, "My physician has always been a horse, and my
apothecary an ass!"[224]
Holcroft on the Horse.
Thomas Holcroft, the novelist and play-writer, when a lad, was a stable boy
to a trainer of running horses. In his memoirs he has written a good deal
about the habits of the race-horse. He says of them:—"I soon learned that
the safehold for sitting steady was to keep the knee and the calf of the leg
strongly pressed against the sides of the animal that endeavours to unhorse
you; and as little accidents afford frequent occasions to remind the boys of
this rule, it becomes so rooted in the memory of the intelligent, that their
danger is comparatively trifling. Of the temperaments and habits of blood-
horses there are great varieties, and those very strongly contrasted. The
majority of them are playful, but their gambols are dangerous to the timid
or unskilful. They are all easily and suddenly alarmed, when anything they
do not understand forcibly catches their attention, and they are then to be
feared by the bad horseman, and carefully guarded against by the good.
Very serious accidents have happened to the best. But, besides their general
disposition to playfulness, there is a great propensity in them to become
what the jockeys call vicious. High bred, hot in blood, exercised, fed and
dressed so as to bring that heat to perfection, their tender skins at all times
subject to a sharp curry-comb, hard brushing, and when they take sweats, to
scraping with wooden instruments, it cannot be but that they are frequently
and exceedingly irritated. Intending to make themselves felt and feared,
they will watch their opportunity to bite, stamp, or kick; I mean those
among them that are vicious. Tom, the brother of Jack Clarke, after
sweating a gray horse that belonged to Lord March, with whom he lived,
while he was either scraping or dressing him, was seized by the animal by
the shoulder, lifted from the ground, and carried two or three hundred yards
before the horse loosened his hold. Old Forrester, a horse that belonged to
Page 223
Captain Vernon, all the while that I remained at Newmarket, was obliged to
be kept apart, and being foundered, to live at grass, where he was confined
to a close paddock. Except Tom Watson, he would suffer no lad to come
near him; if in his paddock, he would run furiously at the first person that
approached, and if in the stable, would kick and assault every one within his
reach. Horses of this kind seem always to select their favourite boy. Tom
Watson, indeed, had attained to man's estate, and in his brother's absence,
which was rare, acted as superintendent. Horses, commonly speaking, are
of a friendly and generous nature; but there are anecdotes of the malignant
and savage ferocity of some, that are scarcely to be credited; at least many
such are traditional at Newmarket.
Of their friendly disposition towards their keepers, there is a trait known to
every boy that has the care of any one of them, which ought not to be
omitted. The custom is to rise very early, even between two and three in the
morning, when the days lengthen. In the course of the day, horses and boys
have much to do. About half after eight, perhaps, in the evening, the horse
has his last feed of oats, which he generally stands to enjoy in the centre of
his smooth, carefully made bed of clean long straw, and by the side of him
the weary boy will often lie down; it being held as a maxim, a rule without
exception, that were he to lie even till morning, the horse would never lie
down himself, but stand still, careful to do his keeper no harm.[225]
In one of Thomas Holcroft's novels, "Alwyn; or, The Gentleman
Comedian," founded on his own adventures when a travelling actor, he
gives the character of an enthusiast who had conceived the idea of
establishing a humane asylum for animals, the consequences of which he
describes. "I am pestered, plagued, teased, tormented to death. I believe all
the cats in Christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire
a clerk to pay the people; and the village where I live is become a constant
fair. A fellow has set up the sign of the Three Blind Kittens, and has the
impudence to tell the neighbours, that if my whims and my money only
hold out for one twelvemonth, he shall not care a fig for the king. I thought
to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old cats and secluding them
in convents and monasteries of my own, but the value of the breeders is
increased to such a degree, that I do not believe my whole fortune is
capable of the purchase. Besides I am made an ass of. A rascal, who is a
known sharper in these parts, hearing of the aversion I had to cruelty,
be kept apart, and being foundered, to live at grass, where he was confined
to a close paddock. Except Tom Watson, he would suffer no lad to come
near him; if in his paddock, he would run furiously at the first person that
approached, and if in the stable, would kick and assault every one within his
reach. Horses of this kind seem always to select their favourite boy. Tom
Watson, indeed, had attained to man's estate, and in his brother's absence,
which was rare, acted as superintendent. Horses, commonly speaking, are
of a friendly and generous nature; but there are anecdotes of the malignant
and savage ferocity of some, that are scarcely to be credited; at least many
such are traditional at Newmarket.
Of their friendly disposition towards their keepers, there is a trait known to
every boy that has the care of any one of them, which ought not to be
omitted. The custom is to rise very early, even between two and three in the
morning, when the days lengthen. In the course of the day, horses and boys
have much to do. About half after eight, perhaps, in the evening, the horse
has his last feed of oats, which he generally stands to enjoy in the centre of
his smooth, carefully made bed of clean long straw, and by the side of him
the weary boy will often lie down; it being held as a maxim, a rule without
exception, that were he to lie even till morning, the horse would never lie
down himself, but stand still, careful to do his keeper no harm.[225]
In one of Thomas Holcroft's novels, "Alwyn; or, The Gentleman
Comedian," founded on his own adventures when a travelling actor, he
gives the character of an enthusiast who had conceived the idea of
establishing a humane asylum for animals, the consequences of which he
describes. "I am pestered, plagued, teased, tormented to death. I believe all
the cats in Christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire
a clerk to pay the people; and the village where I live is become a constant
fair. A fellow has set up the sign of the Three Blind Kittens, and has the
impudence to tell the neighbours, that if my whims and my money only
hold out for one twelvemonth, he shall not care a fig for the king. I thought
to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old cats and secluding them
in convents and monasteries of my own, but the value of the breeders is
increased to such a degree, that I do not believe my whole fortune is
capable of the purchase. Besides I am made an ass of. A rascal, who is a
known sharper in these parts, hearing of the aversion I had to cruelty,
Page 224
bought an old one-eyed horse, that was going to the dogs, for five shillings;
then taking a hammer in his hand, watched an opportunity of finding me
alone, and addressed me in the following manner: 'Look you, master, I
know that you don't love to see any dumb creature abused, and so, if you
don't give me ten pounds, why, I shall scoop out this old rip's odd eye with
the sharp end of this here hammer, now, before your face.' Ay, and the
villain would have done it too, if I had not instantly complied; but what was
worse, the abominable scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted
him to deliver the horse first, for fear he should extort a further sum from
me, that he had more honour than to break his word. A whelp of a boy had
yesterday caught a young hedgehog, and perceiving me, threw it into the
water to make it extend its legs; then with the rough side of a knotty stick
sawed upon them till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered him
to desist, told me he would not, till I had given him sixpence. There is
something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when they can find
nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the first animal which is
not dignified with the title of Christian, and then bring it to me as an object
worthy of commiseration; so that, in fact, instead of protecting, I destroy.
The women have entertained a notion that I hate two-legged animals; and
one of them called after me the other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and
that I had better give my money to the poor, than keep a parcel of dogs and
cats that eat up the village. I perceive it is in vain to attempt carrying on the
scheme much longer, and then my poor invalids will be worse off than they
were before."[226]
A Joke of Lord Mansfield's about a Horse.
Lord Campbell[227] tells an anecdote of George Wood, a celebrated special
pleader at the time when Lord Mansfield was Chief-Justice. Though a
subtle pleader, George was very ignorant of horse-flesh, and had been
cruelly cheated in the purchase of a horse on which he had intended to ride
the circuit. He brought an action on the warranty that the horse was "a good
roadster, and free from vice." At the trial before Lord Mansfield, it appeared
that when the plaintiff mounted at the stables in London, with the intention
of proceeding to Barnet, nothing could induce the animal to move forward a
single step. On hearing this evidence, the Chief-Justice with much gravity
exclaimed, "Who would have supposed that Mr Wood's horse would have
then taking a hammer in his hand, watched an opportunity of finding me
alone, and addressed me in the following manner: 'Look you, master, I
know that you don't love to see any dumb creature abused, and so, if you
don't give me ten pounds, why, I shall scoop out this old rip's odd eye with
the sharp end of this here hammer, now, before your face.' Ay, and the
villain would have done it too, if I had not instantly complied; but what was
worse, the abominable scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted
him to deliver the horse first, for fear he should extort a further sum from
me, that he had more honour than to break his word. A whelp of a boy had
yesterday caught a young hedgehog, and perceiving me, threw it into the
water to make it extend its legs; then with the rough side of a knotty stick
sawed upon them till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered him
to desist, told me he would not, till I had given him sixpence. There is
something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when they can find
nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the first animal which is
not dignified with the title of Christian, and then bring it to me as an object
worthy of commiseration; so that, in fact, instead of protecting, I destroy.
The women have entertained a notion that I hate two-legged animals; and
one of them called after me the other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and
that I had better give my money to the poor, than keep a parcel of dogs and
cats that eat up the village. I perceive it is in vain to attempt carrying on the
scheme much longer, and then my poor invalids will be worse off than they
were before."[226]
A Joke of Lord Mansfield's about a Horse.
Lord Campbell[227] tells an anecdote of George Wood, a celebrated special
pleader at the time when Lord Mansfield was Chief-Justice. Though a
subtle pleader, George was very ignorant of horse-flesh, and had been
cruelly cheated in the purchase of a horse on which he had intended to ride
the circuit. He brought an action on the warranty that the horse was "a good
roadster, and free from vice." At the trial before Lord Mansfield, it appeared
that when the plaintiff mounted at the stables in London, with the intention
of proceeding to Barnet, nothing could induce the animal to move forward a
single step. On hearing this evidence, the Chief-Justice with much gravity
exclaimed, "Who would have supposed that Mr Wood's horse would have
Page 225
demurred when he ought to have gone to the country." Any attempt, adds
Lord Campbell, to explain this excellent joke to lay gents would be vain,
and to lawyers would be superfluous.
General Sir John Moore and his Horse at the Battle of Corunna.
Charles Napier served in Lord William Bentinck's brigade during the retreat
of the truly great and ill-used Moore at the battle of Corunna; he was
covered with wounds, and was carried off a prisoner. In his "Biography"
General Sir William Napier[228] has published a most interesting description
of the part his brother took in that battle, and written in his own words. I
extract a few vivid lines in which Moore and his horse are brought before
you. A heavy French column was descending rapidly on the British line at
the part where Napier was. "Suddenly I heard the gallop of horses, and
turning saw Moore. He came at speed, and pulled up so sharp and close he
seemed to have alighted from the air; man and horse looking at the
approaching foe with an intenseness that seemed to concentrate all feeling
in their eyes. The sudden stop of the animal, a cream-coloured one, with
black tail and mane, had cast the latter streaming forward, its ears were
pushed out like horns, while its eyes flashed fire, and it snorted loudly with
expanded nostrils, expressing terror, astonishment, and muscular exertion.
My first thought was, it will be away like the wind; but then I looked at the
rider, and the horse was forgotten. Thrown on its haunches the animal came,
sliding and dashing the dirt up with its fore-feet, thus bending the general
forward almost to its neck; but his head was thrown back, and his look more
keenly piercing than I ever before saw it. He glanced to the right and left,
and then fixed his eyes intently on the enemy's advancing column, at the
same time grasping the reins with both his hands, and pressing the horse
firmly with his knees; his body thus seemed to deal with the animal, while
his mind was intent on the enemy, and his aspect was one of searching
intenseness, beyond the power of words to describe; for a while he looked,
and then galloped to the left, without uttering a word."
Neither Horses nor Children can explain their Complaints.
Lord Campbell, to explain this excellent joke to lay gents would be vain,
and to lawyers would be superfluous.
General Sir John Moore and his Horse at the Battle of Corunna.
Charles Napier served in Lord William Bentinck's brigade during the retreat
of the truly great and ill-used Moore at the battle of Corunna; he was
covered with wounds, and was carried off a prisoner. In his "Biography"
General Sir William Napier[228] has published a most interesting description
of the part his brother took in that battle, and written in his own words. I
extract a few vivid lines in which Moore and his horse are brought before
you. A heavy French column was descending rapidly on the British line at
the part where Napier was. "Suddenly I heard the gallop of horses, and
turning saw Moore. He came at speed, and pulled up so sharp and close he
seemed to have alighted from the air; man and horse looking at the
approaching foe with an intenseness that seemed to concentrate all feeling
in their eyes. The sudden stop of the animal, a cream-coloured one, with
black tail and mane, had cast the latter streaming forward, its ears were
pushed out like horns, while its eyes flashed fire, and it snorted loudly with
expanded nostrils, expressing terror, astonishment, and muscular exertion.
My first thought was, it will be away like the wind; but then I looked at the
rider, and the horse was forgotten. Thrown on its haunches the animal came,
sliding and dashing the dirt up with its fore-feet, thus bending the general
forward almost to its neck; but his head was thrown back, and his look more
keenly piercing than I ever before saw it. He glanced to the right and left,
and then fixed his eyes intently on the enemy's advancing column, at the
same time grasping the reins with both his hands, and pressing the horse
firmly with his knees; his body thus seemed to deal with the animal, while
his mind was intent on the enemy, and his aspect was one of searching
intenseness, beyond the power of words to describe; for a while he looked,
and then galloped to the left, without uttering a word."
Neither Horses nor Children can explain their Complaints.
Page 226
Dr Mounsey, the Chelsea doctor, an eccentric physician, who was a great
friend of David Garrick, related to Taylor that he was once in company with
another physician and an eminent farrier. The physician stated that among
the difficulties of his profession, was that of discovering the maladies of
children, because they could not explain the symptoms of their disorder.
"Well," said the farrier, "your difficulties are not greater than mine, for my
patients, the horses, are equally unable to explain their complaints."—"Ah!"
rejoined the physician, "my brother doctor must conquer me, as he has
brought his cavalry against my infantry!"[229]
Horses with Names.
In this country most horses have a name, but in Germany this custom must
be unusual. Perthes, when on his way from Hamburg to Frankfort, remarked
at Böhmte—"It is a pleasing custom they have here of giving proper names
to horses. The horse is a noble and intelligent animal, and quite as deserving
of such a distinction as the dog; and when it has a name, it has made some
advance towards personality."[230]
"Old Jack" of Waterloo Bridge.
In building Waterloo Bridge, the finest of Rennie's bridges, the whole of the
stone required was hewn in some fields on the Surrey side. Nearly the
whole of this material was drawn by one horse called "Old Jack," a most
sensible animal. Mr Smiles, in his "Life of John Rennie,"[231] thus speaks of
this favourite old horse—"His driver was, generally speaking, a steady and
trustworthy man; though rather too fond of his dram before breakfast. As
the railway along which the stone was drawn passed in front of the public-
house door, the horse and truck were usually pulled up, while Tom entered
for his 'morning.' On one occasion the driver stayed so long that 'Old Jack,'
becoming impatient, poked his head into the open door, and taking his
master's coat collar between his teeth, though in a gentle sort of manner,
pulled him out from the midst of his companions, and thus forced him to
resume the day's work."
Sydney Smith and his Horses.
friend of David Garrick, related to Taylor that he was once in company with
another physician and an eminent farrier. The physician stated that among
the difficulties of his profession, was that of discovering the maladies of
children, because they could not explain the symptoms of their disorder.
"Well," said the farrier, "your difficulties are not greater than mine, for my
patients, the horses, are equally unable to explain their complaints."—"Ah!"
rejoined the physician, "my brother doctor must conquer me, as he has
brought his cavalry against my infantry!"[229]
Horses with Names.
In this country most horses have a name, but in Germany this custom must
be unusual. Perthes, when on his way from Hamburg to Frankfort, remarked
at Böhmte—"It is a pleasing custom they have here of giving proper names
to horses. The horse is a noble and intelligent animal, and quite as deserving
of such a distinction as the dog; and when it has a name, it has made some
advance towards personality."[230]
"Old Jack" of Waterloo Bridge.
In building Waterloo Bridge, the finest of Rennie's bridges, the whole of the
stone required was hewn in some fields on the Surrey side. Nearly the
whole of this material was drawn by one horse called "Old Jack," a most
sensible animal. Mr Smiles, in his "Life of John Rennie,"[231] thus speaks of
this favourite old horse—"His driver was, generally speaking, a steady and
trustworthy man; though rather too fond of his dram before breakfast. As
the railway along which the stone was drawn passed in front of the public-
house door, the horse and truck were usually pulled up, while Tom entered
for his 'morning.' On one occasion the driver stayed so long that 'Old Jack,'
becoming impatient, poked his head into the open door, and taking his
master's coat collar between his teeth, though in a gentle sort of manner,
pulled him out from the midst of his companions, and thus forced him to
resume the day's work."
Sydney Smith and his Horses.
Page 227
Sydney Smith, when rector of Foston-le-Clay, in Yorkshire, a living which
he got from Lord Chancellor Erskine in 1806, was in the habit of riding a
good deal. His daughter says that, "either from the badness of his horses, or
the badness of his riding, or perhaps from both (in spite of his various
ingenious contrivances to keep himself in the saddle), he had several falls,
and kept us in continual anxiety."[232] He writes in a letter—"I used to think
a fall from a horse dangerous, but much experience has convinced me to the
contrary. I have had six falls in two years, and just behaved like the three
per cents. when they fall. I got up again, and am not a bit the worse for it
any more than the stock in question." In speaking of this he says, "I left off
riding for the good of my parish and the peace of my family; for, somehow
or other, my horse and I had a habit of parting company. On one occasion I
found myself suddenly prostrate in the streets of York, much to the delight
of the Dissenters. Another time my horse Calamity flung me over his head
into a neighbouring parish, as if I had been a shuttlecock, and I felt grateful
it was not into a neighbouring planet; but as no harm came of it, I might
have persevered perhaps, if, on a certain day, a Quaker tailor from a
neighbouring village to which I had said I was going to ride, had not taken
it into his head to call, soon after my departure, and request to see Mrs
Sydney. She instantly, conceiving I was thrown, if not killed, rushed down
to the man, exclaiming, 'Where is he?—where is your master?—is he hurt?'
The astonished and quaking snip stood silent from surprise. Still more
agitated by his silence, she exclaimed, 'Is he hurt? I insist upon knowing the
worst!'—'Why, please, ma'am, it is only thy little bill, a very small account,
I wanted thee to settle,' replied he, in much surprise.
"After this, you may suppose, I sold my horse; however, it is some comfort
to know that my friend, Sir George, is one fall ahead of me, and is certainly
a worse rider. It is a great proof, too, of the liberality of this county, where
everybody can ride as soon as they are born, that they tolerate me at all.
"The horse 'Calamity,' whose name has been thus introduced, was the first-
born of several young horses bred on the farm, who turned out very fine
creatures, and gained him great glory, even amongst the knowing farmers of
Yorkshire; but this first production was certainly not encouraging. To his
dismay a huge, lank, large-boned foal appeared, of chestnut colour, and
with four white legs. It grew apace, but its bones became more and more
conspicuous; its appetite was unbounded—grass, hay, corn, beans, food
he got from Lord Chancellor Erskine in 1806, was in the habit of riding a
good deal. His daughter says that, "either from the badness of his horses, or
the badness of his riding, or perhaps from both (in spite of his various
ingenious contrivances to keep himself in the saddle), he had several falls,
and kept us in continual anxiety."[232] He writes in a letter—"I used to think
a fall from a horse dangerous, but much experience has convinced me to the
contrary. I have had six falls in two years, and just behaved like the three
per cents. when they fall. I got up again, and am not a bit the worse for it
any more than the stock in question." In speaking of this he says, "I left off
riding for the good of my parish and the peace of my family; for, somehow
or other, my horse and I had a habit of parting company. On one occasion I
found myself suddenly prostrate in the streets of York, much to the delight
of the Dissenters. Another time my horse Calamity flung me over his head
into a neighbouring parish, as if I had been a shuttlecock, and I felt grateful
it was not into a neighbouring planet; but as no harm came of it, I might
have persevered perhaps, if, on a certain day, a Quaker tailor from a
neighbouring village to which I had said I was going to ride, had not taken
it into his head to call, soon after my departure, and request to see Mrs
Sydney. She instantly, conceiving I was thrown, if not killed, rushed down
to the man, exclaiming, 'Where is he?—where is your master?—is he hurt?'
The astonished and quaking snip stood silent from surprise. Still more
agitated by his silence, she exclaimed, 'Is he hurt? I insist upon knowing the
worst!'—'Why, please, ma'am, it is only thy little bill, a very small account,
I wanted thee to settle,' replied he, in much surprise.
"After this, you may suppose, I sold my horse; however, it is some comfort
to know that my friend, Sir George, is one fall ahead of me, and is certainly
a worse rider. It is a great proof, too, of the liberality of this county, where
everybody can ride as soon as they are born, that they tolerate me at all.
"The horse 'Calamity,' whose name has been thus introduced, was the first-
born of several young horses bred on the farm, who turned out very fine
creatures, and gained him great glory, even amongst the knowing farmers of
Yorkshire; but this first production was certainly not encouraging. To his
dismay a huge, lank, large-boned foal appeared, of chestnut colour, and
with four white legs. It grew apace, but its bones became more and more
conspicuous; its appetite was unbounded—grass, hay, corn, beans, food
Page 228
moist and dry, were all supplied in vain, and vanished down his throat with
incredible rapidity. He stood, a large living skeleton, with famine written in
his face, and my father christened him 'Calamity.' As Calamity grew to
maturity, he was found to be as sluggish in disposition as his master was
impetuous; so my father was driven to invent his patent Tantalus, which
consisted of a small sieve of corn, suspended on a semicircular bar of iron,
from the ends of the shafts, just beyond the horse's nose. The corn, rattling
as the vehicle proceeded, stimulated Calamity to unwonted exertions; and
under the hope of overtaking this imaginary feed, he did more work than all
the previous provender which had been poured down his throat had been
able to obtain from him."
He was very fond of his young horses, and they all came running to meet
him when he entered the field. He began their education from their birth; he
taught them to wear a girth, a bridle, a saddle; to meet flags, music; to bear
the firing of a pistol at their heads from their earliest years; and he
maintained that no horses were so well broken as his! At p. 388 she records,
"At ten we always went down-stairs to prayers in the library. Immediately
after, if we were alone, appeared the 'farmer' at the door, lantern in hand.
'David, bring me my coat and stick,' and off he set with him, summer and
winter, to visit his horses, and see that they were all well fed, and
comfortable in their regions for the night. He kept up this custom all his
life!"
Sydney Smith, when at Foston, used to exercise his skill in medicine on the
poor, and often did much good; his daughter gives some instances of his
practice as a farrier.
"On one occasion, wishing to administer a ball to Peter the Cruel,[233] the
groom, by mistake, gave him two boxes of opium pills in his bran mash,
which Peter composedly munched, boxes and all. My father, in dismay,
when he heard what had happened, went to look, as he thought, for the last
time on his beloved Peter; but soon found, to his great relief, that neither
boxes nor pills had produced any visible effects on him. Another time he
found all his pigs intoxicated; and, as he declared, 'grunting "God save the
incredible rapidity. He stood, a large living skeleton, with famine written in
his face, and my father christened him 'Calamity.' As Calamity grew to
maturity, he was found to be as sluggish in disposition as his master was
impetuous; so my father was driven to invent his patent Tantalus, which
consisted of a small sieve of corn, suspended on a semicircular bar of iron,
from the ends of the shafts, just beyond the horse's nose. The corn, rattling
as the vehicle proceeded, stimulated Calamity to unwonted exertions; and
under the hope of overtaking this imaginary feed, he did more work than all
the previous provender which had been poured down his throat had been
able to obtain from him."
He was very fond of his young horses, and they all came running to meet
him when he entered the field. He began their education from their birth; he
taught them to wear a girth, a bridle, a saddle; to meet flags, music; to bear
the firing of a pistol at their heads from their earliest years; and he
maintained that no horses were so well broken as his! At p. 388 she records,
"At ten we always went down-stairs to prayers in the library. Immediately
after, if we were alone, appeared the 'farmer' at the door, lantern in hand.
'David, bring me my coat and stick,' and off he set with him, summer and
winter, to visit his horses, and see that they were all well fed, and
comfortable in their regions for the night. He kept up this custom all his
life!"
Sydney Smith, when at Foston, used to exercise his skill in medicine on the
poor, and often did much good; his daughter gives some instances of his
practice as a farrier.
"On one occasion, wishing to administer a ball to Peter the Cruel,[233] the
groom, by mistake, gave him two boxes of opium pills in his bran mash,
which Peter composedly munched, boxes and all. My father, in dismay,
when he heard what had happened, went to look, as he thought, for the last
time on his beloved Peter; but soon found, to his great relief, that neither
boxes nor pills had produced any visible effects on him. Another time he
found all his pigs intoxicated; and, as he declared, 'grunting "God save the
Page 229
King" about the stye,' from having eaten some fermented grains which he
had ordered for them. Once he administered castor-oil to the red cow, in
quantities sufficient to have killed a regiment of Christians; but the red cow
laughed alike at his skill and his oil, and went on her way rejoicing."[234]
Sydney Smith tells a story, or made one, of a clergyman who was rather
absent. "I heard of a clergyman who went jogging along the road till he
came to a turnpike. 'What is to pay?'—'Pay, sir, for what?' asked the
turnpike man.—'Why, for my horse, to be sure.'—'Your horse, sir? what
horse? here is no horse, sir.'—'No horse? God bless me!' said he, suddenly,
looking down between his legs, 'I thought I was on horseback.'"[235]
Judge Story and the Names he gave his Horses.
The son and biographer of the eminent American judge, Joseph Story,
relates of him[236]—"To dumb creatures he was kind and considerate, and
indignant at any ill usage of them. His sportive nature showed itself in the
nicknames which, in parody of the American fondness of titles, he gave to
his horses and dogs, as, 'The Right Honourable Mr Mouse,' or 'Colonel
Roy.'"
Wordsworth on Cruelty to Horses in Ireland.
The Rev. Cæsar Otway,[237] in a lecture full of interesting anecdotes,
records:—"I remember an observation made to me by one of the most
gifted of the human race—one of the stars of this generation—the poet of
nature and of feeling—the good and the great Mr Wordsworth. Having the
honour of a conversation with him, after he had made a tour through
Ireland, I, in the course of it, asked what was the thing that most struck his
observation here, as making us differ from the English; and he, without
hesitation, said it was the ill treatment of our horses; that his soul was often,
too often, sick within him at the way in which he saw these creatures of
God abused."
had ordered for them. Once he administered castor-oil to the red cow, in
quantities sufficient to have killed a regiment of Christians; but the red cow
laughed alike at his skill and his oil, and went on her way rejoicing."[234]
Sydney Smith tells a story, or made one, of a clergyman who was rather
absent. "I heard of a clergyman who went jogging along the road till he
came to a turnpike. 'What is to pay?'—'Pay, sir, for what?' asked the
turnpike man.—'Why, for my horse, to be sure.'—'Your horse, sir? what
horse? here is no horse, sir.'—'No horse? God bless me!' said he, suddenly,
looking down between his legs, 'I thought I was on horseback.'"[235]
Judge Story and the Names he gave his Horses.
The son and biographer of the eminent American judge, Joseph Story,
relates of him[236]—"To dumb creatures he was kind and considerate, and
indignant at any ill usage of them. His sportive nature showed itself in the
nicknames which, in parody of the American fondness of titles, he gave to
his horses and dogs, as, 'The Right Honourable Mr Mouse,' or 'Colonel
Roy.'"
Wordsworth on Cruelty to Horses in Ireland.
The Rev. Cæsar Otway,[237] in a lecture full of interesting anecdotes,
records:—"I remember an observation made to me by one of the most
gifted of the human race—one of the stars of this generation—the poet of
nature and of feeling—the good and the great Mr Wordsworth. Having the
honour of a conversation with him, after he had made a tour through
Ireland, I, in the course of it, asked what was the thing that most struck his
observation here, as making us differ from the English; and he, without
hesitation, said it was the ill treatment of our horses; that his soul was often,
too often, sick within him at the way in which he saw these creatures of
God abused."
Page 230
Use of Tail.—Short-Tailed and Long-Tailed Horses.
In an Irish paper was an advertisement for horses to stand at livery on the
following terms:—"Long-tailed horses at 3s. 6d. per week; short-tailed
horses at 3s. per week." On inquiry into the cause of the difference, it was
answered, that the horses with long tails could brush the flies off their backs
while eating, whereas the short-tailed horses were obliged to take their
heads from the manger, and so ate less.[238]
In an Irish paper was an advertisement for horses to stand at livery on the
following terms:—"Long-tailed horses at 3s. 6d. per week; short-tailed
horses at 3s. per week." On inquiry into the cause of the difference, it was
answered, that the horses with long tails could brush the flies off their backs
while eating, whereas the short-tailed horses were obliged to take their
heads from the manger, and so ate less.[238]
Page 231
ASS AND ZEBRA.
It is strange that one of the most sagacious of animals should have supplied
us with a by-word for "a fool." Coleridge was conscious of this when, in
writing his address to a young ass's foal,[239] he exclaimed—
"I hail thee, brother, spite of the fool's scorn."
How well has he expressed his love for "the languid patience" of its face.
In warmer climes the ass attains a size and condition not seen here, though
when cared for in this rougher climate, the donkey assumes somewhat of
the size and elegance he has in the East. But who can bear his voice? Surely
Coleridge was very fanciful when, in any condition of asshood, he could
write—
"Yea, and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant, harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast."
The wild ass, as it roams over the plains of Asia, or is seen in the Zoological
gardens along with the gracefully-shaped and prettily-striped zebra, must be
admired by every one.
Collins and the Old Donkey of Odell, Cowper's Messenger at Olney.
In July 1823, William Collins, R.A., visited Turvey, in Bedfordshire. His
son remarks—"Besides the attractions presented to the pencil by the natural
beauties of this neighbourhood, its vicinity to Olney, the favourite residence
of the poet Cowper, gave it, to all lovers of poetry, a local and peculiar
charm. Conspicuous among its inhabitants at the time when my father
visited it was 'old Odell,' frequently mentioned by Cowper as the favourite
messenger who carried his letters and parcels. The extreme picturesqueness
and genuine rustic dignity of the old man's appearance made him an
admirable subject for pictorial study. Portraits of him, in water-colours and
It is strange that one of the most sagacious of animals should have supplied
us with a by-word for "a fool." Coleridge was conscious of this when, in
writing his address to a young ass's foal,[239] he exclaimed—
"I hail thee, brother, spite of the fool's scorn."
How well has he expressed his love for "the languid patience" of its face.
In warmer climes the ass attains a size and condition not seen here, though
when cared for in this rougher climate, the donkey assumes somewhat of
the size and elegance he has in the East. But who can bear his voice? Surely
Coleridge was very fanciful when, in any condition of asshood, he could
write—
"Yea, and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant, harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast."
The wild ass, as it roams over the plains of Asia, or is seen in the Zoological
gardens along with the gracefully-shaped and prettily-striped zebra, must be
admired by every one.
Collins and the Old Donkey of Odell, Cowper's Messenger at Olney.
In July 1823, William Collins, R.A., visited Turvey, in Bedfordshire. His
son remarks—"Besides the attractions presented to the pencil by the natural
beauties of this neighbourhood, its vicinity to Olney, the favourite residence
of the poet Cowper, gave it, to all lovers of poetry, a local and peculiar
charm. Conspicuous among its inhabitants at the time when my father
visited it was 'old Odell,' frequently mentioned by Cowper as the favourite
messenger who carried his letters and parcels. The extreme picturesqueness
and genuine rustic dignity of the old man's appearance made him an
admirable subject for pictorial study. Portraits of him, in water-colours and
Page 232
oils, were accordingly made by my father, who introduced him into three of
his pictures. The donkey on which he had for years ridden to and fro with
letters, was as carefully depicted by the painter as his rider. On visiting 'old
Odell' a year or two afterwards, Mr Collins observed a strange-looking
object hanging against his kitchen wall, and inquired what it was. 'Oh, sir,'
replied the old man, sorrowfully, 'that is the skin of my poor donkey. He
died of old age, and I did not like to part with him altogether, so I had his
skin dried, and hung up there.' Tears came into his eyes as he spoke of the
old companion of all his village pilgrimages. The incident might have
formed a continuation of Sterne's exquisite episode in the 'Sentimental
Journey.'"[240]
In his picture of "The Cherry-Seller," painted for Mr Higgins of Turvey
House, old Odell and his donkey are chief figures.
Gainsborough kept an Ass.
The Rev. William Gilpin, in his "Forest Scenery," refers to the picturesque
beauty of the ass in a landscape Berghem often introduced it; "and a late
excellent landscape-painter (Mr Gainsborough), I have heard, generally
kept this animal by him, that he might have it always at hand to introduce in
various attitudes into his pictures. I have heard also that a plaster cast of an
ass, modelled by him, is sold in the shops in London."[241]
Irishman on the Ramsgate Donkeys.
In former times, when excise officers were not so sharp, there was a good
deal of smuggling carried on at Ramsgate. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder[242]
tells an anecdote of an Irishman there, who being asked to name the hardest
wrought creature in existence, replied, "Och! a Ramsgate donkey, to be
sure; for, faith, afthur carrying angels all day, be the powers he is forced to
carry speerits all night."
Ass's Foal.
his pictures. The donkey on which he had for years ridden to and fro with
letters, was as carefully depicted by the painter as his rider. On visiting 'old
Odell' a year or two afterwards, Mr Collins observed a strange-looking
object hanging against his kitchen wall, and inquired what it was. 'Oh, sir,'
replied the old man, sorrowfully, 'that is the skin of my poor donkey. He
died of old age, and I did not like to part with him altogether, so I had his
skin dried, and hung up there.' Tears came into his eyes as he spoke of the
old companion of all his village pilgrimages. The incident might have
formed a continuation of Sterne's exquisite episode in the 'Sentimental
Journey.'"[240]
In his picture of "The Cherry-Seller," painted for Mr Higgins of Turvey
House, old Odell and his donkey are chief figures.
Gainsborough kept an Ass.
The Rev. William Gilpin, in his "Forest Scenery," refers to the picturesque
beauty of the ass in a landscape Berghem often introduced it; "and a late
excellent landscape-painter (Mr Gainsborough), I have heard, generally
kept this animal by him, that he might have it always at hand to introduce in
various attitudes into his pictures. I have heard also that a plaster cast of an
ass, modelled by him, is sold in the shops in London."[241]
Irishman on the Ramsgate Donkeys.
In former times, when excise officers were not so sharp, there was a good
deal of smuggling carried on at Ramsgate. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder[242]
tells an anecdote of an Irishman there, who being asked to name the hardest
wrought creature in existence, replied, "Och! a Ramsgate donkey, to be
sure; for, faith, afthur carrying angels all day, be the powers he is forced to
carry speerits all night."
Ass's Foal.
Page 233
Douglas Jerrold and a company of literary friends were out in the country.
In the course of their walk they stopped to notice the gambols of an ass's
foal. A very sentimental poet present vowed that he should like to send the
little thing as a present to his mother. "Do," replied Jerrold, "and tie a piece
of paper round its neck, bearing this motto, 'When this you see, remember
me.'"[243]
Ass.
A judge, joking a young barrister, said—"If you and I were turned into a
horse and an ass, which would you prefer to be?"—"The ass, to be sure,"
replied the barrister. "I've heard of an ass being made a judge, but a horse
never."[244]
Ammonianus, the grammarian, had an ass which, as it is said, when he
attended the lectures upon poetry, often neglected his food when laid before
him, though at the same time he was hungry, so much was the ass taken
with the love of poetry.[245]
Warren Hastings and the Refractory Donkey.
The fondness of the first Governor-General of India for horse exercise, and
indeed for the horse itself, was quite oriental, as his biographer relates.[246]
He was a fine rider, and piqued himself on his abilities in this way.
"Nothing pleased him," continues Mr Gleig, "more than to undertake some
animal which nobody else could control, and to reduce it, as he invariably
did, to a state of perfect docility. The following anecdote, which I have from
my friend Mr Impey, himself an actor in the little drama, may suffice to
show the extent to which this passion was carried. It happened once upon a
time, when Mr Impey was, with some other boys, on a visit at Daylesford,
that Mr Hastings, returning from a ride, saw his young friends striving in
vain to manage an ass which they had found grazing in the paddock, and
which one after another they chose to mount. The ass, it appears, had no
objection to receive the candidates for equestrian renown successively on
his back, but budge a foot he would not; and there being neither saddle nor
bridle, wherewith to restrain his natural movements, he never failed, so
In the course of their walk they stopped to notice the gambols of an ass's
foal. A very sentimental poet present vowed that he should like to send the
little thing as a present to his mother. "Do," replied Jerrold, "and tie a piece
of paper round its neck, bearing this motto, 'When this you see, remember
me.'"[243]
Ass.
A judge, joking a young barrister, said—"If you and I were turned into a
horse and an ass, which would you prefer to be?"—"The ass, to be sure,"
replied the barrister. "I've heard of an ass being made a judge, but a horse
never."[244]
Ammonianus, the grammarian, had an ass which, as it is said, when he
attended the lectures upon poetry, often neglected his food when laid before
him, though at the same time he was hungry, so much was the ass taken
with the love of poetry.[245]
Warren Hastings and the Refractory Donkey.
The fondness of the first Governor-General of India for horse exercise, and
indeed for the horse itself, was quite oriental, as his biographer relates.[246]
He was a fine rider, and piqued himself on his abilities in this way.
"Nothing pleased him," continues Mr Gleig, "more than to undertake some
animal which nobody else could control, and to reduce it, as he invariably
did, to a state of perfect docility. The following anecdote, which I have from
my friend Mr Impey, himself an actor in the little drama, may suffice to
show the extent to which this passion was carried. It happened once upon a
time, when Mr Impey was, with some other boys, on a visit at Daylesford,
that Mr Hastings, returning from a ride, saw his young friends striving in
vain to manage an ass which they had found grazing in the paddock, and
which one after another they chose to mount. The ass, it appears, had no
objection to receive the candidates for equestrian renown successively on
his back, but budge a foot he would not; and there being neither saddle nor
bridle, wherewith to restrain his natural movements, he never failed, so
Page 234
soon as a difference of opinion arose, to get the better of his rider. Each in
his turn, the boys were repeatedly thrown, till at last Mr Hastings, who
watched the proceedings with great interest, approached.
"Why, boys," said he, "how is it that none of you can ride?"
"Not ride!" cried the little aspirants; "we could ride well enough, if we had a
saddle and a bridle; but he's such an obstinate brute, that we don't think
even you, sir, could sit him bare-backed."
"Let's try," exclaimed the Governor-General.
Whereupon he dismounted, and gave his horse to one of the children to
hold, and mounted the donkey. The beast began to kick up his heels, and
lower his head as heretofore; but this time the trick would not answer. The
Governor-General sat firm, and finally prevailed, whether by fair means or
foul, I am not instructed, in getting the quadruped to move wheresoever he
chose. He himself laughed heartily as he resigned the conquered thistle-
eater to his first friends; and the story when told, as told it was, with
consummate humour, at the dinner-table, afforded great amusement to a
large circle of guests.
Northcote, the Royal Academician, an Angel at an Ass.
Fuseli, the artist, was a most outspoken man. His biographer[247] says that
he never concealed his sentiments with regard to men, even to their faces.
"Every one knows," writes Mr Knowles, "who is acquainted with art, the
powers which Northcote displays when he paints animals of the brute
creation. When his picture of 'Balaam and the Ass' was exhibited at the
Macklin Gallery, Northcote asked Fuseli's opinion of its merits, who
instantly said, 'My friend, you are an angel at an ass, but an ass at an
angel.'"
Sydney Smith's accomplished Donkey, with Francis Jeffrey on his
Back.
Lady Holland[248] gives the following picture of her father's pet donkey:—
his turn, the boys were repeatedly thrown, till at last Mr Hastings, who
watched the proceedings with great interest, approached.
"Why, boys," said he, "how is it that none of you can ride?"
"Not ride!" cried the little aspirants; "we could ride well enough, if we had a
saddle and a bridle; but he's such an obstinate brute, that we don't think
even you, sir, could sit him bare-backed."
"Let's try," exclaimed the Governor-General.
Whereupon he dismounted, and gave his horse to one of the children to
hold, and mounted the donkey. The beast began to kick up his heels, and
lower his head as heretofore; but this time the trick would not answer. The
Governor-General sat firm, and finally prevailed, whether by fair means or
foul, I am not instructed, in getting the quadruped to move wheresoever he
chose. He himself laughed heartily as he resigned the conquered thistle-
eater to his first friends; and the story when told, as told it was, with
consummate humour, at the dinner-table, afforded great amusement to a
large circle of guests.
Northcote, the Royal Academician, an Angel at an Ass.
Fuseli, the artist, was a most outspoken man. His biographer[247] says that
he never concealed his sentiments with regard to men, even to their faces.
"Every one knows," writes Mr Knowles, "who is acquainted with art, the
powers which Northcote displays when he paints animals of the brute
creation. When his picture of 'Balaam and the Ass' was exhibited at the
Macklin Gallery, Northcote asked Fuseli's opinion of its merits, who
instantly said, 'My friend, you are an angel at an ass, but an ass at an
angel.'"
Sydney Smith's accomplished Donkey, with Francis Jeffrey on his
Back.
Lady Holland[248] gives the following picture of her father's pet donkey:—
Page 235
"Amongst our rural delights at Heslington was the possession of a young
donkey which had been given up to our tender mercies from the time of its
birth, and in whose education we employed a large portion of our spare
time; and a most accomplished donkey it became under our tuition. It would
walk up-stairs, pick pockets, follow us in our walks like a huge
Newfoundland dog, and at the most distant sight of us in the field, with ears
down and tail erect, it set off in full bray to meet us. These demonstrations
on Bitty's part were met with not less affection on ours, and Bitty was
almost considered a member of the family.
"One day, when my elder brother and myself were training our beloved
Bitty with a pocket-handkerchief for a bridle, and his head crowned with
flowers, to run round our garden, who should arrive in the midst of our
sport but Mr Jeffrey. Finding my father out, he, with his usual kindness
towards young people, immediately joined in our sport, and to our infinite
delight, mounted our donkey. He was proceeding in triumph, amidst our
shouts of laughter, when my father and mother, in company, I believe, with
Mr Horner and Mr Murray, returned from their walk, and beheld this scene
from the garden-door. Though years and years have passed away since, I
still remember the joy-inspiring laughter that burst from my father at this
unexpected sight, as, advancing towards his old friend, with a face beaming
with delight, and with extended hands, he broke forth in the following
impromptu:
'Witty as Horatius Flaccus,
As great a Jacobin as Gracchus;
Short, though not as fat as Bacchus,
Riding on a little jackass.'
"These lines were afterwards repeated by some one to Mr —— at Holland
House, just before he was introduced for the first time to Mr Jeffrey, and
they caught his fancy to such a degree that he could not get them out of his
head, but kept repeating them in a low voice all the time Mr Jeffrey was
conversing with him.
"I must end Bitty's history, as he has been introduced, by saying that he
followed us to Foston; and after serving us faithfully for thirteen years, on
our leaving Yorkshire, was permitted by our kind friend, Lord Carlisle, to
donkey which had been given up to our tender mercies from the time of its
birth, and in whose education we employed a large portion of our spare
time; and a most accomplished donkey it became under our tuition. It would
walk up-stairs, pick pockets, follow us in our walks like a huge
Newfoundland dog, and at the most distant sight of us in the field, with ears
down and tail erect, it set off in full bray to meet us. These demonstrations
on Bitty's part were met with not less affection on ours, and Bitty was
almost considered a member of the family.
"One day, when my elder brother and myself were training our beloved
Bitty with a pocket-handkerchief for a bridle, and his head crowned with
flowers, to run round our garden, who should arrive in the midst of our
sport but Mr Jeffrey. Finding my father out, he, with his usual kindness
towards young people, immediately joined in our sport, and to our infinite
delight, mounted our donkey. He was proceeding in triumph, amidst our
shouts of laughter, when my father and mother, in company, I believe, with
Mr Horner and Mr Murray, returned from their walk, and beheld this scene
from the garden-door. Though years and years have passed away since, I
still remember the joy-inspiring laughter that burst from my father at this
unexpected sight, as, advancing towards his old friend, with a face beaming
with delight, and with extended hands, he broke forth in the following
impromptu:
'Witty as Horatius Flaccus,
As great a Jacobin as Gracchus;
Short, though not as fat as Bacchus,
Riding on a little jackass.'
"These lines were afterwards repeated by some one to Mr —— at Holland
House, just before he was introduced for the first time to Mr Jeffrey, and
they caught his fancy to such a degree that he could not get them out of his
head, but kept repeating them in a low voice all the time Mr Jeffrey was
conversing with him.
"I must end Bitty's history, as he has been introduced, by saying that he
followed us to Foston; and after serving us faithfully for thirteen years, on
our leaving Yorkshire, was permitted by our kind friend, Lord Carlisle, to
Page 236
spend the rest of his days in idleness and plenty, in his beautiful park, with
an unbounded command of thistles."
Sydney Smith on the Sagacity of the Ass; a Lady scarcely so wise as
one.
The Rev. Sydney Smith[249] writes to Colonel Fox in October 1836:—
"My Dear Charles,—If you have ever paid any attention to the habits of
animals, you will know that donkeys are remarkably cunning in opening
gates. The way to stop them is to have two latches instead of one. A human
being has two hands, and lifts up both latches at once; a donkey has only
one nose, and latch a drops, as he quits it to lift up latch b. Bobus and I had
the grand luck to see little Aunty engaged intensely with this problem. She
was taking a walk, and was arrested by a gate with this formidable
difficulty: the donkeys were looking on to await the issue. Aunty lifted up
the first latch with the most perfect success, but found herself opposed by a
second; flushed with victory, she quitted the first latch, and rushed at the
second; her success was equal, till in the meantime the first dropped. She
tried this two or three times, and, to her utter astonishment, with the same
results; the donkeys brayed, and Aunty was walking away in great
dejection, till Bobus and I recalled her with loud laughter, showed her that
she had two hands, and roused her to vindicate her superiority over the
donkeys. I mention this to you to request that you will make no allusion to
this animal, as she is remarkably touchy on this subject, and also that you
will not mention it to Lady Mary!"
Lady Holland relates a practical joke of her father's, which the witty canon
carried out at his rectory of Combe Florey. "Opposite was a beautiful bank,
with a hanging wood of fine old beech and oak, on the summit of which
presented themselves, to our astonished eyes, two donkeys with deers'
antlers fastened on their heads, which ever and anon they shook, much
wondering at their horned honours; whilst the attendant donkey boy, in
Sunday garb, stood grinning and blushing at their side. 'There, Lady ——!
an unbounded command of thistles."
Sydney Smith on the Sagacity of the Ass; a Lady scarcely so wise as
one.
The Rev. Sydney Smith[249] writes to Colonel Fox in October 1836:—
"My Dear Charles,—If you have ever paid any attention to the habits of
animals, you will know that donkeys are remarkably cunning in opening
gates. The way to stop them is to have two latches instead of one. A human
being has two hands, and lifts up both latches at once; a donkey has only
one nose, and latch a drops, as he quits it to lift up latch b. Bobus and I had
the grand luck to see little Aunty engaged intensely with this problem. She
was taking a walk, and was arrested by a gate with this formidable
difficulty: the donkeys were looking on to await the issue. Aunty lifted up
the first latch with the most perfect success, but found herself opposed by a
second; flushed with victory, she quitted the first latch, and rushed at the
second; her success was equal, till in the meantime the first dropped. She
tried this two or three times, and, to her utter astonishment, with the same
results; the donkeys brayed, and Aunty was walking away in great
dejection, till Bobus and I recalled her with loud laughter, showed her that
she had two hands, and roused her to vindicate her superiority over the
donkeys. I mention this to you to request that you will make no allusion to
this animal, as she is remarkably touchy on this subject, and also that you
will not mention it to Lady Mary!"
Lady Holland relates a practical joke of her father's, which the witty canon
carried out at his rectory of Combe Florey. "Opposite was a beautiful bank,
with a hanging wood of fine old beech and oak, on the summit of which
presented themselves, to our astonished eyes, two donkeys with deers'
antlers fastened on their heads, which ever and anon they shook, much
wondering at their horned honours; whilst the attendant donkey boy, in
Sunday garb, stood grinning and blushing at their side. 'There, Lady ——!
Page 237
you said the only thing this place wanted to make it perfect was deer; what
do you say now? I have, you see, ordered my game gamekeeper to drive my
deer into the most picturesque point of view. Excuse their long ears, a little
peculiarity belonging to parsonic deer. Their voices, too, are singular; but
we do our best for you, and you are too true a friend of the Church to
mention our defects.' All this, of course, amidst shouts of laughter, whilst
his own merry laugh might be heard above us all, ringing through the
valley, and making the very echoes laugh in chorus."
Asses' Duty Free!
During the debate on Sir Robert Peel's tariff, the admission of asses' duty
free caused much merriment. Lord T., who had just read "Vestiges of the
Natural History of Creation," remarked that the House had, he supposed,
passed the donkey clause out of respect to its ancestors.—"It is a wise
measure," said a popular novelist, "especially as it affects the importation of
food; for, should a scarcity come, we should otherwise have to fall back on
the food of our forefathers."—"And, pray, what is that?" asked an
archæologist.—"Thistles," replied Lord T.[250]
Thackeray and the Egyptian Donkey.
When the English author landed at Alexandria, there were many scenes and
sounds to dispel all romantic notions; among these "a yelling chorus of
donkey boys shrieking, 'Ride, sir!—donkey, sir!—I say, sir!' in excellent
English. The placid sphinxes, brooding o'er the Nile, disappeared with that
wild shriek of the donkey boys. You might be as well impressed with
Wapping as with your first step on Egyptian soil.
"The riding of a donkey is, after all, not a dignified occupation. A man
resists the offer first, somehow as an indignity. How is that poor little, red-
saddled, long-eared creature to carry you? Is there to be one for you and
another for your legs? Natives and Europeans, of all sizes, passed by, it is
true, mounted upon the same contrivance. I waited until I got into a very
private spot, where nobody could see me, and then ascended—why not say
descended at once?—on the poor little animal. Instead of being crushed at
once, as perhaps the writer expected, it darted forward, quite briskly and
do you say now? I have, you see, ordered my game gamekeeper to drive my
deer into the most picturesque point of view. Excuse their long ears, a little
peculiarity belonging to parsonic deer. Their voices, too, are singular; but
we do our best for you, and you are too true a friend of the Church to
mention our defects.' All this, of course, amidst shouts of laughter, whilst
his own merry laugh might be heard above us all, ringing through the
valley, and making the very echoes laugh in chorus."
Asses' Duty Free!
During the debate on Sir Robert Peel's tariff, the admission of asses' duty
free caused much merriment. Lord T., who had just read "Vestiges of the
Natural History of Creation," remarked that the House had, he supposed,
passed the donkey clause out of respect to its ancestors.—"It is a wise
measure," said a popular novelist, "especially as it affects the importation of
food; for, should a scarcity come, we should otherwise have to fall back on
the food of our forefathers."—"And, pray, what is that?" asked an
archæologist.—"Thistles," replied Lord T.[250]
Thackeray and the Egyptian Donkey.
When the English author landed at Alexandria, there were many scenes and
sounds to dispel all romantic notions; among these "a yelling chorus of
donkey boys shrieking, 'Ride, sir!—donkey, sir!—I say, sir!' in excellent
English. The placid sphinxes, brooding o'er the Nile, disappeared with that
wild shriek of the donkey boys. You might be as well impressed with
Wapping as with your first step on Egyptian soil.
"The riding of a donkey is, after all, not a dignified occupation. A man
resists the offer first, somehow as an indignity. How is that poor little, red-
saddled, long-eared creature to carry you? Is there to be one for you and
another for your legs? Natives and Europeans, of all sizes, passed by, it is
true, mounted upon the same contrivance. I waited until I got into a very
private spot, where nobody could see me, and then ascended—why not say
descended at once?—on the poor little animal. Instead of being crushed at
once, as perhaps the writer expected, it darted forward, quite briskly and
Page 238
cheerfully, at six or seven miles an hour; requiring no spur or admonitive to
haste, except the shrieking of the little Egyptian gamin, who ran along by
asinus's side."[251]
Best to let Mules have their own Way.
Dr John Moore, in crossing the Alps, found they had nothing but the
sagacity of their mules to trust to. "For my own part," he says, "I was very
soon convinced that it was much safer on all dubious occasions to depend
on theirs than on my own. For as often as I was presented with a choice of
difficulties, and the mule and I were of different opinions, if, becoming
more obstinate than he, I insisted on his taking my track, I never failed to
repent it, and often was obliged to return to the place where the controversy
had begun, and follow the path to which he had pointed at first.
"It is entertaining to observe the prudence of these animals in making their
way down such dangerous rocks. They sometimes put their heads over the
edge of the precipice, and examine with anxious circumspection every
possible way by which they can descend, and at length are sure to fix on
that which, upon the whole, is the best. Having observed this in several
instances, I laid the bridle on the neck of my mule, and allowed him to take
his own way, without presuming to control him in the smallest degree. This
is doubtless the best method, and what I recommend to all my friends in
their journey through life, when they have mules for their companions."[252]
Zebra.—"Un âne rayée."
a frenchman's "double-entendre."
When, in 1805, Patrick Lattin, an officer of the Irish Brigade, was residing
in Paris, a M. de Montmorency, whose Christian name was Anne, made his
appearance, announcing that he was enabled to return to France, in
consequence of the First Consul having scratched his name on the list of
émigrés. "A present donc," observed Lattin, "mon cher Anne, tu es un Zèbre
—un âne rayée."[253]
haste, except the shrieking of the little Egyptian gamin, who ran along by
asinus's side."[251]
Best to let Mules have their own Way.
Dr John Moore, in crossing the Alps, found they had nothing but the
sagacity of their mules to trust to. "For my own part," he says, "I was very
soon convinced that it was much safer on all dubious occasions to depend
on theirs than on my own. For as often as I was presented with a choice of
difficulties, and the mule and I were of different opinions, if, becoming
more obstinate than he, I insisted on his taking my track, I never failed to
repent it, and often was obliged to return to the place where the controversy
had begun, and follow the path to which he had pointed at first.
"It is entertaining to observe the prudence of these animals in making their
way down such dangerous rocks. They sometimes put their heads over the
edge of the precipice, and examine with anxious circumspection every
possible way by which they can descend, and at length are sure to fix on
that which, upon the whole, is the best. Having observed this in several
instances, I laid the bridle on the neck of my mule, and allowed him to take
his own way, without presuming to control him in the smallest degree. This
is doubtless the best method, and what I recommend to all my friends in
their journey through life, when they have mules for their companions."[252]
Zebra.—"Un âne rayée."
a frenchman's "double-entendre."
When, in 1805, Patrick Lattin, an officer of the Irish Brigade, was residing
in Paris, a M. de Montmorency, whose Christian name was Anne, made his
appearance, announcing that he was enabled to return to France, in
consequence of the First Consul having scratched his name on the list of
émigrés. "A present donc," observed Lattin, "mon cher Anne, tu es un Zèbre
—un âne rayée."[253]
Page 239
Page 240
CAMEL.
Truly the Ship of the Desert, and one that by Lewis and Henry Warren has
afforded the subject of many a pleasing picture. The camel has a most
patriarchal look about him.
Captain William Peel, R.N. Remarks on Camels.
Captain William Peel, in his "Ride through the Nubian Desert" (p. 89),
writes—"We met once at a hollow, where some water still remained from
the rains, 2000 camels, all together admirably organised into troops, and
attended by only a few Arabs. On another occasion, we passed some camels
grazing at such a distance from the Nile, that I asked the Arab attending
where they went to drink? He said, he marches them all down together to
the Nile, and they drink every eleventh day. It is now the cool season, and
the heat is tempered by fresh northerly breezes. The Arab, of course, brings
water skins for his own supply. All these camels were breeding stock. They
live on thorns and the top shoots of the gum-arabic tree, although it is
armed with the most frightful spikes. But very little comes amiss to the
camel; he will eat dry wood to keep up digestion, if in want of a substitute.
Instinct or experience has taught him to avoid the only two tempting-
looking plants that grow in the desert,—the green eusha bush, which is full
of milk-coloured juice, and a creeper, that grows in the sand where nothing
else will grow, and which has a bitter fruit like a melon. I was surprised to
learn that the leopard does not dare to attack the camel, whose tall and
narrow flanks would seem to be fatally exposed to such a supple enemy.
Nature, however, has given him a means of defence in his iron jaw and long
powerful neck, which are a full equivalent for his want of agility. He can
also strike heavily with his feet, and his roar would intimidate many foes. I
never felt tired of admiring this noble creature, and through the monotony
of the desert would watch for hours his ceaseless tread and unerring path.
Carrying his head low, forward, and surveying everything with his black
brilliant eye, he marches resolutely forward, and quickens his pace at the
slightest cheer of the rider. He is too intelligent and docile for a bridle;
Truly the Ship of the Desert, and one that by Lewis and Henry Warren has
afforded the subject of many a pleasing picture. The camel has a most
patriarchal look about him.
Captain William Peel, R.N. Remarks on Camels.
Captain William Peel, in his "Ride through the Nubian Desert" (p. 89),
writes—"We met once at a hollow, where some water still remained from
the rains, 2000 camels, all together admirably organised into troops, and
attended by only a few Arabs. On another occasion, we passed some camels
grazing at such a distance from the Nile, that I asked the Arab attending
where they went to drink? He said, he marches them all down together to
the Nile, and they drink every eleventh day. It is now the cool season, and
the heat is tempered by fresh northerly breezes. The Arab, of course, brings
water skins for his own supply. All these camels were breeding stock. They
live on thorns and the top shoots of the gum-arabic tree, although it is
armed with the most frightful spikes. But very little comes amiss to the
camel; he will eat dry wood to keep up digestion, if in want of a substitute.
Instinct or experience has taught him to avoid the only two tempting-
looking plants that grow in the desert,—the green eusha bush, which is full
of milk-coloured juice, and a creeper, that grows in the sand where nothing
else will grow, and which has a bitter fruit like a melon. I was surprised to
learn that the leopard does not dare to attack the camel, whose tall and
narrow flanks would seem to be fatally exposed to such a supple enemy.
Nature, however, has given him a means of defence in his iron jaw and long
powerful neck, which are a full equivalent for his want of agility. He can
also strike heavily with his feet, and his roar would intimidate many foes. I
never felt tired of admiring this noble creature, and through the monotony
of the desert would watch for hours his ceaseless tread and unerring path.
Carrying his head low, forward, and surveying everything with his black
brilliant eye, he marches resolutely forward, and quickens his pace at the
slightest cheer of the rider. He is too intelligent and docile for a bridle;
Page 241
besides, he lives on the march, and with a sudden sweep of the neck will
seize, without stopping, the smallest straw. When the day's march is over,
he passes the night in looking for food, with scarcely an hour to repose his
limbs, and less than that for sleep. He closes the eye fitfully, the smallest
noise will awake him. When lying down for rest, every part of the body is
supported; his neck and head lie lightly along the sand, a broad plate of
bone under the breast takes the weight off his deep chest, and his long legs
lay folded under him, supporting his sides like a ship in a cradle."
A Captain in the Royal Navy Measures the Progress of "the Ship of
the Desert."
The dromedary has long and deservedly been called "the Ship of the
Desert." A very gallant captain in the Royal Navy, the late Captain William
Peel, son of the Prime Minister, calculated its rate of motion much after the
manner in which he might have measured the path of his ship. He
writes[254]—"In crossing the Nubian Desert I paid constant attention to the
march of the camels, hoping it may be of some service hereafter in
determining our position. The number of strides in a minute with the same
foot varied very little, only from 37 to 39, and 38 was the average; but the
length of the stride was more uncertain, varying from 6 feet 6 to 7 feet 6. As
we were always urging the camels, who seemed, like ourselves, to know the
necessity of pushing on across that fearful tract, I took 7 feet as the average.
These figures give a speed of 2.62 geographical miles per hour, or exactly
three English miles, which may be considered as the highest speed that
camels lightly loaded can keep up on a journey. In general, it will not be
more than two and a half English miles. My dromedary was one of the
tallest, and the seat of the saddle was 6 feet 6 above the ground."
Lord Metcalfe on a Camel when a Boy.
Charles Metcalfe, "first and last Lord Metcalfe," to whose care were
successively intrusted the three greatest dependencies of the British crown,
India, Jamaica, and Canada, and who died in 1846, was sent to Eton when
eleven years old. His biographer relates,[255] that "it is on record, and on
very sufficient authority, that he was once seen riding on a camel. 'I heard
seize, without stopping, the smallest straw. When the day's march is over,
he passes the night in looking for food, with scarcely an hour to repose his
limbs, and less than that for sleep. He closes the eye fitfully, the smallest
noise will awake him. When lying down for rest, every part of the body is
supported; his neck and head lie lightly along the sand, a broad plate of
bone under the breast takes the weight off his deep chest, and his long legs
lay folded under him, supporting his sides like a ship in a cradle."
A Captain in the Royal Navy Measures the Progress of "the Ship of
the Desert."
The dromedary has long and deservedly been called "the Ship of the
Desert." A very gallant captain in the Royal Navy, the late Captain William
Peel, son of the Prime Minister, calculated its rate of motion much after the
manner in which he might have measured the path of his ship. He
writes[254]—"In crossing the Nubian Desert I paid constant attention to the
march of the camels, hoping it may be of some service hereafter in
determining our position. The number of strides in a minute with the same
foot varied very little, only from 37 to 39, and 38 was the average; but the
length of the stride was more uncertain, varying from 6 feet 6 to 7 feet 6. As
we were always urging the camels, who seemed, like ourselves, to know the
necessity of pushing on across that fearful tract, I took 7 feet as the average.
These figures give a speed of 2.62 geographical miles per hour, or exactly
three English miles, which may be considered as the highest speed that
camels lightly loaded can keep up on a journey. In general, it will not be
more than two and a half English miles. My dromedary was one of the
tallest, and the seat of the saddle was 6 feet 6 above the ground."
Lord Metcalfe on a Camel when a Boy.
Charles Metcalfe, "first and last Lord Metcalfe," to whose care were
successively intrusted the three greatest dependencies of the British crown,
India, Jamaica, and Canada, and who died in 1846, was sent to Eton when
eleven years old. His biographer relates,[255] that "it is on record, and on
very sufficient authority, that he was once seen riding on a camel. 'I heard
Page 242
the boys shouting,' said Dr Goodall, many years afterwards, 'and went out
and saw young Metcalfe riding on a camel; so you see he was always
orientally inclined.'" This anecdote will serve as a comrade to that told by
Mr Foss, in his "Lives of the Justices of England," of Chief-Baron Pollock.
When a lad, one of his schoolmasters, fretted by the boyish energy and
exuberant spirits of his scholar, said petulantly, "You will live to be
hanged." The old gentleman lived to see his pupil Lord Chief-Baron, and,
not a little proud of his great scholar, said, "I always said he would occupy
an elevated position."
and saw young Metcalfe riding on a camel; so you see he was always
orientally inclined.'" This anecdote will serve as a comrade to that told by
Mr Foss, in his "Lives of the Justices of England," of Chief-Baron Pollock.
When a lad, one of his schoolmasters, fretted by the boyish energy and
exuberant spirits of his scholar, said petulantly, "You will live to be
hanged." The old gentleman lived to see his pupil Lord Chief-Baron, and,
not a little proud of his great scholar, said, "I always said he would occupy
an elevated position."
Page 243
STAGS AND GIRAFFE.
The deer family is rather numerous, and found in many different parts of the
world. Reindeers abound in some parts even of Spitzbergen, and with musk
oxen can find their food even under the winter snows of the Parry Islands.
The wapiti and heavy large-headed elk or moose, retreat before the
advancing civilisation of North America. The Indian mountains and plains
have noble races of deer. No species, however, is more celebrated than our
red deer. The giraffe is closely allied to the stag family. The Arabs name it
the seraph, and indeed, that is the origin of its now best-known English
name. Visitors should beware of going too near the male, for we have seen
the dent made by one of the giraffe's bony knobs on a pannel close to its
stall. We have heard of a young lady, who entered the garden one of those
summer days when straw bonnets had great bunches of ripe barley mingled
with artificial poppies as an ornament, and, going too near the lofty
pallisade, found to her confusion and terror that the long lithe tongue of the
giraffe had whisked off her Leghorn, flowers and all, and had begun
leisurely to munch it with somewhat of the same gusto with which it would
have eaten the branch of a graceful mimosa.
Earl of Dalhousie and the ferocious Stag.
Mr Scrope relates an instance of unprovoked ferocity in a red deer at
Taymouth, in which the present Earl of Dalhousie might have been
seriously injured.
"In October 1836, the Hon. Mr and Mrs Fox Maule had left Taymouth with
the intention of proceeding towards Dalguise; and in driving through that
part of the grounds where the red deer were kept, they suddenly at a turn of
the road came upon the lord of the demesne standing in the centre of the
passage, as if prepared to dispute it against all comers. Mr Maule being
aware that it might be dangerous to trifle with him, or to endeavour to drive
him away (for it was the rutting season), cautioned the postilion to go
slowly, and give the animal an opportunity of moving off. This was done,
The deer family is rather numerous, and found in many different parts of the
world. Reindeers abound in some parts even of Spitzbergen, and with musk
oxen can find their food even under the winter snows of the Parry Islands.
The wapiti and heavy large-headed elk or moose, retreat before the
advancing civilisation of North America. The Indian mountains and plains
have noble races of deer. No species, however, is more celebrated than our
red deer. The giraffe is closely allied to the stag family. The Arabs name it
the seraph, and indeed, that is the origin of its now best-known English
name. Visitors should beware of going too near the male, for we have seen
the dent made by one of the giraffe's bony knobs on a pannel close to its
stall. We have heard of a young lady, who entered the garden one of those
summer days when straw bonnets had great bunches of ripe barley mingled
with artificial poppies as an ornament, and, going too near the lofty
pallisade, found to her confusion and terror that the long lithe tongue of the
giraffe had whisked off her Leghorn, flowers and all, and had begun
leisurely to munch it with somewhat of the same gusto with which it would
have eaten the branch of a graceful mimosa.
Earl of Dalhousie and the ferocious Stag.
Mr Scrope relates an instance of unprovoked ferocity in a red deer at
Taymouth, in which the present Earl of Dalhousie might have been
seriously injured.
"In October 1836, the Hon. Mr and Mrs Fox Maule had left Taymouth with
the intention of proceeding towards Dalguise; and in driving through that
part of the grounds where the red deer were kept, they suddenly at a turn of
the road came upon the lord of the demesne standing in the centre of the
passage, as if prepared to dispute it against all comers. Mr Maule being
aware that it might be dangerous to trifle with him, or to endeavour to drive
him away (for it was the rutting season), cautioned the postilion to go
slowly, and give the animal an opportunity of moving off. This was done,
Page 244
and the stag retired to a small hollow by the side of the road. On the
carriage passing, however, he took offence at its too near approach, and
emerged at a slow and stately pace, till he arrived nearly parallel with it. Mr
Maule then desired the lad to increase his pace, being apprehensive of a
charge in the broadside.
"The deer, however, had other intentions; for as soon as the carriage moved
quicker, he increased his pace also, and came on the road about twelve
yards ahead of it, for the purpose of crossing, as it was thought, to a lower
range of the parks; but to the astonishment and no little alarm of the
occupants of the carriage, he charged the offside horse, plunging his long
brow antler into his chest, and otherwise cutting him.
"The horse that was wounded made two violent kicks, and is supposed to
have struck the stag, and then the pair instantly ran off the road; and it was
owing solely to the admirable presence of mind and sense of the postilion,
that the carriage was not precipitated over the neighbouring bank. The
horses were not allowed to stop till they reached the gate, although the
blood was pouring from the wounded animal in a stream as thick as a man's
finger. He was then taken out of the carriage, and only survived two or three
hours. The stag was shortly afterwards killed."[256]
The French Count and the Stag.
Mr Scrope, in his "Deer-Stalking," describes a grand deer-drive to Glen-
Tilt, headed by the Duke of Athole. Many an incident of this and
subsequent drives was watched by "Lightfoot," who was present, and whose
pictures, under his name of Sir Edwin Landseer, have rendered the life of
the red deer familiar to us, in mist, amid snow, swimming in the rapid of a
Highland current, pursued and at rest, fighting and feeding, alive and dead,
in every attitude, and at every age.
In this encounter, the Duke killed three first-rate harts, Lightfoot two, and
other rifles were all more or less successful. A French count, whose tongue
it was difficult to restrain,—and silence is essential to success in the pursuit,
—at last fired into a dense herd of deer.
carriage passing, however, he took offence at its too near approach, and
emerged at a slow and stately pace, till he arrived nearly parallel with it. Mr
Maule then desired the lad to increase his pace, being apprehensive of a
charge in the broadside.
"The deer, however, had other intentions; for as soon as the carriage moved
quicker, he increased his pace also, and came on the road about twelve
yards ahead of it, for the purpose of crossing, as it was thought, to a lower
range of the parks; but to the astonishment and no little alarm of the
occupants of the carriage, he charged the offside horse, plunging his long
brow antler into his chest, and otherwise cutting him.
"The horse that was wounded made two violent kicks, and is supposed to
have struck the stag, and then the pair instantly ran off the road; and it was
owing solely to the admirable presence of mind and sense of the postilion,
that the carriage was not precipitated over the neighbouring bank. The
horses were not allowed to stop till they reached the gate, although the
blood was pouring from the wounded animal in a stream as thick as a man's
finger. He was then taken out of the carriage, and only survived two or three
hours. The stag was shortly afterwards killed."[256]
The French Count and the Stag.
Mr Scrope, in his "Deer-Stalking," describes a grand deer-drive to Glen-
Tilt, headed by the Duke of Athole. Many an incident of this and
subsequent drives was watched by "Lightfoot," who was present, and whose
pictures, under his name of Sir Edwin Landseer, have rendered the life of
the red deer familiar to us, in mist, amid snow, swimming in the rapid of a
Highland current, pursued and at rest, fighting and feeding, alive and dead,
in every attitude, and at every age.
In this encounter, the Duke killed three first-rate harts, Lightfoot two, and
other rifles were all more or less successful. A French count, whose tongue
it was difficult to restrain,—and silence is essential to success in the pursuit,
—at last fired into a dense herd of deer.
Page 245
Mr Scrope adds,[257] "Everything was propitious—circumstance, situation,
and effect; for he was descending the mountain in full view of our whole
assemblage of sportsmen. A fine stag in the midst of the herd fell to the
crack of his rifle. 'Hallo, hallo!' forward ran the count, and sat upon the
prostrate deer triumphing. 'Hé bien, mon ami, vous êtes mort, donc! Moi, je
fais toujours des coups sûrs. Ah! pauvre enfant!' He then patted the sides of
the animal in pure wantonness, and looked east, west, north, and south, for
applause, the happiest of the happy; finally he extracted a mosaic snuff-box
from his pocket, and with an air which nature has denied to all save the
French nation, he held a pinch to the deer's nose—'Prends, mon ami, prends
donc!' This operation had scarcely been performed when the hart, who had
only been stunned, or perhaps shot through the loins, sprang up suddenly,
overturned the count, ran fairly away, and was never seen again. 'Arrêtes,
toi traître! Arrêtes, mon enfant! Ah! c'est un enfant, perdu! Allez donc à
tous les diables!'"
Venison Fat.—Reynolds and the Gourmand.
Northcote[258] says—"I have heard Sir Joshua Reynolds relate an anecdote
of a venison feast, at which were assembled many who much enjoyed the
repast.
"On this occasion, Reynolds addressed his conversation to one of the
company who sat next to him, but to his great surprise could not get a single
word in answer, until at length his silent neighbour, turning to him, said, 'Mr
Reynolds, whenever you are at a venison feast, I advise you not to speak
during dinner-time, as in endeavouring to answer your questions, I have just
swallowed a fine piece of the fat, entire, without tasting its flavour.'"
Stag-trench at Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
Goethe was born at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, August 28th, 1749. In his
autobiography[259] he says—"The street in which our house was situated
passed by the name of the Stag-trench; but as neither stags nor trenches
were to be seen, we naturally wished to have the expression explained.
They told us that our house stood on a spot that was once outside the town,
and effect; for he was descending the mountain in full view of our whole
assemblage of sportsmen. A fine stag in the midst of the herd fell to the
crack of his rifle. 'Hallo, hallo!' forward ran the count, and sat upon the
prostrate deer triumphing. 'Hé bien, mon ami, vous êtes mort, donc! Moi, je
fais toujours des coups sûrs. Ah! pauvre enfant!' He then patted the sides of
the animal in pure wantonness, and looked east, west, north, and south, for
applause, the happiest of the happy; finally he extracted a mosaic snuff-box
from his pocket, and with an air which nature has denied to all save the
French nation, he held a pinch to the deer's nose—'Prends, mon ami, prends
donc!' This operation had scarcely been performed when the hart, who had
only been stunned, or perhaps shot through the loins, sprang up suddenly,
overturned the count, ran fairly away, and was never seen again. 'Arrêtes,
toi traître! Arrêtes, mon enfant! Ah! c'est un enfant, perdu! Allez donc à
tous les diables!'"
Venison Fat.—Reynolds and the Gourmand.
Northcote[258] says—"I have heard Sir Joshua Reynolds relate an anecdote
of a venison feast, at which were assembled many who much enjoyed the
repast.
"On this occasion, Reynolds addressed his conversation to one of the
company who sat next to him, but to his great surprise could not get a single
word in answer, until at length his silent neighbour, turning to him, said, 'Mr
Reynolds, whenever you are at a venison feast, I advise you not to speak
during dinner-time, as in endeavouring to answer your questions, I have just
swallowed a fine piece of the fat, entire, without tasting its flavour.'"
Stag-trench at Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
Goethe was born at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, August 28th, 1749. In his
autobiography[259] he says—"The street in which our house was situated
passed by the name of the Stag-trench; but as neither stags nor trenches
were to be seen, we naturally wished to have the expression explained.
They told us that our house stood on a spot that was once outside the town,
Page 246
and that where the street now ran had formerly been a trench in which a
number of stags were kept. The stags were preserved and fatted here,
because the Senate every year, according to an ancient custom, feasted
publicly on a stag which was always at hand in the trench for such a
festival, in case princes or knights interfered with the city's right of chase
outside, or the walls were encompassed and besieged by an enemy. This
pleased us, and we wished that such a lair for tame wild animals could have
been seen in our times. Where is there a boy or girl who could not join in
the wish of this man, who has been called the first European poet and
literary man of the nineteenth century?"
Giraffe.
"Fancy," said Sydney Smith to some ladies, when he was told that one of
the giraffes at the Zoological Gardens had caught a cold,—"fancy a giraffe
with two yards of sore throat."
In one of the numbers of Punch, published in 1864, the quiz of an artist has
made the giraffes twist their necks into a loose knot by way of a comforter
to keep them from catching a cold, or having a sore throat. He has very
audaciously caused to be printed under his cut, "A Fact."
number of stags were kept. The stags were preserved and fatted here,
because the Senate every year, according to an ancient custom, feasted
publicly on a stag which was always at hand in the trench for such a
festival, in case princes or knights interfered with the city's right of chase
outside, or the walls were encompassed and besieged by an enemy. This
pleased us, and we wished that such a lair for tame wild animals could have
been seen in our times. Where is there a boy or girl who could not join in
the wish of this man, who has been called the first European poet and
literary man of the nineteenth century?"
Giraffe.
"Fancy," said Sydney Smith to some ladies, when he was told that one of
the giraffes at the Zoological Gardens had caught a cold,—"fancy a giraffe
with two yards of sore throat."
In one of the numbers of Punch, published in 1864, the quiz of an artist has
made the giraffes twist their necks into a loose knot by way of a comforter
to keep them from catching a cold, or having a sore throat. He has very
audaciously caused to be printed under his cut, "A Fact."
Page 247
SHEEP AND GOATS.
These are animals, at least the former, which seem to have been created in a
domestic state. They are represented on the most ancient monuments. A
head of a Lybian ram of very large size, in the British Museum, has great
resemblance to nature, and there is one slab at least among the Assyrian
monuments where sheep and goats, as part of the spoil of a city, are
rendered with great skill. In the writings of the Ettrick Shepherd, many
curious anecdotes of Scottish sheep are given.
How many Legs has a Sheep?
When the Earl of Bradford was brought before the Lord Chancellor to be
examined upon application for a statute of lunacy against him, the
Chancellor asked him, "How many legs has a sheep?"—"Does your
lordship mean," answered Lord Bradford, "a live sheep or a dead
sheep?"—"Is it not the same thing?" said the Chancellor.—"No, my lord,"
said Lord Bradford, "there is much difference: a live sheep may have four
legs, a dead sheep has only two; the two fore-legs are shoulders; there are
only two legs of mutton."[260]
Goethe on Roos's Etchings of Sheep.
In the "Conversations of Goethe with Eckerman and Soret"[261] in 1824, he
handed me some etchings by Roos, the famous painter of animals; they
were all of sheep, in every posture and position. The simplicity of their
countenances, the ugliness and shagginess of the fleece—all was
represented with the utmost fidelity, as if it were nature itself.
"I always feel uneasy," said Goethe, "when I look at these beasts. Their state
—so limited, dull, gaping, and dreaming—excites in me such sympathy,
that I fear I shall become a sheep, and almost think the artist must have
been one. At all events, it is most wonderful how Roos has been able to
think and feel himself into the very soul of these creatures, so as to make
These are animals, at least the former, which seem to have been created in a
domestic state. They are represented on the most ancient monuments. A
head of a Lybian ram of very large size, in the British Museum, has great
resemblance to nature, and there is one slab at least among the Assyrian
monuments where sheep and goats, as part of the spoil of a city, are
rendered with great skill. In the writings of the Ettrick Shepherd, many
curious anecdotes of Scottish sheep are given.
How many Legs has a Sheep?
When the Earl of Bradford was brought before the Lord Chancellor to be
examined upon application for a statute of lunacy against him, the
Chancellor asked him, "How many legs has a sheep?"—"Does your
lordship mean," answered Lord Bradford, "a live sheep or a dead
sheep?"—"Is it not the same thing?" said the Chancellor.—"No, my lord,"
said Lord Bradford, "there is much difference: a live sheep may have four
legs, a dead sheep has only two; the two fore-legs are shoulders; there are
only two legs of mutton."[260]
Goethe on Roos's Etchings of Sheep.
In the "Conversations of Goethe with Eckerman and Soret"[261] in 1824, he
handed me some etchings by Roos, the famous painter of animals; they
were all of sheep, in every posture and position. The simplicity of their
countenances, the ugliness and shagginess of the fleece—all was
represented with the utmost fidelity, as if it were nature itself.
"I always feel uneasy," said Goethe, "when I look at these beasts. Their state
—so limited, dull, gaping, and dreaming—excites in me such sympathy,
that I fear I shall become a sheep, and almost think the artist must have
been one. At all events, it is most wonderful how Roos has been able to
think and feel himself into the very soul of these creatures, so as to make
Page 248
the internal character peer with such force through the outward covering.
Here you see what a great talent can do when it keeps steady to subjects
which are congenial with its nature."
"Has not, then," said I, "this artist also painted dogs, cats, and beasts of prey
with similar truth; nay, with this great gift of assuming a mental state
foreign to himself, has he not been able to delineate human character with
equal fidelity?"
"No," said Goethe; "all that lay out of his sphere, but the gentle, grass-
eating animals—sheep, goats, cows, and the like—he was never weary of
repeating; this was the peculiar province of his talent, which he did not quit
during the whole course of his life. And in this he did well. A sympathy
with these animals was born with him, a knowledge of their psychological
condition was given him, and thus he had so fine an eye for their bodily
structure. Other creatures were perhaps not so transparent to him, and
therefore he felt neither calling nor impulse to paint them."[262]
Lord Cockburn and the Sheep.
Lord Cockburn, the proprietor of Bonaly, that pretty place on the slopes of
the Pentlands, was sitting on the hill-side with the shepherd, and, observing
the sheep reposing in the coldest situation, he observed to him, "John, if I
were a sheep, I would lie on the other side of the hill." The shepherd
answered, "Ay, my lord, but if ye had been a sheep, ye would hae had mair
sense."[263]
Woolsack.
Colman and Banister, dining one day with Lord Erskine, the ex-chancellor,
amongst other things, observed that he had then about three thousand head
of sheep. "I perceive," interrupted Colman, "your lordship has still an eye to
the woolsack."[264]
Sandy Wood and his Pets, a Sheep and a Raven.
Here you see what a great talent can do when it keeps steady to subjects
which are congenial with its nature."
"Has not, then," said I, "this artist also painted dogs, cats, and beasts of prey
with similar truth; nay, with this great gift of assuming a mental state
foreign to himself, has he not been able to delineate human character with
equal fidelity?"
"No," said Goethe; "all that lay out of his sphere, but the gentle, grass-
eating animals—sheep, goats, cows, and the like—he was never weary of
repeating; this was the peculiar province of his talent, which he did not quit
during the whole course of his life. And in this he did well. A sympathy
with these animals was born with him, a knowledge of their psychological
condition was given him, and thus he had so fine an eye for their bodily
structure. Other creatures were perhaps not so transparent to him, and
therefore he felt neither calling nor impulse to paint them."[262]
Lord Cockburn and the Sheep.
Lord Cockburn, the proprietor of Bonaly, that pretty place on the slopes of
the Pentlands, was sitting on the hill-side with the shepherd, and, observing
the sheep reposing in the coldest situation, he observed to him, "John, if I
were a sheep, I would lie on the other side of the hill." The shepherd
answered, "Ay, my lord, but if ye had been a sheep, ye would hae had mair
sense."[263]
Woolsack.
Colman and Banister, dining one day with Lord Erskine, the ex-chancellor,
amongst other things, observed that he had then about three thousand head
of sheep. "I perceive," interrupted Colman, "your lordship has still an eye to
the woolsack."[264]
Sandy Wood and his Pets, a Sheep and a Raven.
Page 249
Alexander Wood, a kind-hearted surgeon, who died in his native town of
Edinburgh in May 1807, aged eighty-two, is alluded to by Sir Walter Scott
in a prophecy put into the mouth of Meg Merrilees in "Guy
Mannering"—"They shall beset his goat; they shall profane his raven," &c.
The editor of "Kaye's Edinburgh Portraits"[265] says that, besides his
kindness of disposition to his fellow-creatures, "he was almost equally
remarkable for his love of animals. His pets were numerous, and of all
kinds. Not to mention dogs and cats, there were two others that individually
were better known to the citizens of Edinburgh—a sheep and a raven, the
latter of which is alluded to by Scott in 'Guy Mannering.' Willy, the sheep,
pastured in the ground adjoining to the Excise Office, now the Royal Bank,
and might be daily seen standing at the railings, watching Mr Wood's
passing to or from his house in York Place, when Willy used to poke his
head into his coat-pocket, which was always filled with supplies for his
favourite, and would then trot along after him through the town, and
sometimes might be found in the houses of the doctor's patients. The raven
was domesticated at an ale and porter shop in North Castle Street, which is
still, or very lately was, marked by a tree growing from the area against the
wall. It also kept upon the watch for Mr Wood, and would recognise him
even as he passed at some distance along George Street, and, taking a low
flight towards him, was frequently his companion during some part of his
forenoon walks; for Mr Wood never entered his carriage when he could
possibly avoid it, declaring that unless a vehicle could be found that would
carry him down the closes and up the turnpike stairs, they produced nothing
but trouble and inconvenience."
General Carnac and his She-goat.
It is pleasant to see, and not rare to find in men of warlike habits, a love for
animals. The goat or deer that used often to march before a regiment with
the band as they proceeded to a review in Bruntsfield Links, when the
writer and his friends were boys, about 1826 to 1832, he well remembers.
Nor is Edinburgh garrison singular.
General Carnac, in 1770, communicated to Dr William Hunter some
observations on the keenness of smell and its exquisite sensibility. He says
Edinburgh in May 1807, aged eighty-two, is alluded to by Sir Walter Scott
in a prophecy put into the mouth of Meg Merrilees in "Guy
Mannering"—"They shall beset his goat; they shall profane his raven," &c.
The editor of "Kaye's Edinburgh Portraits"[265] says that, besides his
kindness of disposition to his fellow-creatures, "he was almost equally
remarkable for his love of animals. His pets were numerous, and of all
kinds. Not to mention dogs and cats, there were two others that individually
were better known to the citizens of Edinburgh—a sheep and a raven, the
latter of which is alluded to by Scott in 'Guy Mannering.' Willy, the sheep,
pastured in the ground adjoining to the Excise Office, now the Royal Bank,
and might be daily seen standing at the railings, watching Mr Wood's
passing to or from his house in York Place, when Willy used to poke his
head into his coat-pocket, which was always filled with supplies for his
favourite, and would then trot along after him through the town, and
sometimes might be found in the houses of the doctor's patients. The raven
was domesticated at an ale and porter shop in North Castle Street, which is
still, or very lately was, marked by a tree growing from the area against the
wall. It also kept upon the watch for Mr Wood, and would recognise him
even as he passed at some distance along George Street, and, taking a low
flight towards him, was frequently his companion during some part of his
forenoon walks; for Mr Wood never entered his carriage when he could
possibly avoid it, declaring that unless a vehicle could be found that would
carry him down the closes and up the turnpike stairs, they produced nothing
but trouble and inconvenience."
General Carnac and his She-goat.
It is pleasant to see, and not rare to find in men of warlike habits, a love for
animals. The goat or deer that used often to march before a regiment with
the band as they proceeded to a review in Bruntsfield Links, when the
writer and his friends were boys, about 1826 to 1832, he well remembers.
Nor is Edinburgh garrison singular.
General Carnac, in 1770, communicated to Dr William Hunter some
observations on the keenness of smell and its exquisite sensibility. He says
Page 250
—"I have frequently observed of tame deer, to whom bread is often given,
and which they are in general fond of, that if you present them a piece that
has been bitten, they will not touch it. I have made the same observation of
a remarkably fine she-goat, which accompanied me in most of my
campaigns in India, and supplied me with milk, and which, in gratitude for
her services, I brought from abroad with me."[266]
John Hunter and the Shawl-Goat.
hunter's method of introducing strange animals peacefully to others
in his menagerie.
It is pleasant to meet with a notice of the pursuits of the great anatomist,
John Hunter, in a rather out-of-the-way book.[267] The ingenious way in
which he introduced strange animals into his menagerie is worthy of notice.
"The variety of birds and beasts to be met with at Earl's Court (the villa of
the celebrated and much-lamented Mr John Hunter) is matter of great
entertainment. In the same ground you are surprised to find so many living
animals in one herd, from the most opposite parts of the habitable globe.
Buffaloes, rams, and sheep from Turkey, and a shawl-goat from the East
Indies, are among the most remarkable of those that meet the eye; and as
they feed together in the greatest harmony, it is natural to inquire, what
means are taken to make them so familiar, and well acquainted with each
other. Mr Hunter told me, that when he has a stranger to introduce, he does
it by ordering the whole herd to be taken to a strange place, either a field, an
empty stable, or any other large out-house, with which they are all alike
unaccustomed. The strangeness of the place so totally engages their
attention, as to prevent them from running at, and fighting with, the new-
comer, as they most probably would do in their own fields (in regard to
which they entertain very high notions of their exclusive right of property),
and here they are confined for some hours, till they appear reconciled to the
stranger, who is then turned out with his new friends, and is generally
afterwards well-treated. The shawl-goat was not, however, so easily
reconciled to his future companions; he attacked them, instead of waiting to
be attacked; fought several battles, and at present appears master of the
field.
and which they are in general fond of, that if you present them a piece that
has been bitten, they will not touch it. I have made the same observation of
a remarkably fine she-goat, which accompanied me in most of my
campaigns in India, and supplied me with milk, and which, in gratitude for
her services, I brought from abroad with me."[266]
John Hunter and the Shawl-Goat.
hunter's method of introducing strange animals peacefully to others
in his menagerie.
It is pleasant to meet with a notice of the pursuits of the great anatomist,
John Hunter, in a rather out-of-the-way book.[267] The ingenious way in
which he introduced strange animals into his menagerie is worthy of notice.
"The variety of birds and beasts to be met with at Earl's Court (the villa of
the celebrated and much-lamented Mr John Hunter) is matter of great
entertainment. In the same ground you are surprised to find so many living
animals in one herd, from the most opposite parts of the habitable globe.
Buffaloes, rams, and sheep from Turkey, and a shawl-goat from the East
Indies, are among the most remarkable of those that meet the eye; and as
they feed together in the greatest harmony, it is natural to inquire, what
means are taken to make them so familiar, and well acquainted with each
other. Mr Hunter told me, that when he has a stranger to introduce, he does
it by ordering the whole herd to be taken to a strange place, either a field, an
empty stable, or any other large out-house, with which they are all alike
unaccustomed. The strangeness of the place so totally engages their
attention, as to prevent them from running at, and fighting with, the new-
comer, as they most probably would do in their own fields (in regard to
which they entertain very high notions of their exclusive right of property),
and here they are confined for some hours, till they appear reconciled to the
stranger, who is then turned out with his new friends, and is generally
afterwards well-treated. The shawl-goat was not, however, so easily
reconciled to his future companions; he attacked them, instead of waiting to
be attacked; fought several battles, and at present appears master of the
field.
Page 251
"It is from the down that grows under the coarse hair of this species of goat,
that the fine India shawls are manufactured.[268] This beautiful as well as
useful animal was brought over only last June from Bombay, in the Duke of
Montrose Indiaman, Captain Dorin. The female, unfortunately, died. It was
very obligingly presented by the directors to Sir John Sinclair, the President
of the British Wool Society. It is proposed, under Mr Hunter's care, to try
some experiment with it in England, by crossing it with other breeds of the
goat species, before it is sent to the north."
As anything that met with Mr Hunter's approval must have been a judicious
arrangement, I may quote from the same source the passage about the
buildings for his cattle at Earl's Court.
"Mr Hunter has built his stables half under ground; also vaults, in which he
keeps his cows, buffaloes, and hogs. Such buildings, more especially the
arched byres, or cow-houses, retain a more equal temperature at all times, in
regard both to heat and cold, and consequently are cooler in summer and
warmer in winter; and in situations where ground is so valuable as in the
neighbourhood of London, are an excellent contrivance. Mr Hunter has his
hay-yard over his buffaloes' stables. The expense of vaulting does not
exceed that of building and roofing common cow-houses; and the vaults
have this essential advantage or preference, that they require no repairs." He
then gives an account of some buffaloes which Mr Hunter had trained to
work in a cart, and which became so steady and tractable, that they were
often driven through London streets in the loaded cart, much, no doubt, to
the astonishment of passers-by. With a glimpse of a very beautiful little cow
at Earl's Court, from a buffalo and an Alderney, which was always plump
and fat, and gave very good milk, we must take leave of John Hunter's
menagerie.
Commodore Keppel "beards" the Dey of Algiers.—A Goat.
Sir Joshua Reynolds, when twenty-five, sailed to the Mediterranean in 1749
with the Hon. Augustus Keppel, then a captain in the navy, and afterwards
Viscount Keppel. In 1750, Commodore Keppel returned to Algiers to
remonstrate with the dey on the renewed depredations of the Corsairs. The
dey, surprised at his boldness, for he anchored close to the palace, and
that the fine India shawls are manufactured.[268] This beautiful as well as
useful animal was brought over only last June from Bombay, in the Duke of
Montrose Indiaman, Captain Dorin. The female, unfortunately, died. It was
very obligingly presented by the directors to Sir John Sinclair, the President
of the British Wool Society. It is proposed, under Mr Hunter's care, to try
some experiment with it in England, by crossing it with other breeds of the
goat species, before it is sent to the north."
As anything that met with Mr Hunter's approval must have been a judicious
arrangement, I may quote from the same source the passage about the
buildings for his cattle at Earl's Court.
"Mr Hunter has built his stables half under ground; also vaults, in which he
keeps his cows, buffaloes, and hogs. Such buildings, more especially the
arched byres, or cow-houses, retain a more equal temperature at all times, in
regard both to heat and cold, and consequently are cooler in summer and
warmer in winter; and in situations where ground is so valuable as in the
neighbourhood of London, are an excellent contrivance. Mr Hunter has his
hay-yard over his buffaloes' stables. The expense of vaulting does not
exceed that of building and roofing common cow-houses; and the vaults
have this essential advantage or preference, that they require no repairs." He
then gives an account of some buffaloes which Mr Hunter had trained to
work in a cart, and which became so steady and tractable, that they were
often driven through London streets in the loaded cart, much, no doubt, to
the astonishment of passers-by. With a glimpse of a very beautiful little cow
at Earl's Court, from a buffalo and an Alderney, which was always plump
and fat, and gave very good milk, we must take leave of John Hunter's
menagerie.
Commodore Keppel "beards" the Dey of Algiers.—A Goat.
Sir Joshua Reynolds, when twenty-five, sailed to the Mediterranean in 1749
with the Hon. Augustus Keppel, then a captain in the navy, and afterwards
Viscount Keppel. In 1750, Commodore Keppel returned to Algiers to
remonstrate with the dey on the renewed depredations of the Corsairs. The
dey, surprised at his boldness, for he anchored close to the palace, and
Page 252
attended by his captain and a barge's crew, went boldly into the presence of
the Algerine monarch to demand satisfaction, exclaimed, that he wondered
at the insolence of the King of Great Britain sending him a beardless boy.
Keppel was only twenty-four, but he is said to have answered, "that had his
Majesty, the King of Great Britain, estimated the degree of wisdom by the
length of the beard, he would have sent him a goat as an ambassador."
Northcote is in doubt of the truth of this speech having been made, but says,
that it is certain Keppel answered with great boldness.[269] The tyrant is said
to have actually ordered his mutes to advance with the bow-string, telling
the commodore that his life should answer for his audacity. Keppel quietly
pointed out to the dey the squadron at anchor, and told him, that if it was his
pleasure to put him to death, there were Englishmen enough on board to
make a funeral pile of his capital. The dey cooled a little, allowed the
commodore to depart, and made satisfaction for the damage done, and
promised to abstain from violence in future.
the Algerine monarch to demand satisfaction, exclaimed, that he wondered
at the insolence of the King of Great Britain sending him a beardless boy.
Keppel was only twenty-four, but he is said to have answered, "that had his
Majesty, the King of Great Britain, estimated the degree of wisdom by the
length of the beard, he would have sent him a goat as an ambassador."
Northcote is in doubt of the truth of this speech having been made, but says,
that it is certain Keppel answered with great boldness.[269] The tyrant is said
to have actually ordered his mutes to advance with the bow-string, telling
the commodore that his life should answer for his audacity. Keppel quietly
pointed out to the dey the squadron at anchor, and told him, that if it was his
pleasure to put him to death, there were Englishmen enough on board to
make a funeral pile of his capital. The dey cooled a little, allowed the
commodore to depart, and made satisfaction for the damage done, and
promised to abstain from violence in future.
Page 253
CALVES AND KINE.
The little anecdote of Gilpin and the three cows illustrates one elegant use
of the subjects of the following paragraphs. What home landscape like that
painted by Alfred Tennyson would be perfect without its cows? Many
anecdotes of them could be collected. The Irish are celebrated for their
"bulls," one of them is not the worse for having "Bulls" for its subject.
Patrick was telling, so the story goes, that there were four "Bull Inns" in a
certain English town. "There are but three," said a native of the place, who
knew them well; "the Black Bull, the White Bull, and the Red Bull,—where
is the fourth?"—"Sure and do you not know, the Dun Cow—the best of
them all?" replied the unconscious Milesian.
A Great Calf.
Sir William B——, being at a parish meeting, made some proposals, which
were objected to by a farmer. Highly enraged, "Sir," says he to the farmer,
"do you know, sir, that I have been at the two universities, and at two
colleges in each university?"—"Well, sir," said the farmer, "what of that? I
had a calf that sucked two cows, and the observation I made was, the more
he sucked, the greater calf he grew."[270]
Rather too much of a Good Thing.—Veal ad nauseam.
At the table of Lord Polkemmet, when the covers were removed, the dinner
was seen to consist of veal broth, a roast fillet of veal, veal cutlets, a
florentine (an excellent Scotch dish, composed of veal), a calf's head, calf's
foot jelly. The worthy judge observing an expression of surprise among his
guests, who, even in Shetland in early spring would have had the veal
varied with fish, broke out in explanation, "Ou, ay, it's a cauf! when we kill
a beast, we just eat up one side, and down the tither."
The little anecdote of Gilpin and the three cows illustrates one elegant use
of the subjects of the following paragraphs. What home landscape like that
painted by Alfred Tennyson would be perfect without its cows? Many
anecdotes of them could be collected. The Irish are celebrated for their
"bulls," one of them is not the worse for having "Bulls" for its subject.
Patrick was telling, so the story goes, that there were four "Bull Inns" in a
certain English town. "There are but three," said a native of the place, who
knew them well; "the Black Bull, the White Bull, and the Red Bull,—where
is the fourth?"—"Sure and do you not know, the Dun Cow—the best of
them all?" replied the unconscious Milesian.
A Great Calf.
Sir William B——, being at a parish meeting, made some proposals, which
were objected to by a farmer. Highly enraged, "Sir," says he to the farmer,
"do you know, sir, that I have been at the two universities, and at two
colleges in each university?"—"Well, sir," said the farmer, "what of that? I
had a calf that sucked two cows, and the observation I made was, the more
he sucked, the greater calf he grew."[270]
Rather too much of a Good Thing.—Veal ad nauseam.
At the table of Lord Polkemmet, when the covers were removed, the dinner
was seen to consist of veal broth, a roast fillet of veal, veal cutlets, a
florentine (an excellent Scotch dish, composed of veal), a calf's head, calf's
foot jelly. The worthy judge observing an expression of surprise among his
guests, who, even in Shetland in early spring would have had the veal
varied with fish, broke out in explanation, "Ou, ay, it's a cauf! when we kill
a beast, we just eat up one side, and down the tither."
Page 254
Boswell, the friend and biographer of Johnson, when a young man, went to
the pit of Covent Garden Theatre, in company with Dr Blair, and in a frolic
imitated the lowing of a cow; and the universal cry in the gallery was,
"Encore the cow! encore the cow!" This was complied with, and in the
pride of success, Boswell attempted to imitate some other animals, but with
less success. Dr Blair, anxious for the fame of his friend, addressed him
thus, "My dear sir, I would confine myself to the cow."[271]
Adam Clarke and his Bullock Pat.
The Rev. Adam Clarke, LL.D., after one of his evangelical visits to Ireland,
returned to his home at Millbrook. In writing to his sons he says—"Not
only your mother, sisters, and brother, were glad to see me, but also my
poor animals in the field, for I lost no time in going to visit them. I found
the donkey lame, and her son looking much like a philosopher; it was
strange that even the bullock, whom we call Pat, came to me in the field,
and held out his most honest face for me to stroke it. The next time I went
to him he came running up, and actually placed his two fore-feet upon my
shoulders, with all the affection of a spaniel; but it was a load of kindness I
could ill bear, for the animal is nearly three years old; I soon got his feet
displaced; strange and uncouth as this manifestation of affectionate
gratitude was, yet with it the master and his steer Pat were equally well
pleased; so here is a literal comment on 'The ox knoweth his owner;' and
you see I am in league with even the beasts of the field."[272]
Samuel Foote and the Cows Pulling the Bell of Worcester College
Chapel.
Samuel Foote was a student at Worcester College, Oxford, and when there
he practised many tricks, and soon found out what was ridiculous in any
man's character.
His biographer[273] records one of these tricks which he played off on Dr
Gower, the provost of the college. "The church belonging to the college
fronted the side of a lane where cattle were sometimes turned out to graze
during the night, and from the steeple hung the bell rope, very low in the
the pit of Covent Garden Theatre, in company with Dr Blair, and in a frolic
imitated the lowing of a cow; and the universal cry in the gallery was,
"Encore the cow! encore the cow!" This was complied with, and in the
pride of success, Boswell attempted to imitate some other animals, but with
less success. Dr Blair, anxious for the fame of his friend, addressed him
thus, "My dear sir, I would confine myself to the cow."[271]
Adam Clarke and his Bullock Pat.
The Rev. Adam Clarke, LL.D., after one of his evangelical visits to Ireland,
returned to his home at Millbrook. In writing to his sons he says—"Not
only your mother, sisters, and brother, were glad to see me, but also my
poor animals in the field, for I lost no time in going to visit them. I found
the donkey lame, and her son looking much like a philosopher; it was
strange that even the bullock, whom we call Pat, came to me in the field,
and held out his most honest face for me to stroke it. The next time I went
to him he came running up, and actually placed his two fore-feet upon my
shoulders, with all the affection of a spaniel; but it was a load of kindness I
could ill bear, for the animal is nearly three years old; I soon got his feet
displaced; strange and uncouth as this manifestation of affectionate
gratitude was, yet with it the master and his steer Pat were equally well
pleased; so here is a literal comment on 'The ox knoweth his owner;' and
you see I am in league with even the beasts of the field."[272]
Samuel Foote and the Cows Pulling the Bell of Worcester College
Chapel.
Samuel Foote was a student at Worcester College, Oxford, and when there
he practised many tricks, and soon found out what was ridiculous in any
man's character.
His biographer[273] records one of these tricks which he played off on Dr
Gower, the provost of the college. "The church belonging to the college
fronted the side of a lane where cattle were sometimes turned out to graze
during the night, and from the steeple hung the bell rope, very low in the
Page 255
middle of the outside porch. Foote saw in this an object likely to produce
some fun, and immediately set about to accomplish his purpose. He
accordingly one night slyly tied a wisp of hay to the rope, as a bait for the
cows in their peregrination to the grazing ground. The scheme succeeded to
his wish. One of the cows soon after smelling the hay as she passed by the
church door, instantly seized on it, and, by tugging at the rope, made the
bell ring, to the astonishment of the sexton and the whole parish.
"This happened several nights successively, and the incident gave rise to
various reports, such as not only that the church was haunted by evil spirits,
but that several spectres were seen walking about the churchyard in all
those hideous and frightful shapes which fear, ignorance, and fancy usually
suggest on such occasions.
"An event of this kind, however, was to be explored, for the honour of
philosophy, as well as for the quiet of the parish. Accordingly the doctor
and the sexton agreed to sit up one night, and on the first alarm to run out
and drag the culprit to condign punishment. Their plan being arranged, they
waited with the utmost impatience for the appointed signal; at last the bell
began to sound its usual alarm, and they both sallied out in the dark,
determined on making a discovery. The sexton was the first in the attack.
He seized the cow by the tail, and cried out, 'It was a gentleman commoner,
as he had him by the tail of his gown;' while the doctor, who had caught the
cow by the horns at the same time, immediately replied, 'No, no, you
blockhead, 'tis the postman, and here I have hold of the rascal by his
blowing-horn.' Lights, however, were immediately brought, when the
character of the real offender was discovered, and the laugh of the whole
town was turned upon the doctor."
The General's Cow.
At Plymouth there is, or was, a small green opposite the Government
House, over which no one was permitted to pass. Not a creature was
allowed to approach save the general's cow. One day old Lady D——
having called at the general's, in order to make a short cut, bent her steps
across the lawn, when she was arrested by the sentry calling out and
desiring her to return. "But," said Lady D——, with a stately air, "do you
some fun, and immediately set about to accomplish his purpose. He
accordingly one night slyly tied a wisp of hay to the rope, as a bait for the
cows in their peregrination to the grazing ground. The scheme succeeded to
his wish. One of the cows soon after smelling the hay as she passed by the
church door, instantly seized on it, and, by tugging at the rope, made the
bell ring, to the astonishment of the sexton and the whole parish.
"This happened several nights successively, and the incident gave rise to
various reports, such as not only that the church was haunted by evil spirits,
but that several spectres were seen walking about the churchyard in all
those hideous and frightful shapes which fear, ignorance, and fancy usually
suggest on such occasions.
"An event of this kind, however, was to be explored, for the honour of
philosophy, as well as for the quiet of the parish. Accordingly the doctor
and the sexton agreed to sit up one night, and on the first alarm to run out
and drag the culprit to condign punishment. Their plan being arranged, they
waited with the utmost impatience for the appointed signal; at last the bell
began to sound its usual alarm, and they both sallied out in the dark,
determined on making a discovery. The sexton was the first in the attack.
He seized the cow by the tail, and cried out, 'It was a gentleman commoner,
as he had him by the tail of his gown;' while the doctor, who had caught the
cow by the horns at the same time, immediately replied, 'No, no, you
blockhead, 'tis the postman, and here I have hold of the rascal by his
blowing-horn.' Lights, however, were immediately brought, when the
character of the real offender was discovered, and the laugh of the whole
town was turned upon the doctor."
The General's Cow.
At Plymouth there is, or was, a small green opposite the Government
House, over which no one was permitted to pass. Not a creature was
allowed to approach save the general's cow. One day old Lady D——
having called at the general's, in order to make a short cut, bent her steps
across the lawn, when she was arrested by the sentry calling out and
desiring her to return. "But," said Lady D——, with a stately air, "do you
Page 256
know who I am?"—"I don't know who you be, ma'am," replied the
immovable sentry, "but I knows you b'aint—you b'aint the general's cow."
So Lady D—— wisely gave up the argument and went the other way.[274]
Gilpin's Love of the Picturesque carried out.—A Reason for keeping
Three Cows.
Lord Sidmouth told the Rev. C. Smith Bird that he was partly educated at
Cheam, by Mr Gilpin, the author of many volumes on "Picturesque
Scenery." He was but a poor scholar, but seems to have been loved by his
pupils. He carried out his regard for the picturesque, as would appear by the
following anecdote[275]—
"In visiting the Rev. Mr Gilpin at his house in the New Forest on one
occasion, his lordship observed three cows feeding in a small paddock,
which he knew to be all that Mr Gilpin had to feed them in. He asked Mr
Gilpin how he came to have so many cows when he had so little land? 'The
truth is,' said he, 'I found one cow would not do—she went dry.'—'Well,'
said Lord Sidmouth, 'but why not be content with another? Two, by good
management, might be made to supply you constantly with milk.'—'Oh,
yes,' said the old gentleman, 'but two would not group.'"
King James on a Cow getting over the Border.
In the "Life of Bernard Gilpin," his biographer refers to the inhabitants of
the Borders being such great adepts in the art of thieving, that they could
twist a cow's horn, or mark a horse, so as its owners could not know it, and
so subtle that no vigilance could watch against them. A person telling King
James a surprising story of a cow that had been driven from the north of
Scotland into the south of England, and escaping from the herd had found
her way home; "The most surprising part of the story," the king replied,
"you lay least stress on—that she passed unstolen through the debateable
land."[276]
Duke of Montague and his Hospital for old Cows and Horses.
immovable sentry, "but I knows you b'aint—you b'aint the general's cow."
So Lady D—— wisely gave up the argument and went the other way.[274]
Gilpin's Love of the Picturesque carried out.—A Reason for keeping
Three Cows.
Lord Sidmouth told the Rev. C. Smith Bird that he was partly educated at
Cheam, by Mr Gilpin, the author of many volumes on "Picturesque
Scenery." He was but a poor scholar, but seems to have been loved by his
pupils. He carried out his regard for the picturesque, as would appear by the
following anecdote[275]—
"In visiting the Rev. Mr Gilpin at his house in the New Forest on one
occasion, his lordship observed three cows feeding in a small paddock,
which he knew to be all that Mr Gilpin had to feed them in. He asked Mr
Gilpin how he came to have so many cows when he had so little land? 'The
truth is,' said he, 'I found one cow would not do—she went dry.'—'Well,'
said Lord Sidmouth, 'but why not be content with another? Two, by good
management, might be made to supply you constantly with milk.'—'Oh,
yes,' said the old gentleman, 'but two would not group.'"
King James on a Cow getting over the Border.
In the "Life of Bernard Gilpin," his biographer refers to the inhabitants of
the Borders being such great adepts in the art of thieving, that they could
twist a cow's horn, or mark a horse, so as its owners could not know it, and
so subtle that no vigilance could watch against them. A person telling King
James a surprising story of a cow that had been driven from the north of
Scotland into the south of England, and escaping from the herd had found
her way home; "The most surprising part of the story," the king replied,
"you lay least stress on—that she passed unstolen through the debateable
land."[276]
Duke of Montague and his Hospital for old Cows and Horses.
Page 257
The Rev. Joseph Spence[277] records that "the Duke of Montague has an
hospital for old cows and horses; none of his tenants near Boughton dare
kill a broken-winded horse; they must bring them all to the reservoir. The
duke keeps a lap-dog, the ugliest creature he could meet with; he is always
fond of the most hideous, and says he was at first kind to them, because
nobody else would be."
Philip IV. of Spain in the Bull-ring.
This king, whose form and features are so well known from the pictures of
Velasquez, was entertained magnificently by his great favourite Olivares, in
1631. At this festival, which was in honour of the birthday of the heir
apparent, the sports of ancient Rome were renewed in the bull-ring of
Spain. In his life by Mr Stirling,[278] it is recorded that "a lion, a tiger, a
bear, a camel—in fact, a specimen of every procurable wild animal, or, as
Quevedo expressed it in a poetical account of the spectacle, 'the whole ark
of Noah, and all the fables of Æsop,' were turned loose into the spacious
Plaza del Parque, to fight for the mastery of the arena. To the great delight
of his Castilian countrymen, a bull of Xarama vanquished all his
antagonists. The 'bull of Marathon, which ravaged the country of
Tetrapolis,' says the historian of the day, 'was not more valiant; nor did
Theseus, who slew and sacrificed him, gain greater glory than did our most
potent sovereign. Unwilling that a beast which had behaved so bravely
should go unrewarded, his majesty determined to do him the greatest favour
that the animal himself could have possibly desired, had he been gifted with
reason—to wit, to slay him with his own royal hand! Calling for his
fowling-piece, he brought it instantly to his shoulder, and the flash and
report were scarcely seen and heard ere the mighty monster lay a bleeding
corpse before the transported lieges. Yet not a moment,' continues the
chronicler, 'did his majesty lose his wonted serenity, his composure of
countenance, and becoming gravity of aspect; and but for the presence of so
great a concourse of witnesses, it was difficult to believe that he had really
fired the noble and successful shot.'"
Sydney Smith and his Cattle.—His "Universal Scratcher."
hospital for old cows and horses; none of his tenants near Boughton dare
kill a broken-winded horse; they must bring them all to the reservoir. The
duke keeps a lap-dog, the ugliest creature he could meet with; he is always
fond of the most hideous, and says he was at first kind to them, because
nobody else would be."
Philip IV. of Spain in the Bull-ring.
This king, whose form and features are so well known from the pictures of
Velasquez, was entertained magnificently by his great favourite Olivares, in
1631. At this festival, which was in honour of the birthday of the heir
apparent, the sports of ancient Rome were renewed in the bull-ring of
Spain. In his life by Mr Stirling,[278] it is recorded that "a lion, a tiger, a
bear, a camel—in fact, a specimen of every procurable wild animal, or, as
Quevedo expressed it in a poetical account of the spectacle, 'the whole ark
of Noah, and all the fables of Æsop,' were turned loose into the spacious
Plaza del Parque, to fight for the mastery of the arena. To the great delight
of his Castilian countrymen, a bull of Xarama vanquished all his
antagonists. The 'bull of Marathon, which ravaged the country of
Tetrapolis,' says the historian of the day, 'was not more valiant; nor did
Theseus, who slew and sacrificed him, gain greater glory than did our most
potent sovereign. Unwilling that a beast which had behaved so bravely
should go unrewarded, his majesty determined to do him the greatest favour
that the animal himself could have possibly desired, had he been gifted with
reason—to wit, to slay him with his own royal hand! Calling for his
fowling-piece, he brought it instantly to his shoulder, and the flash and
report were scarcely seen and heard ere the mighty monster lay a bleeding
corpse before the transported lieges. Yet not a moment,' continues the
chronicler, 'did his majesty lose his wonted serenity, his composure of
countenance, and becoming gravity of aspect; and but for the presence of so
great a concourse of witnesses, it was difficult to believe that he had really
fired the noble and successful shot.'"
Sydney Smith and his Cattle.—His "Universal Scratcher."
Page 258
The Rev. Sydney Smith, when at Foston, used to call for his hat and stick
immediately after dinner, and sallied forth for his evening stroll. His
daughter,[279] who often accompanied him, remarks—"Each cow and calf,
and horse and pig, were in turn visited, and fed, and patted, and all seemed
to welcome him; he cared for their comforts as he cared for the comforts of
every living being around him. He used to say, 'I am all for cheap luxuries,
even for animals; now all animals have a passion for scratching their back
bones. They break down your gates and palings to effect this. Look! there is
my universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole, resting on a high and a low
post, adapted to every height, from a horse to a lamb. Even the Edinburgh
Reviewer can take his turn. You have no idea how popular it is. I have not
had a gate broken since I put it up. I have it in all my fields.'"
Rev. Augustus Toplady on the Future State of Animals.
The Rev. Josiah Bull, in the "Memorials of the Rev. William Bull of
Newport, Pagnel,"[280] the friend of Cowper, the poet, and the Rev. John
Newton, tells the following anecdote, in which a favourite theory of the
author of that exquisite hymn, "Rock of Ages Cleft for Me," is alluded to,
and somewhat comically illustrated by the author of the "Olney Hymns:"—
"Mr Newton had been dining with Mr Bull, and they were quietly sitting
together, following after 'the things whereby they might edify one another,'
and that search aided by 'interposing puffs' of the fragrant weed. It was in
that old study I so well remember, ere it was renovated to meet the demands
of modern taste. A room some eighteen feet square, with an arched roof,
entirely surrounded with many a precious volume, with large, old casement
windows, and immense square chairs of fine Spanish mahogany. There
these good men were quietly enjoying their tête-à-tête, when they were
startled by a thundering knock at the door; and in came Mr Ryland of
Northampton, abruptly exclaiming, 'If you wish to see Mr Toplady, you
must go immediately with me to the "Swan." He is on his way to London,
and will not live long.' They all proceeded to the inn, and there found the
good man, emaciated with disease, and evidently fast hastening to the
grave. As they were talking together, they were attracted by a great noise in
the street, occasioned, as they found on looking out, by a bull-baiting which
was going on before the house. Mr Toplady was touched by the cruelty of
immediately after dinner, and sallied forth for his evening stroll. His
daughter,[279] who often accompanied him, remarks—"Each cow and calf,
and horse and pig, were in turn visited, and fed, and patted, and all seemed
to welcome him; he cared for their comforts as he cared for the comforts of
every living being around him. He used to say, 'I am all for cheap luxuries,
even for animals; now all animals have a passion for scratching their back
bones. They break down your gates and palings to effect this. Look! there is
my universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole, resting on a high and a low
post, adapted to every height, from a horse to a lamb. Even the Edinburgh
Reviewer can take his turn. You have no idea how popular it is. I have not
had a gate broken since I put it up. I have it in all my fields.'"
Rev. Augustus Toplady on the Future State of Animals.
The Rev. Josiah Bull, in the "Memorials of the Rev. William Bull of
Newport, Pagnel,"[280] the friend of Cowper, the poet, and the Rev. John
Newton, tells the following anecdote, in which a favourite theory of the
author of that exquisite hymn, "Rock of Ages Cleft for Me," is alluded to,
and somewhat comically illustrated by the author of the "Olney Hymns:"—
"Mr Newton had been dining with Mr Bull, and they were quietly sitting
together, following after 'the things whereby they might edify one another,'
and that search aided by 'interposing puffs' of the fragrant weed. It was in
that old study I so well remember, ere it was renovated to meet the demands
of modern taste. A room some eighteen feet square, with an arched roof,
entirely surrounded with many a precious volume, with large, old casement
windows, and immense square chairs of fine Spanish mahogany. There
these good men were quietly enjoying their tête-à-tête, when they were
startled by a thundering knock at the door; and in came Mr Ryland of
Northampton, abruptly exclaiming, 'If you wish to see Mr Toplady, you
must go immediately with me to the "Swan." He is on his way to London,
and will not live long.' They all proceeded to the inn, and there found the
good man, emaciated with disease, and evidently fast hastening to the
grave. As they were talking together, they were attracted by a great noise in
the street, occasioned, as they found on looking out, by a bull-baiting which
was going on before the house. Mr Toplady was touched by the cruelty of
Page 259
the scene, and exclaimed, 'Who could bear to see that sight, if there were
not to be some compensation for these poor suffering animals in a future
state?'—'I certainly hope,' said my grandfather, 'that all the bulls will go to
heaven; but do you think this will be the case with all the animal
creation?'—'Yes, certainly,' replied Mr Toplady, with great emphasis, 'all,
all!'—'What!' rejoined Mr Newton, with some sarcasm in his tone, 'do you
suppose, sir, there will be fleas in heaven? for I have a special aversion to
them.' Mr Toplady said nothing, but was evidently hurt; and as they
separated, Mr Newton said, 'How happy he should be to see him at Olney, if
God spared his life, and he were to come that way again.' The reply Mr
Toplady made was not very courteous; but the good man was perhaps
suffering from the irritation of disease, and possibly annoyed by the ridicule
cast upon a favourite theory."
Right Honourable William Windham, M.P., on the Feelings of a
Baited Bull.
That great parliamentary orator, the Right Honourable William Windham,
lived before the days when humanity to animals was deemed a fit subject
for legislation.
In his speech against "the bill for preventing the practice of bull-baiting"
(April 18, 1800),[281] he refers to the introduction of such a measure as
follows—"In turning from the great interests of this country, and of Europe,
to discuss with equal solemnity such measures as that which is now before
us, the House appears to me to resemble Mr Smirk, the auctioneer, in the
play, who could hold forth just as eloquently upon a ribbon as upon a
Raphael." He speaks of bull-baiting as being, "it must be confessed, at the
expense of an animal which is not by any means a party to the amusement;
but then," he adds, "it serves to cultivate the qualities of a certain species of
dogs, which affords as much pleasure to their owners as greyhounds do to
others. It is no small recommendation to bull-dogs that they are so much in
repute with the populace." In a second speech, May 24, 1802, he said that
he believed "the bull felt a satisfaction in the contest, not less so than the
hound did when he heard the sound of the horn that summoned him to the
chase. True it was that young bulls, or those which were never baited
before, showed reluctance to be tied to the stake; but those bulls which,
not to be some compensation for these poor suffering animals in a future
state?'—'I certainly hope,' said my grandfather, 'that all the bulls will go to
heaven; but do you think this will be the case with all the animal
creation?'—'Yes, certainly,' replied Mr Toplady, with great emphasis, 'all,
all!'—'What!' rejoined Mr Newton, with some sarcasm in his tone, 'do you
suppose, sir, there will be fleas in heaven? for I have a special aversion to
them.' Mr Toplady said nothing, but was evidently hurt; and as they
separated, Mr Newton said, 'How happy he should be to see him at Olney, if
God spared his life, and he were to come that way again.' The reply Mr
Toplady made was not very courteous; but the good man was perhaps
suffering from the irritation of disease, and possibly annoyed by the ridicule
cast upon a favourite theory."
Right Honourable William Windham, M.P., on the Feelings of a
Baited Bull.
That great parliamentary orator, the Right Honourable William Windham,
lived before the days when humanity to animals was deemed a fit subject
for legislation.
In his speech against "the bill for preventing the practice of bull-baiting"
(April 18, 1800),[281] he refers to the introduction of such a measure as
follows—"In turning from the great interests of this country, and of Europe,
to discuss with equal solemnity such measures as that which is now before
us, the House appears to me to resemble Mr Smirk, the auctioneer, in the
play, who could hold forth just as eloquently upon a ribbon as upon a
Raphael." He speaks of bull-baiting as being, "it must be confessed, at the
expense of an animal which is not by any means a party to the amusement;
but then," he adds, "it serves to cultivate the qualities of a certain species of
dogs, which affords as much pleasure to their owners as greyhounds do to
others. It is no small recommendation to bull-dogs that they are so much in
repute with the populace." In a second speech, May 24, 1802, he said that
he believed "the bull felt a satisfaction in the contest, not less so than the
hound did when he heard the sound of the horn that summoned him to the
chase. True it was that young bulls, or those which were never baited
before, showed reluctance to be tied to the stake; but those bulls which,
Page 260
according to the language of the sport, were called game bulls, who were
used to baiting, approached the stake, and stood there while preparing for
the contest, with the utmost composure. If the bull felt no pleasure, and was
cruelly dealt with, surely the dogs had also some claim to compassion; but
the fact was that both seemed equally arduous in the conflict; and the bull,
like every other animal, while it had the better side, did not dislike his
situation—it would be ridiculous to say he felt no pain—yet, when on such
occasions he exhibited no signs of terror, it was a demonstrable proof that
he felt some pleasure."
The "sober loyal men" of Stamford, it would seem, had petitioned for the
continuance of their annual sport, which had been continued for a period of
five or six hundred years, and who were displeased with their landlord, the
Marquis of Exeter, for his endeavours to put down their cruel sport.
Windham refers to "the antiquity of the thing being deserving of respect, for
respect for antiquity was the best preservation of the Church and State!!"
used to baiting, approached the stake, and stood there while preparing for
the contest, with the utmost composure. If the bull felt no pleasure, and was
cruelly dealt with, surely the dogs had also some claim to compassion; but
the fact was that both seemed equally arduous in the conflict; and the bull,
like every other animal, while it had the better side, did not dislike his
situation—it would be ridiculous to say he felt no pain—yet, when on such
occasions he exhibited no signs of terror, it was a demonstrable proof that
he felt some pleasure."
The "sober loyal men" of Stamford, it would seem, had petitioned for the
continuance of their annual sport, which had been continued for a period of
five or six hundred years, and who were displeased with their landlord, the
Marquis of Exeter, for his endeavours to put down their cruel sport.
Windham refers to "the antiquity of the thing being deserving of respect, for
respect for antiquity was the best preservation of the Church and State!!"
Page 261
WHALES.
Last and greatest of the mammalia are the whales. The adventures of hardy
seamen, like Scoresby, in the pursuit of the Greenland whale, or Beale in
the more dangerous chase of the spermaceti, in southern waters, form the
subjects of more than one readable volume. But here we give no such
extracts, but content ourselves with four short skits, having the cetacea for
their subject.
In these days of zoological gardens, they have succeeded in bringing one of
the smallest of the order, a porpoise, to the Zoological Gardens. His speedy
dissolution showed that even the bath of a hippopotamus or an elephant was
too limited for the dwelling of this pre-eminently marine creature. But he
had begun to show an intelligence, they say, which, independently of all
zoological and anatomical considerations, showed that he had nothing in
common with a fish, but a somewhat similar form, and an equal necessity
for abundance of the pure liquid element.
Whalebone.
A thin old man, with a rag-bag in his hand, was picking up a number of
small pieces of whalebone, which lay on the street. The deposit was of such
a singular nature, that we asked the quaint-looking gatherer how he
supposed they came there? "Don't know," he replied, in a squeaking voice;
"but I s'pect some unfortunate female was wrecked hereabout somewhere."
[282]
A Scotch lady, who was discomposed by the introduction of gas, asked with
much earnestness, "What's to become o' the puir whales?' deeming their
interests materially affected by this superseding of their oil."[283]
Last and greatest of the mammalia are the whales. The adventures of hardy
seamen, like Scoresby, in the pursuit of the Greenland whale, or Beale in
the more dangerous chase of the spermaceti, in southern waters, form the
subjects of more than one readable volume. But here we give no such
extracts, but content ourselves with four short skits, having the cetacea for
their subject.
In these days of zoological gardens, they have succeeded in bringing one of
the smallest of the order, a porpoise, to the Zoological Gardens. His speedy
dissolution showed that even the bath of a hippopotamus or an elephant was
too limited for the dwelling of this pre-eminently marine creature. But he
had begun to show an intelligence, they say, which, independently of all
zoological and anatomical considerations, showed that he had nothing in
common with a fish, but a somewhat similar form, and an equal necessity
for abundance of the pure liquid element.
Whalebone.
A thin old man, with a rag-bag in his hand, was picking up a number of
small pieces of whalebone, which lay on the street. The deposit was of such
a singular nature, that we asked the quaint-looking gatherer how he
supposed they came there? "Don't know," he replied, in a squeaking voice;
"but I s'pect some unfortunate female was wrecked hereabout somewhere."
[282]
A Scotch lady, who was discomposed by the introduction of gas, asked with
much earnestness, "What's to become o' the puir whales?' deeming their
interests materially affected by this superseding of their oil."[283]
Page 262
Very like a Whale.
The first of all the royal infant males
Should take the title of the Prince of Wales:
Because, 'tis clear to seamen and to lubber,
Babies and whales are both inclined to blubber.[284]
Christopher North on the Whale.
Tickler. What fish, James, would you incline to be, if put into scales?
Shepherd. A dolphin: for they hae the speed o' lichtnin. They'll dart past and
roun' about a ship in full sail before the wind, just as if she was at anchor.
Then the dolphin is a fish o' peace,—he saved the life o' a poet of auld,
Arion, wi' his harp,—and oh! they say the cretur's beautifu' in death. Byron,
ye ken, comparin' his hues to those o' the sun settin' ahint the Grecian isles.
I sud like to be a dolphin.
Shepherd. Let me see—I sud hae nae great objections to be a whale in the
Polar Seas. Gran' fun to fling a boatfu' o' harpooners into the air—or, wi' ae
thud o' your tail, to drive in the stern posts o' a Greenlandman.
Tickler. Grander fun still, James, to feel the inextricable harpoon in your
blubber, and to go snoving away beneath an ice-floe with four miles of line
connecting you with your distant enemies.
Shepherd. But, then, whales marry but ae wife, and are passionately
attached to their offspring. There they and I are congenial speerits. Nae fish
that swims enjoys so large a share of domestic happiness.
Tickler. A whale, James, is not a fish.
Shepherd. Isna he? Let him alane for that. He's ca'd a fish in the Bible, and
that's better authority than Buffon. Oh that I were a whale![285]
The first of all the royal infant males
Should take the title of the Prince of Wales:
Because, 'tis clear to seamen and to lubber,
Babies and whales are both inclined to blubber.[284]
Christopher North on the Whale.
Tickler. What fish, James, would you incline to be, if put into scales?
Shepherd. A dolphin: for they hae the speed o' lichtnin. They'll dart past and
roun' about a ship in full sail before the wind, just as if she was at anchor.
Then the dolphin is a fish o' peace,—he saved the life o' a poet of auld,
Arion, wi' his harp,—and oh! they say the cretur's beautifu' in death. Byron,
ye ken, comparin' his hues to those o' the sun settin' ahint the Grecian isles.
I sud like to be a dolphin.
Shepherd. Let me see—I sud hae nae great objections to be a whale in the
Polar Seas. Gran' fun to fling a boatfu' o' harpooners into the air—or, wi' ae
thud o' your tail, to drive in the stern posts o' a Greenlandman.
Tickler. Grander fun still, James, to feel the inextricable harpoon in your
blubber, and to go snoving away beneath an ice-floe with four miles of line
connecting you with your distant enemies.
Shepherd. But, then, whales marry but ae wife, and are passionately
attached to their offspring. There they and I are congenial speerits. Nae fish
that swims enjoys so large a share of domestic happiness.
Tickler. A whale, James, is not a fish.
Shepherd. Isna he? Let him alane for that. He's ca'd a fish in the Bible, and
that's better authority than Buffon. Oh that I were a whale![285]
Page 263
With these sentences, we conclude this book, as well as our selections on
the whale. In the Museum at Edinburgh may be seen one of the finest, if not
the most perfect, skeleton of a whale exhibited in this kingdom. Our young
readers there can soon see, by examining it from the gallery, that the whale
is no "fish."
the whale. In the Museum at Edinburgh may be seen one of the finest, if not
the most perfect, skeleton of a whale exhibited in this kingdom. Our young
readers there can soon see, by examining it from the gallery, that the whale
is no "fish."
Page 264
INDEX.
Addison and Steele on the peculiarities of the natural history
collectors, 5-8
Albert's horse at Brussels, 256.
Ammonianus and his ass, 279.
Androcles and the lion, 167-169.
Ant-eater, the great, 225-229.
Arctic fox, 142-148.
Ass, Sydney Smith on sagacity of, 283.
Ass and zebra, 276.
Ass's foal, 278.
Asses with deers' antlers fastened on heads, 284;
duty free, 284.
Asylum for animals, 265, 266.
Austrian general and a bear, 58, 59.
Aye-aye, its singular structure and habits, 36-38.
Baboons, Lady Anne Barnard on, 24, 25.
Babylon, bas-relief of dog found at, 86, 87.
Babyrusa, 240.
Back, Sir George, anecdote of Arctic lemming, 196.
Badger, 71;
anecdotes of, 72-75.
Baird, origin of name, 241.
Barrentz on white or Polar bear, 64.
Barnard, Lady Anne, pleads for the baboons, 24, 25;
on some rabbits, 222.
Bats, fantastic faces of, 38, 39.
Bearable pun, 61.
Bears, 56, 57;
anecdotes of, 58-70.
Beechey, Captain, on Polar bear, 63;
on the walrus, 184-186, 187.
Bell, Professor, on cats, 149.
Addison and Steele on the peculiarities of the natural history
collectors, 5-8
Albert's horse at Brussels, 256.
Ammonianus and his ass, 279.
Androcles and the lion, 167-169.
Ant-eater, the great, 225-229.
Arctic fox, 142-148.
Ass, Sydney Smith on sagacity of, 283.
Ass and zebra, 276.
Ass's foal, 278.
Asses with deers' antlers fastened on heads, 284;
duty free, 284.
Asylum for animals, 265, 266.
Austrian general and a bear, 58, 59.
Aye-aye, its singular structure and habits, 36-38.
Baboons, Lady Anne Barnard on, 24, 25.
Babylon, bas-relief of dog found at, 86, 87.
Babyrusa, 240.
Back, Sir George, anecdote of Arctic lemming, 196.
Badger, 71;
anecdotes of, 72-75.
Baird, origin of name, 241.
Barrentz on white or Polar bear, 64.
Barnard, Lady Anne, pleads for the baboons, 24, 25;
on some rabbits, 222.
Bats, fantastic faces of, 38, 39.
Bearable pun, 61.
Bears, 56, 57;
anecdotes of, 58-70.
Beechey, Captain, on Polar bear, 63;
on the walrus, 184-186, 187.
Bell, Professor, on cats, 149.
Page 265
Bell, Sir Charles, on the head of a pig, 239.
Bell-Rock horse, 257.
Bentham, Jeremy, and his pet cat, 150-152;
and the mice, 205, 206.
Berwickshire, names of places in, derived from swine, 241.
Bess, a pet hare of the poet Cowper's, 216.
Bisset and his trained monkeys, 25, 26;
musical cats, 152, 153;
trained hares and turtle, 221, 222;
learned pig, 250.
Black Dwarf's cat, 157.
Blomfield, Bishop, bitten by a dog, 88.
Boar, wild, 239-245.
Border, cow getting across, 309.
Borneo, the home of the orang, 11.
Boswell imitates the lowing of a cow, 305.
Bradford, Earl of, on the number of legs of a sheep, 296.
Bristol, Bishop of, comparing Cambridge freshmen to puppies, 89.
Brock, or badger, 72.
Brown, Dr John, "Rab" and "Our Dogs," 78.
Browning, Mrs Elizabeth Barrett, lines on her dog Flush, 89-93.
Browning's, Robert, description of rats, 199.
Bull, an Irish, 304.
Bull, Rev. Wm., Newton, and Toplady, anecdote of, 312.
Bull-baiting at Olney, 313;
Windham on, 314.
Bull-ring, Philip IV. in, 310.
Bullock and Dr Adam Clarke, 305, 306.
Burke, Edmund, question when interrupted, 149;
anecdote of his humanity, 257, 258.
Burns' "Twa Dogs," 81, 82;
the field-mouse, 206-208.
Bush-pig, 148.
Bussapa, the tiger-slayer, 162-164.
Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell, Bart., and his dog Speaker, 93, 94.
Byron on his dog, 79;
on Boatswain, a Newfoundland dog, 94, 95;
Bell-Rock horse, 257.
Bentham, Jeremy, and his pet cat, 150-152;
and the mice, 205, 206.
Berwickshire, names of places in, derived from swine, 241.
Bess, a pet hare of the poet Cowper's, 216.
Bisset and his trained monkeys, 25, 26;
musical cats, 152, 153;
trained hares and turtle, 221, 222;
learned pig, 250.
Black Dwarf's cat, 157.
Blomfield, Bishop, bitten by a dog, 88.
Boar, wild, 239-245.
Border, cow getting across, 309.
Borneo, the home of the orang, 11.
Boswell imitates the lowing of a cow, 305.
Bradford, Earl of, on the number of legs of a sheep, 296.
Bristol, Bishop of, comparing Cambridge freshmen to puppies, 89.
Brock, or badger, 72.
Brown, Dr John, "Rab" and "Our Dogs," 78.
Browning, Mrs Elizabeth Barrett, lines on her dog Flush, 89-93.
Browning's, Robert, description of rats, 199.
Bull, an Irish, 304.
Bull, Rev. Wm., Newton, and Toplady, anecdote of, 312.
Bull-baiting at Olney, 313;
Windham on, 314.
Bull-ring, Philip IV. in, 310.
Bullock and Dr Adam Clarke, 305, 306.
Burke, Edmund, question when interrupted, 149;
anecdote of his humanity, 257, 258.
Burns' "Twa Dogs," 81, 82;
the field-mouse, 206-208.
Bush-pig, 148.
Bussapa, the tiger-slayer, 162-164.
Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell, Bart., and his dog Speaker, 93, 94.
Byron on his dog, 79;
on Boatswain, a Newfoundland dog, 94, 95;
Page 266
pets, 26, 27;
bear at Cambridge, 59.
"Calamity," a horse of Sydney Smith's, 272.
Calf, a great, 304.
Calves and kine, 304.
Camel, Captain Wm. Peel on, 287-289.
Campbell, Colonel, account of Bussapa and the tiger, 162-164.
Canova's sculptured lions and the child, 171-173.
Carnac and the she-goat, 299.
Cats, 149-161.
Cat's letter, by Montgomery, 156.
Cattle of Sydney Smith, and their universal scratcher, 311.
Chalmers, Dr, and the guinea-pig, 223, 224.
Cheiroptera, the order which contains the bats, 38, 39.
Children and horses cannot explain their complaints, 269.
Chimpanzee, Mr Mitchell on the habits of a young one, 22-42.
China, roasted pups eaten in, 78.
Chiromys Madagascariensis, its habits, 36-38.
Choiropotamus Africanus, 140.
Choiseul, Madame de, and her pet monkey and parrot, 33, 34.
Chunie, the elephant, 230.
Clare's dog and Curran, 98.
Clarke, Dr Adam, on Shetland seals, 175, 176;
his bullock Pat, 305.
Clive's, Lord, handwriting misunderstood, 230.
Cockburn, Lord, and the sheep at Bonaly, 298.
Collie at Cultershaw, 82.
Collins, Wm., R.A., and Sir David Wilkie, 3;
the rat-catcher with the ferret, 76;
his dog Prinny, 96, 97;
paints Odell's old donkey, 277.
Collins, W. Wilkie, Sir David Wilkie's first remark on him, 3, 4.
Constant and his cat, 153.
Cook's sailor, who took a fox-bat for the devil, 40.
Cooke, Major-General, 189.
Coon, a gone, 71.
Couthon and the spaniel, 195.
bear at Cambridge, 59.
"Calamity," a horse of Sydney Smith's, 272.
Calf, a great, 304.
Calves and kine, 304.
Camel, Captain Wm. Peel on, 287-289.
Campbell, Colonel, account of Bussapa and the tiger, 162-164.
Canova's sculptured lions and the child, 171-173.
Carnac and the she-goat, 299.
Cats, 149-161.
Cat's letter, by Montgomery, 156.
Cattle of Sydney Smith, and their universal scratcher, 311.
Chalmers, Dr, and the guinea-pig, 223, 224.
Cheiroptera, the order which contains the bats, 38, 39.
Children and horses cannot explain their complaints, 269.
Chimpanzee, Mr Mitchell on the habits of a young one, 22-42.
China, roasted pups eaten in, 78.
Chiromys Madagascariensis, its habits, 36-38.
Choiropotamus Africanus, 140.
Choiseul, Madame de, and her pet monkey and parrot, 33, 34.
Chunie, the elephant, 230.
Clare's dog and Curran, 98.
Clarke, Dr Adam, on Shetland seals, 175, 176;
his bullock Pat, 305.
Clive's, Lord, handwriting misunderstood, 230.
Cockburn, Lord, and the sheep at Bonaly, 298.
Collie at Cultershaw, 82.
Collins, Wm., R.A., and Sir David Wilkie, 3;
the rat-catcher with the ferret, 76;
his dog Prinny, 96, 97;
paints Odell's old donkey, 277.
Collins, W. Wilkie, Sir David Wilkie's first remark on him, 3, 4.
Constant and his cat, 153.
Cook's sailor, who took a fox-bat for the devil, 40.
Cooke, Major-General, 189.
Coon, a gone, 71.
Couthon and the spaniel, 195.
Page 267
Cowper's narrative of his pet hares, 213-219;
dog Beau and the water-lily, 79-81.
Cows, anecdotes of, 306-311.
Cross, Edward, of Exeter Change and Walworth, 33.
Cruelty to horses in Ireland, 275.
Cunningham, Major, on Ladak dog, 86.
Curran on Lord Clare's dog, 98.
Cuvier and the fossil, 236.
Cynocephali, or African baboons, 9, 24, 25.
Dalhousie, Earl of, and the ferocious red-deer, 291.
Dandie Dinmont educates his terriers, 122.
Davis, Sir George, and the lion, 170, 171.
Deer family, 290, 291;
their sensibility of smell, 300.
Dessin Island, rabbits on, blind of one eye, 222.
Dickens on sellers of bears' grease, 59, 60.
Dog and the French murderers, 104, 105.
Dog-cheap, 100.
Dog-matic, 113.
Dog-rose, 133.
Dogs, 77-87.
Douglas, General, and the rats, 201.
Dragon-fly exhibited at a show, 61.
Dresden, Battle of, General Moreau killed at, 113.
Drew on the instinct of dogs, 98-100.
Dromedary, Capt. Peel on its rate of motion, 289.
Dunbar, Rev. Rowland Hill at, 261.
Durian, an eastern fruit, 14.
Earl's Court, Hunter's menagerie at, 300-302.
Eastern dogs, 84, 85.
Echidna aculeata, 192.
Edentata, 228.
Edmonstone, Dr, on Shetland seals, 176-182.
Eglintoun, Countess of, her fondness for rats, 200, 201.
Elephant and his trunk, 232;
anecdotes of, 234-236.
dog Beau and the water-lily, 79-81.
Cows, anecdotes of, 306-311.
Cross, Edward, of Exeter Change and Walworth, 33.
Cruelty to horses in Ireland, 275.
Cunningham, Major, on Ladak dog, 86.
Curran on Lord Clare's dog, 98.
Cuvier and the fossil, 236.
Cynocephali, or African baboons, 9, 24, 25.
Dalhousie, Earl of, and the ferocious red-deer, 291.
Dandie Dinmont educates his terriers, 122.
Davis, Sir George, and the lion, 170, 171.
Deer family, 290, 291;
their sensibility of smell, 300.
Dessin Island, rabbits on, blind of one eye, 222.
Dickens on sellers of bears' grease, 59, 60.
Dog and the French murderers, 104, 105.
Dog-cheap, 100.
Dog-matic, 113.
Dog-rose, 133.
Dogs, 77-87.
Douglas, General, and the rats, 201.
Dragon-fly exhibited at a show, 61.
Dresden, Battle of, General Moreau killed at, 113.
Drew on the instinct of dogs, 98-100.
Dromedary, Capt. Peel on its rate of motion, 289.
Dunbar, Rev. Rowland Hill at, 261.
Durian, an eastern fruit, 14.
Earl's Court, Hunter's menagerie at, 300-302.
Eastern dogs, 84, 85.
Echidna aculeata, 192.
Edentata, 228.
Edmonstone, Dr, on Shetland seals, 176-182.
Eglintoun, Countess of, her fondness for rats, 200, 201.
Elephant and his trunk, 232;
anecdotes of, 234-236.
Page 268
Epomophorus, a genus of tropical bats alluded to by the poet-
laureate, 39.
Erskine's sheep and the woolsack, 298.
Esquimaux dogs, 78, 86.
Ettrick Shepherd's monkey, 27, 28;
on fox-hunting, 139-141;
on whales, 316.
Fabricius on Arctic fox, 143.
Ferret, 75, 76.
Field mouse turned up by Robert Burns, 206-208.
Findhorn fisherman and monkey, 29, 30.
Flush, lines to her dog, by Mrs Browning, 89-93.
Foote, Samuel, makes cows pull bell at Oxford, 306.
Forster, Dr, on the fox-bats of the Friendly Islands, 42, 43.
Fournier on the squirrel, 196.
Fowler the tailor and Gainsborough the artist, 2, 3.
Fox, Charles James, on the poll-cat, 77.
Fox, 138.
Fox-hunting, from the "Noctes," 139-141.
Fox-bats, particulars of their history, 41-47.
Frederick the Great and his Italian greyhounds, 104.
French count at deer-stalking, 293, 294;
dogs, time of Louis XI., 110;
marquis and his monkey, 30, 31.
Fry, Mrs, on Irish pigs, 252.
Fuller, Thomas, on destructive fieldmice, 208, 209.
Fuller on Norfolk rabbits, 223.
Fuseli on Northcote's picture of Balaam and the Ass, 281.
Future state of animals, Toplady on, 312.
Gainsborough and Fowler the tailor, 2, 3;
his wife and their dogs, 100, 101;
pigs, countryman on, 252;
kept an ass, 277.
Garrick and the horse, 259.
Gell, Sir William, his dog, 101.
General's cow at Plymouth, 308.
George III. at Winchester, meets Garrick, 259.
laureate, 39.
Erskine's sheep and the woolsack, 298.
Esquimaux dogs, 78, 86.
Ettrick Shepherd's monkey, 27, 28;
on fox-hunting, 139-141;
on whales, 316.
Fabricius on Arctic fox, 143.
Ferret, 75, 76.
Field mouse turned up by Robert Burns, 206-208.
Findhorn fisherman and monkey, 29, 30.
Flush, lines to her dog, by Mrs Browning, 89-93.
Foote, Samuel, makes cows pull bell at Oxford, 306.
Forster, Dr, on the fox-bats of the Friendly Islands, 42, 43.
Fournier on the squirrel, 196.
Fowler the tailor and Gainsborough the artist, 2, 3.
Fox, Charles James, on the poll-cat, 77.
Fox, 138.
Fox-hunting, from the "Noctes," 139-141.
Fox-bats, particulars of their history, 41-47.
Frederick the Great and his Italian greyhounds, 104.
French count at deer-stalking, 293, 294;
dogs, time of Louis XI., 110;
marquis and his monkey, 30, 31.
Fry, Mrs, on Irish pigs, 252.
Fuller, Thomas, on destructive fieldmice, 208, 209.
Fuller on Norfolk rabbits, 223.
Fuseli on Northcote's picture of Balaam and the Ass, 281.
Future state of animals, Toplady on, 312.
Gainsborough and Fowler the tailor, 2, 3;
his wife and their dogs, 100, 101;
pigs, countryman on, 252;
kept an ass, 277.
Garrick and the horse, 259.
Gell, Sir William, his dog, 101.
General's cow at Plymouth, 308.
George III. at Winchester, meets Garrick, 259.
Page 269
George IV. visited at Windsor by "Happy Jerry," 32.
Gilpin's, Bernard, horses stolen and recovered, 260.
Gilpin's, Rev. Mr, love of the picturesque, 308.
Gimcrack, the widow, her letter to Mr Bickerstaff on her husband's
peculiarities, 6-8.
Giraffe, anecdotes of, 291-295.
Glirine animals, 195, 212.
Goats, anecdotes of, 299, 300.
Goethe on stag-trench at Frankfort, 294;
on Roos's etchings of sheep, 296.
Good enough for a pig, 251.
Gordon, Duchess of, and the wolf-dog, 102, 103.
Gorilla and its story, 9-22.
Graham, Rev. W., on dogs in the East, 85.
Grange, the, near Edinburgh, 30.
Gray compares poet-laureate to a rat-catcher, 204, 205.
Gray. Dr, gets large specimen of gorilla, 17.
Greenland seal, 181.
Grotta del Cane, the poor dog at, 111, 112.
Guilford, Lord Keeper, and the rhinoceros, 230.
Guinea pig, Dr Chalmers, 223, 224.
Gunn, Mr, on tiger-wolf, 192, 193.
Haff-fish, the Shetland name for seal, 179.
Hairs or hares, 220.
Hall, Robert, and the dog, 106.
Hamilton, Sir Wm., his definition of man, 1, 2.
Hanover rats, 202, 203.
Happy Jerry, the rib-nosed mandrill, 31, 32.
Hardwicke's lady, sow, 253.
Hares, Mrs Browning on Cowper's, 212;
petted by Cowper the poet, 213-219.
Hastings and the refractory donkey, 279.
Heard, the herald, on the horse of George III., 261
Hedgehogs, 48.
Hill, Rev. Rowland, prayed for his horse, 261, 262.
Holcroft on race-horses, 263-265.
Hood's dog Dash, 110.
Gilpin's, Bernard, horses stolen and recovered, 260.
Gilpin's, Rev. Mr, love of the picturesque, 308.
Gimcrack, the widow, her letter to Mr Bickerstaff on her husband's
peculiarities, 6-8.
Giraffe, anecdotes of, 291-295.
Glirine animals, 195, 212.
Goats, anecdotes of, 299, 300.
Goethe on stag-trench at Frankfort, 294;
on Roos's etchings of sheep, 296.
Good enough for a pig, 251.
Gordon, Duchess of, and the wolf-dog, 102, 103.
Gorilla and its story, 9-22.
Graham, Rev. W., on dogs in the East, 85.
Grange, the, near Edinburgh, 30.
Gray compares poet-laureate to a rat-catcher, 204, 205.
Gray. Dr, gets large specimen of gorilla, 17.
Greenland seal, 181.
Grotta del Cane, the poor dog at, 111, 112.
Guilford, Lord Keeper, and the rhinoceros, 230.
Guinea pig, Dr Chalmers, 223, 224.
Gunn, Mr, on tiger-wolf, 192, 193.
Haff-fish, the Shetland name for seal, 179.
Hairs or hares, 220.
Hall, Robert, and the dog, 106.
Hamilton, Sir Wm., his definition of man, 1, 2.
Hanover rats, 202, 203.
Happy Jerry, the rib-nosed mandrill, 31, 32.
Hardwicke's lady, sow, 253.
Hares, Mrs Browning on Cowper's, 212;
petted by Cowper the poet, 213-219.
Hastings and the refractory donkey, 279.
Heard, the herald, on the horse of George III., 261
Hedgehogs, 48.
Hill, Rev. Rowland, prayed for his horse, 261, 262.
Holcroft on race-horses, 263-265.
Hood's dog Dash, 110.
Page 270
Hook and the litter of pigs, 253.
Hooker's sea-bear in Regent's Park, 175.
Hospital for old cows and horses, 309.
Horse, 256;
that carried stones to build Bell-Rock lighthouse, 257.
Horse exercises, a saying of Rowland Hill's, 263.
Horsemanship of Johnson the Irishman, 257, 258.
Horsfield, Dr, on the Javanese fox-bat, 45, 46.
Hunter, John, and the dead tiger, 165;
his menagerie at Earl's Court, 300, 302.
Hunters of Polmood, dog that belonged to, 107.
Impey, Warren Hastings, and the ass, 279, 280.
India shawls, 301.
Inglefield, Capt., on the affection of a Polar bear and her two cubs,
65.
Irish clergyman and the dogs, 108.
Irishman on rat-shooting, 203.
Irving, Washington, and the dog, 108, 109.
Ivory dust, 233.
Jackal, 148, 149.
Jeffrey on a donkey; Sydney Smith's lines on 281, 282.
Jekyll treading on a small pig, 251;
on a squirrel, 195.
Jerrold, Douglas, and his dog, 109.
Kangaroo Cooke, 189.
Kangaroos, Charles Lamb on, 188, 189.
Keppel, Commodore, and the Dey of Algiers, 303.
King James, on a cow getting over the Border, 309.
Laird of Balnamoon and the brock, 75.
Lamb, Charles, and the dog, 110;
on Kangaroos, 188, 189;
on the hare, 212.
Landseer's "Monkeyana," 10;
stags, 293.
Lap-dogs before the House of Commons, 124.
Lauder, Sir Thomas Dick, adventures of a monkey in Morayshire,
29, 30.
Hooker's sea-bear in Regent's Park, 175.
Hospital for old cows and horses, 309.
Horse, 256;
that carried stones to build Bell-Rock lighthouse, 257.
Horse exercises, a saying of Rowland Hill's, 263.
Horsemanship of Johnson the Irishman, 257, 258.
Horsfield, Dr, on the Javanese fox-bat, 45, 46.
Hunter, John, and the dead tiger, 165;
his menagerie at Earl's Court, 300, 302.
Hunters of Polmood, dog that belonged to, 107.
Impey, Warren Hastings, and the ass, 279, 280.
India shawls, 301.
Inglefield, Capt., on the affection of a Polar bear and her two cubs,
65.
Irish clergyman and the dogs, 108.
Irishman on rat-shooting, 203.
Irving, Washington, and the dog, 108, 109.
Ivory dust, 233.
Jackal, 148, 149.
Jeffrey on a donkey; Sydney Smith's lines on 281, 282.
Jekyll treading on a small pig, 251;
on a squirrel, 195.
Jerrold, Douglas, and his dog, 109.
Kangaroo Cooke, 189.
Kangaroos, Charles Lamb on, 188, 189.
Keppel, Commodore, and the Dey of Algiers, 303.
King James, on a cow getting over the Border, 309.
Laird of Balnamoon and the brock, 75.
Lamb, Charles, and the dog, 110;
on Kangaroos, 188, 189;
on the hare, 212.
Landseer's "Monkeyana," 10;
stags, 293.
Lap-dogs before the House of Commons, 124.
Lauder, Sir Thomas Dick, adventures of a monkey in Morayshire,
29, 30.
Page 271
Laurillard, Cuvier's assistant, 237.
Lawyer's horse, 268.
Lemming, and Arctic voyager, 196;
habits of the Arctic, 197, 198.
Leifchild, Dr, at Hoxton, 127.
Leopard, its ferocity when wounded, 161.
Letter from the gorilla, now in British Museum, 13-17.
Lightfoot, name for Sir Edwin Landseer, 293.
Lion and tiger, 166.
Lion, hunts on Assyrian monuments, 162.
Lions on monument of Clement XII., 171-173.
Liston the surgeon and his cat, 153, 154.
Livingston, Dr, on paralysing effect of lion's bite, 162.
Luther observes a dog at Lintz, 111.
Lyon, Capt., on Arctic fox, 144, 145.
Lytton, Sir Edward Bulwer, on the pets of some of the
Revolutionary butchers, 195, 196.
Macaulay, Lord, on the last days of King William III., 50-56.
M'Clintock on Arctic fox, 144.
M'Dougall on habits of Arctic lemming, 197.
Macgillivray, John, on a fox-bat from Fitzroy Island, 45.
Mackenzie, Mrs Colin, on the habits of the apes at Simla, 35, 36;
on the tiger being worshipped, 166.
Man, Professor Owen on his position, 1;
definition of, by Linnæus, 12;
defined in the Linnæan manner, 4.
Mandrill and George IV., 31, 32.
Mansfield's, Lord, joke about a horse, 267.
Marat, the citizen, and his doves, 196.
Markham, Mr Clement, on the Polar bear, 69.
Marsupialia, 188-191.
Mastiff and the soldier, 97.
Matthews, Henry, on the Grotta del Cane, 112.
Mayerne, Dr, and his balsam of bats, 47.
Metcalfe, when a boy, on camel, 290.
Miller, Hugh, on badger-baiting in the Canongate, 72-74.
Miscellaneous eating about a pig, 238.
Lawyer's horse, 268.
Lemming, and Arctic voyager, 196;
habits of the Arctic, 197, 198.
Leifchild, Dr, at Hoxton, 127.
Leopard, its ferocity when wounded, 161.
Letter from the gorilla, now in British Museum, 13-17.
Lightfoot, name for Sir Edwin Landseer, 293.
Lion and tiger, 166.
Lion, hunts on Assyrian monuments, 162.
Lions on monument of Clement XII., 171-173.
Liston the surgeon and his cat, 153, 154.
Livingston, Dr, on paralysing effect of lion's bite, 162.
Luther observes a dog at Lintz, 111.
Lyon, Capt., on Arctic fox, 144, 145.
Lytton, Sir Edward Bulwer, on the pets of some of the
Revolutionary butchers, 195, 196.
Macaulay, Lord, on the last days of King William III., 50-56.
M'Clintock on Arctic fox, 144.
M'Dougall on habits of Arctic lemming, 197.
Macgillivray, John, on a fox-bat from Fitzroy Island, 45.
Mackenzie, Mrs Colin, on the habits of the apes at Simla, 35, 36;
on the tiger being worshipped, 166.
Man, Professor Owen on his position, 1;
definition of, by Linnæus, 12;
defined in the Linnæan manner, 4.
Mandrill and George IV., 31, 32.
Mansfield's, Lord, joke about a horse, 267.
Marat, the citizen, and his doves, 196.
Markham, Mr Clement, on the Polar bear, 69.
Marsupialia, 188-191.
Mastiff and the soldier, 97.
Matthews, Henry, on the Grotta del Cane, 112.
Mayerne, Dr, and his balsam of bats, 47.
Metcalfe, when a boy, on camel, 290.
Miller, Hugh, on badger-baiting in the Canongate, 72-74.
Miscellaneous eating about a pig, 238.
Page 272
Mitchell, D. W., on the habits of a young chimpanzee, 22-24.
Mitchell's antipathy to cats, 155.
Model dog of the artist Collins, 96, 97.
Mole, its habits, 49.
Monkey revered by Hindoos, 35.
Monkeys, 9;
liable to lung disease in British islands, 22;
Rev. Sydney Smith on, 34, 35;
poor relations, 34.
Montagu, Duke of, and his hospital for old cows, &c., 309.
Montgomery, James, his translation of a definition of man, 4;
and his cats, 155, 156.
Moore, General, and his horse at Corunna, 268.
Moore on Gilpin and Boatswain, two dogs, 95, 96.
Moore, Dr John, sketch of a French marquis and his monkey, 30,
31.
More, Hannah, on dog of Garrick's, 105.
Moreau and his greyhound, 113.
Moses, a dog of Mrs Schimmelpenninck's, 122.
Moth larvæ eating at night, 37.
Mounsey, anecdote of, 269.
Mouse that amused Baron von Trenck, 209, 210.
Mules should have their own way, 286.
Museum of John Hunter, 164, 165.
Musical cats, 152, 153.
Musk rat, 200.
Myrmecophaga jubata, 225-229.
Names given to horses, 270-274.
Napier, Charles, and the lion in the Tower, 173.
Natural history collectors of the days of Addison and Steele, 5, 8.
Neill, Dr Patrick, 5.
Nelson and the Polar bear, 67-69;
in Arctic seas, 186.
Newfoundland dog, 126.
N'Geena, or gorilla, 18.
Nicol, George, the bookseller and hunter, 165.
Norfolk, Duke of, and his spaniels, 114.
Mitchell's antipathy to cats, 155.
Model dog of the artist Collins, 96, 97.
Mole, its habits, 49.
Monkey revered by Hindoos, 35.
Monkeys, 9;
liable to lung disease in British islands, 22;
Rev. Sydney Smith on, 34, 35;
poor relations, 34.
Montagu, Duke of, and his hospital for old cows, &c., 309.
Montgomery, James, his translation of a definition of man, 4;
and his cats, 155, 156.
Moore, General, and his horse at Corunna, 268.
Moore on Gilpin and Boatswain, two dogs, 95, 96.
Moore, Dr John, sketch of a French marquis and his monkey, 30,
31.
More, Hannah, on dog of Garrick's, 105.
Moreau and his greyhound, 113.
Moses, a dog of Mrs Schimmelpenninck's, 122.
Moth larvæ eating at night, 37.
Mounsey, anecdote of, 269.
Mouse that amused Baron von Trenck, 209, 210.
Mules should have their own way, 286.
Museum of John Hunter, 164, 165.
Musical cats, 152, 153.
Musk rat, 200.
Myrmecophaga jubata, 225-229.
Names given to horses, 270-274.
Napier, Charles, and the lion in the Tower, 173.
Natural history collectors of the days of Addison and Steele, 5, 8.
Neill, Dr Patrick, 5.
Nelson and the Polar bear, 67-69;
in Arctic seas, 186.
Newfoundland dog, 126.
N'Geena, or gorilla, 18.
Nicol, George, the bookseller and hunter, 165.
Norfolk, Duke of, and his spaniels, 114.
Page 273
North, Sir Dudley, visits the rhinoceros, 231.
North, Lord, and the dog, 115.
Northcote's Balaam and the Ass, 281.
Norton, Hon. Mrs, address to a dog, 83.
Odell and his old donkey, 277.
Old Jack, a horse that drew stones for building Waterloo Bridge,
270.
Old lady and the beasts on the mound, 173.
Ommaney, Capt., and the Polar bear, 70.
Opossum, 190.
Ornithorhynchus, the duck-bill, 192.
Owen, Professor, on the gorilla, 18;
on the aye-aye, 36.
Parasols, how ladies used them at Cross's menagerie, 33.
Parrot and monkey, anecdote of two pets, 33, 34.
Parry, Capt., on flesh of Polar bear, 66.
Paton, Sir J. Noel, has studied physiognomies of bats, &c., 38.
Peale, Titian, on a tame fox-bat, 44.
Peccaries of South America, 240.
Peel, Capt. Wm., on camel, 287-289.
Peracyon, 19.
Perchance, a lap-dog, 96.
Perthes derives hints from his dog, 115.
Peter the Great and his dog Lisette, 161, 117.
Phascolomys vombatus, 193.
Philip IV. in bull-ring, 310.
Phillips, Sir Richard, eats jelly of ivory dust, 233.
Phoca barbata, 180;
vitulena, 177.
Pied Piper of Hamelin, extract from, 199.
Pig, monument to, 239.
Pigs and silver spoons, 254.
Plants liked by hares, 218.
Polar bear, its history, 61-70.
Poll-cat, Fox and the, 77.
Polkemmet, Lord, a dinner on veal, 305.
Polson and the last Scottish wolf, 135-137.
North, Lord, and the dog, 115.
Northcote's Balaam and the Ass, 281.
Norton, Hon. Mrs, address to a dog, 83.
Odell and his old donkey, 277.
Old Jack, a horse that drew stones for building Waterloo Bridge,
270.
Old lady and the beasts on the mound, 173.
Ommaney, Capt., and the Polar bear, 70.
Opossum, 190.
Ornithorhynchus, the duck-bill, 192.
Owen, Professor, on the gorilla, 18;
on the aye-aye, 36.
Parasols, how ladies used them at Cross's menagerie, 33.
Parrot and monkey, anecdote of two pets, 33, 34.
Parry, Capt., on flesh of Polar bear, 66.
Paton, Sir J. Noel, has studied physiognomies of bats, &c., 38.
Peale, Titian, on a tame fox-bat, 44.
Peccaries of South America, 240.
Peel, Capt. Wm., on camel, 287-289.
Peracyon, 19.
Perchance, a lap-dog, 96.
Perthes derives hints from his dog, 115.
Peter the Great and his dog Lisette, 161, 117.
Phascolomys vombatus, 193.
Philip IV. in bull-ring, 310.
Phillips, Sir Richard, eats jelly of ivory dust, 233.
Phoca barbata, 180;
vitulena, 177.
Pied Piper of Hamelin, extract from, 199.
Pig, monument to, 239.
Pigs and silver spoons, 254.
Plants liked by hares, 218.
Polar bear, its history, 61-70.
Poll-cat, Fox and the, 77.
Polkemmet, Lord, a dinner on veal, 305.
Polson and the last Scottish wolf, 135-137.
Page 274
Ponsonby and the poodle, 118.
Porpoise in Zoological Gardens, 315.
Pope on dogs, 95.
Porcupine ant-eater, 192.
Postman and carrier dog at Moffat, 113.
Postmen, Capt. Osborn, on Arctic foxes as, 146.
Potamochœrus, 240, 245.
Prinny, a pet dog of Collins the artist, 96, 97.
Prison mouse, 209, 210.
Pteropus conspicillatus, 44;
medius, 45.
Puss, a pet hare of the poet Cowper's 214, 215.
Quadrumana, 9-38.
Queen of Charles I. and the lap-dog 107.
Quixote Bowles fond of pigs, 251.
Rabbits, a family all blind of one eye, 222.
Raccoon, 71.
Race-horses, Holcroft's anecdotes of, 263-265.
Ramsgate donkeys, Irishman on, 278.
Rats and mice, 198.
Rats' whiskers good for artists' brushes, 204.
Ravages of rats, 203.
Raven, pet of Wood the surgeon, 299.
Red-deer at Taymouth, 291, 292.
"Relais," a dog belonging to Louis XII., 111.
Revolutionary butchers and their pets, 195, 196.
Rhinoceros and elephant, 229.
Richardson, Sir J., on Arctic fox, 143.
River pig, 245.
Rodent animals, 195, 212.
Rodney, Lord, and his dog Loup, 119.
Rogue elephant, skull of one, 230.
Roos's etchings of sheep, Goethe on, 296, 297.
Ross, Sir James, on Arctic fox, 142, 145.
Rowan berries, dog that fetched, 128.
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal, 119.
Sand liked by hares, 218.
Porpoise in Zoological Gardens, 315.
Pope on dogs, 95.
Porcupine ant-eater, 192.
Postman and carrier dog at Moffat, 113.
Postmen, Capt. Osborn, on Arctic foxes as, 146.
Potamochœrus, 240, 245.
Prinny, a pet dog of Collins the artist, 96, 97.
Prison mouse, 209, 210.
Pteropus conspicillatus, 44;
medius, 45.
Puss, a pet hare of the poet Cowper's 214, 215.
Quadrumana, 9-38.
Queen of Charles I. and the lap-dog 107.
Quixote Bowles fond of pigs, 251.
Rabbits, a family all blind of one eye, 222.
Raccoon, 71.
Race-horses, Holcroft's anecdotes of, 263-265.
Ramsgate donkeys, Irishman on, 278.
Rats and mice, 198.
Rats' whiskers good for artists' brushes, 204.
Ravages of rats, 203.
Raven, pet of Wood the surgeon, 299.
Red-deer at Taymouth, 291, 292.
"Relais," a dog belonging to Louis XII., 111.
Revolutionary butchers and their pets, 195, 196.
Rhinoceros and elephant, 229.
Richardson, Sir J., on Arctic fox, 143.
River pig, 245.
Rodent animals, 195, 212.
Rodney, Lord, and his dog Loup, 119.
Rogue elephant, skull of one, 230.
Roos's etchings of sheep, Goethe on, 296, 297.
Ross, Sir James, on Arctic fox, 142, 145.
Rowan berries, dog that fetched, 128.
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal, 119.
Sand liked by hares, 218.
Page 275
Schimmelpenninck, Mrs, her fondness for dogs, 121.
Scott, Sir Walter, when a boy, saw Burns, 84;
his fondness for his dogs, 122;
on a fox, 138;
visit to the Black Dwarf, 157.
"Scratcher" of Sydney Smith, 311.
Scriptures, dogs mentioned in the, 84, 103, 106.
Seals, their intelligence, 174-182.
Semnopithecus Entellus, an Indian monkey, 35.
Sergent and his spaniel, 196.
Shaved bear at Bristol, 61.
Shawl-goat at John Hunter's menagerie, 301.
Sheep, anecdotes of, 295-298;
and goats, 295;
pet, of Alex. Wood the surgeon, 299.
Shepherd dogs, 82.
Sheridan and the dog, 109;
on the dog-tax, 123.
Shetland seals, 174-182.
Sidmouth, Lord, educated by the Rev. Mr Gilpin, 308.
Skins of rabbits, 223.
Sloth, Sydney Smith on, 224.
Smith, Rev. Sydney, on the differences between man and monkeys,
34, 35;
his answer to Landseer, 78;
remark on a dog, 88;
his dislike of dogs, 124, 125;
on pigs, 254;
and his horses, 271-274.
Smith and the elephant, 234.
Sorrel, the horse of William III., 51.
Southey and his critics, 48;
on dogs, 126;
loved cats, 158-160.
Sow and swine, 238-255.
Spencer, Lord, and Rev. Sydney Smith, 124, 125.
Spermophilus Parryi, 197.
Scott, Sir Walter, when a boy, saw Burns, 84;
his fondness for his dogs, 122;
on a fox, 138;
visit to the Black Dwarf, 157.
"Scratcher" of Sydney Smith, 311.
Scriptures, dogs mentioned in the, 84, 103, 106.
Seals, their intelligence, 174-182.
Semnopithecus Entellus, an Indian monkey, 35.
Sergent and his spaniel, 196.
Shaved bear at Bristol, 61.
Shawl-goat at John Hunter's menagerie, 301.
Sheep, anecdotes of, 295-298;
and goats, 295;
pet, of Alex. Wood the surgeon, 299.
Shepherd dogs, 82.
Sheridan and the dog, 109;
on the dog-tax, 123.
Shetland seals, 174-182.
Sidmouth, Lord, educated by the Rev. Mr Gilpin, 308.
Skins of rabbits, 223.
Sloth, Sydney Smith on, 224.
Smith, Rev. Sydney, on the differences between man and monkeys,
34, 35;
his answer to Landseer, 78;
remark on a dog, 88;
his dislike of dogs, 124, 125;
on pigs, 254;
and his horses, 271-274.
Smith and the elephant, 234.
Sorrel, the horse of William III., 51.
Southey and his critics, 48;
on dogs, 126;
loved cats, 158-160.
Sow and swine, 238-255.
Spencer, Lord, and Rev. Sydney Smith, 124, 125.
Spermophilus Parryi, 197.
Page 276
Sportsmen, exaggeration of some, 221.
Squirrel, 195.
Stags, anecdotes of, 291-293.
Stag-trench at Frankfort, 294.
Stanhope, Earl, on Jacobites calling adherents of Court "Hanover
rats," 202, 203;
on the poet Cowper's tastes, 220.
Stapelia, a plant at the Cape, 25.
Stirling Castle, "Lion's den" at, 162.
Stokes, Capt. Lort, on the red-necked fox-bat, 43.
Story, Judge, names he gave his horses, 274.
Sturge and the pigs, 255.
Surgeon, an enthusiastic fox-hunting, 138.
Swinton, origin of name, 241.
Sykes, Colonel, on the flesh of a fox-bat, 45.
Syria, wild boar in, 244.
Tail, short-tailed and long-tailed horses, 275.
Tailor and the elephant, 235.
Tamandua, or ant-eater, 226.
Tennyson, lines on man, and modern systems, 10;
lines describing tropical bats, 39.
Thackeray on the Egyptian donkey, 285.
Thalassarctos maritimus—the polar bear, 61-70.
Thylacinus Harrisii, 191.
Tibetan mastiff, 86, 87.
Tiger and lion, 161.
Tigers' claws and whiskers regarded as charms, 165.
Tiger-wolf of Tasmania, 190-194.
Tiney, a pet hare of Cowper's, 216.
Toplady on future state of animals, 312.
Tonton, Walpole's pet dog, 129, 130.
Trained monkeys, 26.
Trenck and the tame mouse in prison, 209.
Trichechus rosmarus, 183.
True, on dog being a good judge of eloquence, 127.
Ulysses and his dog, 133.
Ursus lotor, why raccoon was so called, 71.
Squirrel, 195.
Stags, anecdotes of, 291-293.
Stag-trench at Frankfort, 294.
Stanhope, Earl, on Jacobites calling adherents of Court "Hanover
rats," 202, 203;
on the poet Cowper's tastes, 220.
Stapelia, a plant at the Cape, 25.
Stirling Castle, "Lion's den" at, 162.
Stokes, Capt. Lort, on the red-necked fox-bat, 43.
Story, Judge, names he gave his horses, 274.
Sturge and the pigs, 255.
Surgeon, an enthusiastic fox-hunting, 138.
Swinton, origin of name, 241.
Sykes, Colonel, on the flesh of a fox-bat, 45.
Syria, wild boar in, 244.
Tail, short-tailed and long-tailed horses, 275.
Tailor and the elephant, 235.
Tamandua, or ant-eater, 226.
Tennyson, lines on man, and modern systems, 10;
lines describing tropical bats, 39.
Thackeray on the Egyptian donkey, 285.
Thalassarctos maritimus—the polar bear, 61-70.
Thylacinus Harrisii, 191.
Tibetan mastiff, 86, 87.
Tiger and lion, 161.
Tigers' claws and whiskers regarded as charms, 165.
Tiger-wolf of Tasmania, 190-194.
Tiney, a pet hare of Cowper's, 216.
Toplady on future state of animals, 312.
Tonton, Walpole's pet dog, 129, 130.
Trained monkeys, 26.
Trenck and the tame mouse in prison, 209.
Trichechus rosmarus, 183.
True, on dog being a good judge of eloquence, 127.
Ulysses and his dog, 133.
Ursus lotor, why raccoon was so called, 71.
Page 277
Veal ad nauseam, 304
Venison fat, 294.
Vulpes lagopus, 142.
Walker, Dr David, on Polar bear, 62.
Wallace, Alfred, on orang-utan, 11;
on great ant-eater, 227.
Walpole, Horace, the young lady's pet monkey and her parrot, 33,
34;
pet dog Rosette, lines on, 129.
Walrus, history of, 182-188.
Waterton, Charles, letter from, on young gorilla, 18-20;
letter to Mrs Wombwell on her young gorilla, 21;
"Hanover rats," 202.
Watt, James, on rats' whiskers, 204.
Wellington's story of musk rat, 200.
Whalebone, 315.
Whales, 315, 317.
Whateley, Archbishop, and his dogs, 131, 132;
on a cat that rung the bell, 160.
Wild boar, 239-245.
Wilkie, Sir David, and the baby, 3, 4;
and the puppy, 133.
William III., his death, as related by Lord Macaulay, 49-56.
Wilson, the American ornithologist, and the mouse, 211.
Windham, Right Hon. William, on Capt. Phipps's Arctic
expedition, 67, 68;
on the feelings of a baited bull, 313.
Wolf, 135.
Wolf-dog, Hungarian, anecdote of, 102, 103.
Wombat, 193.
Wood, Sandy, and his pets, 298, 299.
Wordsworth on cruelty to horses in Ireland, 275.
Zebra, Lattin's joke, 287.
Zoological Gardens, 249.
THE END.
Venison fat, 294.
Vulpes lagopus, 142.
Walker, Dr David, on Polar bear, 62.
Wallace, Alfred, on orang-utan, 11;
on great ant-eater, 227.
Walpole, Horace, the young lady's pet monkey and her parrot, 33,
34;
pet dog Rosette, lines on, 129.
Walrus, history of, 182-188.
Waterton, Charles, letter from, on young gorilla, 18-20;
letter to Mrs Wombwell on her young gorilla, 21;
"Hanover rats," 202.
Watt, James, on rats' whiskers, 204.
Wellington's story of musk rat, 200.
Whalebone, 315.
Whales, 315, 317.
Whateley, Archbishop, and his dogs, 131, 132;
on a cat that rung the bell, 160.
Wild boar, 239-245.
Wilkie, Sir David, and the baby, 3, 4;
and the puppy, 133.
William III., his death, as related by Lord Macaulay, 49-56.
Wilson, the American ornithologist, and the mouse, 211.
Windham, Right Hon. William, on Capt. Phipps's Arctic
expedition, 67, 68;
on the feelings of a baited bull, 313.
Wolf, 135.
Wolf-dog, Hungarian, anecdote of, 102, 103.
Wombat, 193.
Wood, Sandy, and his pets, 298, 299.
Wordsworth on cruelty to horses in Ireland, 275.
Zebra, Lattin's joke, 287.
Zoological Gardens, 249.
THE END.
Page 278
FOOTNOTES:
[1] There are many anecdotes in this book not included in this list, which gives
however, the principal.
[2] Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A. By the late George Williams Fulcher.
Edited by his Son. P. 157.
[3] Memoir of the Life of William Collins, R.A. By W. Wilkie Collins. I., p. 235.
[4] The future author of "The Woman in White" and "The Dead Secret," and
many other works of celebrity.
[5] Memoirs of James Montgomery. By Holland and Everett. I., p. 283.
[6] The Durian, a peculiarly favourite fruit in several of the Eastern Islands.
[7] Mr Wolf's drawing was taken from a chimpanzee. Mr Waterton's young
chimpanzee was in reality a small-eared gorilla. The ears of the chimpanzee are
large.
[8] Written in 1861. Skins and skeletons of the gorilla are to be found now in
many museums.
[9] For Jan. 1860, vol. iii., p. 177.
[10] Monkeys are very liable to lung diseases in this climate, and all menagerie
keepers are aware of the bad effects of the winter on these denizens of a warm
climate.
[11] See "Lives of the Lindsays," by Lord Lindsay, vol. iii., pp. 371-476.
[12] At Paradise. She describes some plants, one, evidently a Stapelia, is a fine
large star-plant, yellow and spotted like the skin of a leopard, over which there
grows a crop of glossy brown hair, at once handsome and horrible; it crawls flat
on the ground, and its leaves are thick and fat (p. 407).
[13] "Conversations of Lord Byron" (p. 9).
[14] Loc. cit. (p. 1).
[15] "Works of Professor Wilson," vol. i., p. 73.
[16] Gilpin's "Forest Scenery," edited by Sir T. D. Lauder, vol. i., p. 354.
[17] "View of Society and Manners in Italy," vol. ii., p. 475.
[18] Extracted from the late Mr Cunningham's complete edition; we neglected to
quote the page, and have altered and shortened the words.
[19] "Memoirs of Rev. Sydney Smith," i., p. 377.
[20] "Wit and Wisdom of Rev. Sydney Smith" (it is from a lecture at the Royal
Institution), p. 259.
[1] There are many anecdotes in this book not included in this list, which gives
however, the principal.
[2] Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A. By the late George Williams Fulcher.
Edited by his Son. P. 157.
[3] Memoir of the Life of William Collins, R.A. By W. Wilkie Collins. I., p. 235.
[4] The future author of "The Woman in White" and "The Dead Secret," and
many other works of celebrity.
[5] Memoirs of James Montgomery. By Holland and Everett. I., p. 283.
[6] The Durian, a peculiarly favourite fruit in several of the Eastern Islands.
[7] Mr Wolf's drawing was taken from a chimpanzee. Mr Waterton's young
chimpanzee was in reality a small-eared gorilla. The ears of the chimpanzee are
large.
[8] Written in 1861. Skins and skeletons of the gorilla are to be found now in
many museums.
[9] For Jan. 1860, vol. iii., p. 177.
[10] Monkeys are very liable to lung diseases in this climate, and all menagerie
keepers are aware of the bad effects of the winter on these denizens of a warm
climate.
[11] See "Lives of the Lindsays," by Lord Lindsay, vol. iii., pp. 371-476.
[12] At Paradise. She describes some plants, one, evidently a Stapelia, is a fine
large star-plant, yellow and spotted like the skin of a leopard, over which there
grows a crop of glossy brown hair, at once handsome and horrible; it crawls flat
on the ground, and its leaves are thick and fat (p. 407).
[13] "Conversations of Lord Byron" (p. 9).
[14] Loc. cit. (p. 1).
[15] "Works of Professor Wilson," vol. i., p. 73.
[16] Gilpin's "Forest Scenery," edited by Sir T. D. Lauder, vol. i., p. 354.
[17] "View of Society and Manners in Italy," vol. ii., p. 475.
[18] Extracted from the late Mr Cunningham's complete edition; we neglected to
quote the page, and have altered and shortened the words.
[19] "Memoirs of Rev. Sydney Smith," i., p. 377.
[20] "Wit and Wisdom of Rev. Sydney Smith" (it is from a lecture at the Royal
Institution), p. 259.
Page 279
[21] "Life in the Mission, the Camp, and the Zenánà; or, Six Years in India," by
Mrs Colin Mackenzie, vol. ii., p. 126.
[22] Published by James Nisbet & Co., in 1863, 1864.
[23] Illustrated Proceedings of Zoological Society.
[24] This was written some years ago; but I was glad to see when last in the
Zoological Gardens, June 1866, another live specimen of a species of fox bat.
[25] "Narrative of the Voyage," i., p. 96 (1852).
[26] "New Voyage round the World" (1698), p. 381.
[27] "A Book about Doctors," by J. Cordy Jeaffreson, i., p. 23.
[28] Jeremy Taylor, if I remember aright.
[29] Vol. V., pp. 305-310.
[30] "Hungary and Transylvania," &c., by John Paget, Esq., vol. ii. p. 445.
[31] "Conversations of Lord Byron," p. 72.
[32] "Master Humphrey's Clock."
[33] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 331
[34] θἁλλασσα, sea; αρκτος, bear.
[35] Those "Arctic hedge-rows," as Mr David Walker calls them, when, on the
30th November 1857, he was on board the Arctic yacht Fox, wintering in the
floe-ice of Baffin's Bay. "The scene apparent on going on deck after breakfast
was splendid, and unlike anything I ever saw before. The subdued light of the
moon thrown over such a vast expanse of ice, in the distance the loom of a berg,
or the shadow of the hummocks (the Arctic hedge-rows), the only thing to break
the even surface, a few stars peeping out, as if gazing in wonder at the spectacle,
—all united to render the prospect striking, and lead one to contemplate the
goodness and power of the Creator." On the 2d November, they had killed a
bear, which had been bayed and surrounded by their Esquimaux dogs. Captain
M'Clintock shot him. He was 7 feet 3 inches long. Only one of the dogs was
injured by his paws. Much did the hungry beasts enjoy their feast, for they "were
regaled with the entrails, which they polished off in a very short time."—Mr
Walker, in "Belfast News Letter," quoted in "Dublin Natural History Review,"
1858, p. 180.
[36] "Account of Arctic Regions," i. 517.
[37] The anecdote is given with more detail at p. 67.
[38] "Attempt to Reach the North Pole," p. 115.
[39] "Life of Nelson," by Robert Southey, Esq., LL.D., Poet Laureate, p. 11.
[40] "Franklin's Footsteps," by Clement R. Markham, p. 65.
Mrs Colin Mackenzie, vol. ii., p. 126.
[22] Published by James Nisbet & Co., in 1863, 1864.
[23] Illustrated Proceedings of Zoological Society.
[24] This was written some years ago; but I was glad to see when last in the
Zoological Gardens, June 1866, another live specimen of a species of fox bat.
[25] "Narrative of the Voyage," i., p. 96 (1852).
[26] "New Voyage round the World" (1698), p. 381.
[27] "A Book about Doctors," by J. Cordy Jeaffreson, i., p. 23.
[28] Jeremy Taylor, if I remember aright.
[29] Vol. V., pp. 305-310.
[30] "Hungary and Transylvania," &c., by John Paget, Esq., vol. ii. p. 445.
[31] "Conversations of Lord Byron," p. 72.
[32] "Master Humphrey's Clock."
[33] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 331
[34] θἁλλασσα, sea; αρκτος, bear.
[35] Those "Arctic hedge-rows," as Mr David Walker calls them, when, on the
30th November 1857, he was on board the Arctic yacht Fox, wintering in the
floe-ice of Baffin's Bay. "The scene apparent on going on deck after breakfast
was splendid, and unlike anything I ever saw before. The subdued light of the
moon thrown over such a vast expanse of ice, in the distance the loom of a berg,
or the shadow of the hummocks (the Arctic hedge-rows), the only thing to break
the even surface, a few stars peeping out, as if gazing in wonder at the spectacle,
—all united to render the prospect striking, and lead one to contemplate the
goodness and power of the Creator." On the 2d November, they had killed a
bear, which had been bayed and surrounded by their Esquimaux dogs. Captain
M'Clintock shot him. He was 7 feet 3 inches long. Only one of the dogs was
injured by his paws. Much did the hungry beasts enjoy their feast, for they "were
regaled with the entrails, which they polished off in a very short time."—Mr
Walker, in "Belfast News Letter," quoted in "Dublin Natural History Review,"
1858, p. 180.
[36] "Account of Arctic Regions," i. 517.
[37] The anecdote is given with more detail at p. 67.
[38] "Attempt to Reach the North Pole," p. 115.
[39] "Life of Nelson," by Robert Southey, Esq., LL.D., Poet Laureate, p. 11.
[40] "Franklin's Footsteps," by Clement R. Markham, p. 65.
Page 280
[41] "Franklin's Footsteps," by Clement Robert Markham, late of H.M.S.
Assistance, p. 93.
[42] Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, 1787, p. 14, "The Twa Dogs."
[43] "My Schools and Schoolmasters; or, The Story of my Education," by Hugh
Miller, fifth edition, 1856, pp. 321-323.
[44] "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character," tenth edition, 1864, p. 183.
[45] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, i. p. 222.
[46] "The Olio," by the late Francis Grose, Esq., F.A.S., p. 203.
[47] "Dogs and their Ways;" illustrated by numerous anecdotes, compiled from
authentic sources, by the Rev. Charles Williams. 1863.
[48] It may interest the reader, who does not dive deep into literary curiosities, to
refer to the original edition of Hayley's "Cowper" (4to, 1803, vol. i. p. 314),
where the poet, in a letter to Samuel Rose, Esq., written at Weston, August 18,
1788, alludes to his having "composed a spick and span new piece called 'The
Dog and the Water-lily;'" and in his next letter, September 11, he sent this piece
to his excellent friend, the London barrister. Visitors to Olney and Weston, who
have gone over the poet's walks, cannot but have their love for the gentle and
afflicted Cowper most deeply intensified.—See Miller's "First Impressions."
[49] This book, like Storer's other illustrations of the scenes of the poems of
Burns and Bloomfield, drawn immediately after the death of these poets, will
become year by year more valuable.
[50] "Memoirs of the Life of the Right Honourable Sir James Mackintosh,"
edited by his son, Robert James Mackintosh, Esq., vol. i. p. 164.
[51] "Bawsn't," having a white stripe down the face.—Glossary to Burns's
Poems.
[52] See an extract farther on, in proof of this.
[53] "The Jordan and the Rhine" (1854), p. 46, and pp. 91-93.
[54] See Layard's "Nineveh and its Remains," vol. ii. (1849), p. 425.
[55] "Ladak, Physical, Statistical, and Historical," p. 218.
[56] "Memoir of Bishop Blomfield," by his son, i. 220.
[57] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 177.
[58] A selection from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. London, 1866,
pp. 134-138.
[59] "Memoirs of Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart.," edited by his son, Charles
Buxton, Esq., B.A., third edition, p. 139.
[60] Moore's "Life of Byron," chap. vii. p. 74.
Assistance, p. 93.
[42] Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, 1787, p. 14, "The Twa Dogs."
[43] "My Schools and Schoolmasters; or, The Story of my Education," by Hugh
Miller, fifth edition, 1856, pp. 321-323.
[44] "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character," tenth edition, 1864, p. 183.
[45] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, i. p. 222.
[46] "The Olio," by the late Francis Grose, Esq., F.A.S., p. 203.
[47] "Dogs and their Ways;" illustrated by numerous anecdotes, compiled from
authentic sources, by the Rev. Charles Williams. 1863.
[48] It may interest the reader, who does not dive deep into literary curiosities, to
refer to the original edition of Hayley's "Cowper" (4to, 1803, vol. i. p. 314),
where the poet, in a letter to Samuel Rose, Esq., written at Weston, August 18,
1788, alludes to his having "composed a spick and span new piece called 'The
Dog and the Water-lily;'" and in his next letter, September 11, he sent this piece
to his excellent friend, the London barrister. Visitors to Olney and Weston, who
have gone over the poet's walks, cannot but have their love for the gentle and
afflicted Cowper most deeply intensified.—See Miller's "First Impressions."
[49] This book, like Storer's other illustrations of the scenes of the poems of
Burns and Bloomfield, drawn immediately after the death of these poets, will
become year by year more valuable.
[50] "Memoirs of the Life of the Right Honourable Sir James Mackintosh,"
edited by his son, Robert James Mackintosh, Esq., vol. i. p. 164.
[51] "Bawsn't," having a white stripe down the face.—Glossary to Burns's
Poems.
[52] See an extract farther on, in proof of this.
[53] "The Jordan and the Rhine" (1854), p. 46, and pp. 91-93.
[54] See Layard's "Nineveh and its Remains," vol. ii. (1849), p. 425.
[55] "Ladak, Physical, Statistical, and Historical," p. 218.
[56] "Memoir of Bishop Blomfield," by his son, i. 220.
[57] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 177.
[58] A selection from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. London, 1866,
pp. 134-138.
[59] "Memoirs of Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart.," edited by his son, Charles
Buxton, Esq., B.A., third edition, p. 139.
[60] Moore's "Life of Byron," chap. vii. p. 74.
Page 281
[61] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 279.
[62] "Memoirs of the Life of Wm. Collins, R.A.," by his Son, i. 105.
[63] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 203.
[64] Loc. cit. p. 213.
[65] "The Life, Character, and Literary Labours of Samuel Drew, A.M.," by his
eldest son, p. 66.
[66] "Memoirs of Samuel Foote, Esq.," &c., by W. Cooke, Esq., vol. ii. p. 36.
[67] "Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A.," by the late George William Fulcher,
p. 155.
[68] Edinburgh Review, 1836, vol. lxiv. p. 17.
[69] "Life and Letters of Elizabeth, last Duchess of Gordon," by the Rev. A.
Moody Stuart, 1865, pp. 198-200.
[70] Portion of the Journal kept by Thomas Raikes, Esq., from 1831 to 1837,
vol. iii. p. 134.
[71] "Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds," by C. R. Leslie, R.A. and Tom
Taylor, M.A., vol. ii. p. 191.
[72] "John Leifchild, D.D. His Public Ministry, &c.," by J. R. Leifchild, A.M., p.
143.
[73] Agnes Strickland, "Lives of the Queens of England," vol. v. p. 293 (ed.
1851).
[74] "A History of Peeblesshire," by William Chambers of Glenormiston, p. 428.
[75] Vol. i. p. 156.
[76] Memoir by his friend, the Rev. John W. Burgon, p. 204.
[77] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 44.
[78] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 43.
[79] "Charles Lamb: his Friends, his Haunts, and his Books," by Percy
Fitzgerald, M.A., 1866, p. 161.
[80] Cunningham's Edition of Correspondence, viii. p. 331.
[81] "The Table Talk; or, Familiar Discourse of Martin Luther," p. 66.
[82] "The Diary of an Invalid; being the Journal of a Tour in Pursuit of Health in
Portugal, Italy, Switzerland, and France in 1817-1819," p. 144.
[83] "Common-Place Book," 4th ser. p. 423.
[84] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 24.
[62] "Memoirs of the Life of Wm. Collins, R.A.," by his Son, i. 105.
[63] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 203.
[64] Loc. cit. p. 213.
[65] "The Life, Character, and Literary Labours of Samuel Drew, A.M.," by his
eldest son, p. 66.
[66] "Memoirs of Samuel Foote, Esq.," &c., by W. Cooke, Esq., vol. ii. p. 36.
[67] "Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A.," by the late George William Fulcher,
p. 155.
[68] Edinburgh Review, 1836, vol. lxiv. p. 17.
[69] "Life and Letters of Elizabeth, last Duchess of Gordon," by the Rev. A.
Moody Stuart, 1865, pp. 198-200.
[70] Portion of the Journal kept by Thomas Raikes, Esq., from 1831 to 1837,
vol. iii. p. 134.
[71] "Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds," by C. R. Leslie, R.A. and Tom
Taylor, M.A., vol. ii. p. 191.
[72] "John Leifchild, D.D. His Public Ministry, &c.," by J. R. Leifchild, A.M., p.
143.
[73] Agnes Strickland, "Lives of the Queens of England," vol. v. p. 293 (ed.
1851).
[74] "A History of Peeblesshire," by William Chambers of Glenormiston, p. 428.
[75] Vol. i. p. 156.
[76] Memoir by his friend, the Rev. John W. Burgon, p. 204.
[77] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 44.
[78] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 43.
[79] "Charles Lamb: his Friends, his Haunts, and his Books," by Percy
Fitzgerald, M.A., 1866, p. 161.
[80] Cunningham's Edition of Correspondence, viii. p. 331.
[81] "The Table Talk; or, Familiar Discourse of Martin Luther," p. 66.
[82] "The Diary of an Invalid; being the Journal of a Tour in Pursuit of Health in
Portugal, Italy, Switzerland, and France in 1817-1819," p. 144.
[83] "Common-Place Book," 4th ser. p. 423.
[84] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 24.
Page 282
[85] "Memoir of Baron Larrey, Surgeon-in-chief of the Grande Armée." London.
1861. P. 191.
[86] "England under the House of Hanover," by Thomas Wright, Esq., M.A.,
vol. ii. p. 57.
[87] "Memoir of Perthes," vol. ii. pp. 153-4.
[88] "Original Anecdotes of Peter the Great, collected from the conversation of
several persons of distinction at St Petersburg and Moscow," by Mr Stœhlin,
Member of the Imp. Acad., St Peters., p. 306.
[89] A denthtchick is a soldier appointed to wait on an officer.
[90] "Recollections and Anecdotes," 2d ser., by Capt. R. H. Gronow, p. 194
(1863).
[91] "History of England, from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Versailles,"
by Lord Mahon, vii. p. 261.
[92] See Mundy's "Life of Lord Rodney," vol. i. 258. "Remember me to my dear
girls and poor Loup. Kiss them for me. I hope they were pleased with my letter."
Vol. ii. p. 28.
[93] "Life of Thomas Ruddiman, A.M., the Keeper for almost fifty years of the
Library belonging to the Faculty of Advocates, Edinburgh," p. 4.
[94] See her "Autobiography," p. 85, for an anecdote of her saving a little dog,
tied in a basket of stones, from the water. She called it "Moses."
[95] Vol. ii. pp. 264, 265.
[96] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, &c.,
vol. i. p. 200.
[97] "Life of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, &c., vol. i.
p. 379.
[98] Vol. i. p. 267.
[99] "Life and Correspondence," vol. v. p. 133.
[100] "John Leifchild, D.D., his Public Ministry, Private Usefulness, and
Personal Characteristics," founded upon an autobiography, by J. R. Leifchild,
A.M., p. 34.
[101] See Burgon's "Memoir of Patrick F. Tytler," p. 140.
[102] Letter first published in Cunningham's Chronological Edition, vol. vi. p. 4.
[103] Richmond Hill. The dog died at Strawberry Hill.
[104] Correspondence, chronologically arranged by Peter Cunningham, viii. p.
39.
[105] Loc. cit., p. 44.
1861. P. 191.
[86] "England under the House of Hanover," by Thomas Wright, Esq., M.A.,
vol. ii. p. 57.
[87] "Memoir of Perthes," vol. ii. pp. 153-4.
[88] "Original Anecdotes of Peter the Great, collected from the conversation of
several persons of distinction at St Petersburg and Moscow," by Mr Stœhlin,
Member of the Imp. Acad., St Peters., p. 306.
[89] A denthtchick is a soldier appointed to wait on an officer.
[90] "Recollections and Anecdotes," 2d ser., by Capt. R. H. Gronow, p. 194
(1863).
[91] "History of England, from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Versailles,"
by Lord Mahon, vii. p. 261.
[92] See Mundy's "Life of Lord Rodney," vol. i. 258. "Remember me to my dear
girls and poor Loup. Kiss them for me. I hope they were pleased with my letter."
Vol. ii. p. 28.
[93] "Life of Thomas Ruddiman, A.M., the Keeper for almost fifty years of the
Library belonging to the Faculty of Advocates, Edinburgh," p. 4.
[94] See her "Autobiography," p. 85, for an anecdote of her saving a little dog,
tied in a basket of stones, from the water. She called it "Moses."
[95] Vol. ii. pp. 264, 265.
[96] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, &c.,
vol. i. p. 200.
[97] "Life of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, &c., vol. i.
p. 379.
[98] Vol. i. p. 267.
[99] "Life and Correspondence," vol. v. p. 133.
[100] "John Leifchild, D.D., his Public Ministry, Private Usefulness, and
Personal Characteristics," founded upon an autobiography, by J. R. Leifchild,
A.M., p. 34.
[101] See Burgon's "Memoir of Patrick F. Tytler," p. 140.
[102] Letter first published in Cunningham's Chronological Edition, vol. vi. p. 4.
[103] Richmond Hill. The dog died at Strawberry Hill.
[104] Correspondence, chronologically arranged by Peter Cunningham, viii. p.
39.
[105] Loc. cit., p. 44.
Page 283
[106] Vol. vi. p. 117.
[107] "The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford," edited by Peter
Cunningham, now first chronologically arranged, ix. p. 173.
[108] Loc. cit., viii. p. 35.
[109] Fitzpatrick, "Memoirs of Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin," vol. i.
pp. 21, 22 (1864).
[110] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A.," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, i. 193.
[111] Third edition, 1806, p. 385.
[112] "The Art of Deer-Stalking," &c., by William Scrope, Esq., F.L.S., p. 371.
[113] Edinburgh Review, 1841, vol. lxxiv. p. 77.
[114] "Noctes Ambrosianæ." Works of Professor Wilson, vol. i. pp. 136-138.
[115] "Fauna Boreali-Americana." Mammalia, p. 87.
[116] Appendix to "Second Voyage," p. xii.
[117] "Fauna Grœnlandica," p. 20.
[118] Dublin Nat. Hist. Review, 1858, p. 166.
[119] "Stray Leaves from an Arctic Journal," p. 176.
[120] "Private Journal," p. 105.
[121] Mark Lemon, "Jest-Book," p. 280.
[122] "British Quadrupeds." The professor has long retired to his favourite
Selborne. He occupies the house of Gilbert White; and a new illustrated edition
of the "Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne" has been long looked for
from him.
[123] "The Instructive Picture Book; or, A Few Attractive Lessons from the
Natural History of Animals," by Adam White, p. 15 (fifth edition, 1862).
[124] "The Works of Jeremy Bentham," now first collected under the
superintendence of his executor, John Bowring, vol. xi. pp. 80, 81.
[125] Jeremy Bentham's house in Queen's Square was that which had been
occupied by the great poet.
[126] Vol. i. No. 3. p. 27.
[127] Times, 18 Dec. 1830, quoted by Southey, "Common-Place Book," iv. p.
489.
[128] "Physic and Physicians," a medical sketch-book, vol. ii. p. 363 (1839).
[129] "A Book for a Rainy Day," p. 103. Old Smith was a regular hunter after
legacies, and like all such was often disappointed. His "Nollekens" is a fine
[107] "The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford," edited by Peter
Cunningham, now first chronologically arranged, ix. p. 173.
[108] Loc. cit., viii. p. 35.
[109] Fitzpatrick, "Memoirs of Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin," vol. i.
pp. 21, 22 (1864).
[110] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A.," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, i. 193.
[111] Third edition, 1806, p. 385.
[112] "The Art of Deer-Stalking," &c., by William Scrope, Esq., F.L.S., p. 371.
[113] Edinburgh Review, 1841, vol. lxxiv. p. 77.
[114] "Noctes Ambrosianæ." Works of Professor Wilson, vol. i. pp. 136-138.
[115] "Fauna Boreali-Americana." Mammalia, p. 87.
[116] Appendix to "Second Voyage," p. xii.
[117] "Fauna Grœnlandica," p. 20.
[118] Dublin Nat. Hist. Review, 1858, p. 166.
[119] "Stray Leaves from an Arctic Journal," p. 176.
[120] "Private Journal," p. 105.
[121] Mark Lemon, "Jest-Book," p. 280.
[122] "British Quadrupeds." The professor has long retired to his favourite
Selborne. He occupies the house of Gilbert White; and a new illustrated edition
of the "Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne" has been long looked for
from him.
[123] "The Instructive Picture Book; or, A Few Attractive Lessons from the
Natural History of Animals," by Adam White, p. 15 (fifth edition, 1862).
[124] "The Works of Jeremy Bentham," now first collected under the
superintendence of his executor, John Bowring, vol. xi. pp. 80, 81.
[125] Jeremy Bentham's house in Queen's Square was that which had been
occupied by the great poet.
[126] Vol. i. No. 3. p. 27.
[127] Times, 18 Dec. 1830, quoted by Southey, "Common-Place Book," iv. p.
489.
[128] "Physic and Physicians," a medical sketch-book, vol. ii. p. 363 (1839).
[129] "A Book for a Rainy Day," p. 103. Old Smith was a regular hunter after
legacies, and like all such was often disappointed. His "Nollekens" is a fine
Page 284
example.
[130] "Memoirs of James Montgomery," by Holland and Everett, iv. pp. 114,
115.
[131] "A History of Peeblesshire," by William Chambers of Glenormiston, p.
403 (1864).
[132] See vol. v. p. 145.
[133] A cat of Mr Bedford's.
[134] "Life and Correspondence," v. p. 223.
[135] On Instinct, a Lecture delivered before the Dublin Natural History Society,
11th November 1842. Dublin, 1847. P. 10.
[136] "Physics and Physicians: a Medical Sketch-Book," vol. i. p. 174. It was
published anonymously in 1839.
[137] "Life in the Mission, the Camp, and the Zenánà; or, Six Years in India,"
vol. ii. p. 382.
[138] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 237.
[139] August 20, 1713. Chalmers's edition of "British Essayists," vol. xviii. p.
85.
[140] Up for lost.
[141] August 28, 1713. Chalmers's edition of "British Essayists," vol. xviii p.
116.
[142] "Memoirs of Antonio Canova," by J. S. Memes, A.M. 1825. Pp. 332, 334,
346.
[143] "The Life of Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B," by Major-General Elers
Napier, vol. i. p. 8.
[144] "A Tour in Tartan-Land," by Cuthbert Bede.
[145] "Life," vol. iii. p. 188.
[146] Vol. viii. pp. 1-16.
[147] Trichechus, from the Greek τριχας εχων, "having hairs:" walrus, the
German wallross, "whale-horse."
[148] See Fleming's "British Animals," p. 19.
[149] Mém. Acad. Imp. Sc. St. Pétersb., 1838, p. 232. Professor Owen has
communicated to the Zoological Society the anatomy of the young walrus; and
much valuable information will be found in Dr Gray's "Catalogue of Mammalia
in the British Museum."
[150] "Distant Correspondents," in the Essays of Elia, first series ed. 1841, p. 67.
[151] Jesse's "Life of Beau Brummell," vol. i. p. 288.
[130] "Memoirs of James Montgomery," by Holland and Everett, iv. pp. 114,
115.
[131] "A History of Peeblesshire," by William Chambers of Glenormiston, p.
403 (1864).
[132] See vol. v. p. 145.
[133] A cat of Mr Bedford's.
[134] "Life and Correspondence," v. p. 223.
[135] On Instinct, a Lecture delivered before the Dublin Natural History Society,
11th November 1842. Dublin, 1847. P. 10.
[136] "Physics and Physicians: a Medical Sketch-Book," vol. i. p. 174. It was
published anonymously in 1839.
[137] "Life in the Mission, the Camp, and the Zenánà; or, Six Years in India,"
vol. ii. p. 382.
[138] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 237.
[139] August 20, 1713. Chalmers's edition of "British Essayists," vol. xviii. p.
85.
[140] Up for lost.
[141] August 28, 1713. Chalmers's edition of "British Essayists," vol. xviii p.
116.
[142] "Memoirs of Antonio Canova," by J. S. Memes, A.M. 1825. Pp. 332, 334,
346.
[143] "The Life of Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B," by Major-General Elers
Napier, vol. i. p. 8.
[144] "A Tour in Tartan-Land," by Cuthbert Bede.
[145] "Life," vol. iii. p. 188.
[146] Vol. viii. pp. 1-16.
[147] Trichechus, from the Greek τριχας εχων, "having hairs:" walrus, the
German wallross, "whale-horse."
[148] See Fleming's "British Animals," p. 19.
[149] Mém. Acad. Imp. Sc. St. Pétersb., 1838, p. 232. Professor Owen has
communicated to the Zoological Society the anatomy of the young walrus; and
much valuable information will be found in Dr Gray's "Catalogue of Mammalia
in the British Museum."
[150] "Distant Correspondents," in the Essays of Elia, first series ed. 1841, p. 67.
[151] Jesse's "Life of Beau Brummell," vol. i. p. 288.
Page 285
[152] "Memoirs, Correspondence," &c., edited by Lord John Russell, vol. iii. p.
179.
[153] So called from the Latin word marsupium, a pouch.
[154] Diabolus ursinus, the ursine opossum of Van Diemen's Land, a great
destroyer of young lambs.
[155] From the Greek words for a pouch and a dog, θὑλακος and κὡον. Dr Gray
had previously named it Peracyon, from πἡρα, a bag, and κὑων, a dog.
[156] Echidna aculeata, or E. hystrix, the porcupine ant-eater, a curious
edentate, spine-covered quadruped, closely allied to the still stranger
Ornithorhynchus, the duck-bill.
[157] Phascolomys Vombatus, a curious, broad-backed, and large-headed
marsupial, two specimens of which are in the Zoological Gardens. It is a
burrower, and in the teeth it resembles the rodent animals; hence its name, from
φασκωλον, a pouch, and μὑς, a mouse.
[158] Mitchell's "Popular Guide to the Zoological Gardens," p. 9. (1852.)
[159] Mark Lemon's "Jest Book," p. 180.
[160] Ed. 1845, p. 339.
[161] P. 441. Sir John Richardson told me that the species was Spermophilus
Parryi.
[162] The Eventful Voyage of H.M. Discovery Ship Resolute to the Arctic
Regions, in Search of Sir John Franklin, in 1852-3-4, pp. 314, 315.
[163] "The Life of General Sir Howard Douglas, Bart., G.C.B., F.R.S., D.C.L.,
from his Notes, Conversations, and Correspondence," by S. W. Fullom. 1863. P.
28.
[164] "History of England, from the Peace of Utrecht," by Lord Mahon, vol. vii.
p. 465.
[165] Life of Sydney Smith, by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. 374.
[166] "Correspondence of Thomas Gray and Mason, edited from the originals,"
by the Rev. John Mitford, p. 112.
[167] Dr Bowring's "Life of Jeremy Bentham," Works, vol. xi. p. 80, 81.
[168] "Bowring's Life," vol. x., Works, p. 186.
[169] By Robert Chambers, Edinburgh, 1851, 4 vols., vol. i., p. 146.
[170] The stick used for clearing away the clods from the plough.
[171] An occasional ear of corn in a thrave,—that is, twenty-four sheaves.
[172] "Worthies of England," vol. i. p. 545.
[173] "Wilson's Life," p. 28.
179.
[153] So called from the Latin word marsupium, a pouch.
[154] Diabolus ursinus, the ursine opossum of Van Diemen's Land, a great
destroyer of young lambs.
[155] From the Greek words for a pouch and a dog, θὑλακος and κὡον. Dr Gray
had previously named it Peracyon, from πἡρα, a bag, and κὑων, a dog.
[156] Echidna aculeata, or E. hystrix, the porcupine ant-eater, a curious
edentate, spine-covered quadruped, closely allied to the still stranger
Ornithorhynchus, the duck-bill.
[157] Phascolomys Vombatus, a curious, broad-backed, and large-headed
marsupial, two specimens of which are in the Zoological Gardens. It is a
burrower, and in the teeth it resembles the rodent animals; hence its name, from
φασκωλον, a pouch, and μὑς, a mouse.
[158] Mitchell's "Popular Guide to the Zoological Gardens," p. 9. (1852.)
[159] Mark Lemon's "Jest Book," p. 180.
[160] Ed. 1845, p. 339.
[161] P. 441. Sir John Richardson told me that the species was Spermophilus
Parryi.
[162] The Eventful Voyage of H.M. Discovery Ship Resolute to the Arctic
Regions, in Search of Sir John Franklin, in 1852-3-4, pp. 314, 315.
[163] "The Life of General Sir Howard Douglas, Bart., G.C.B., F.R.S., D.C.L.,
from his Notes, Conversations, and Correspondence," by S. W. Fullom. 1863. P.
28.
[164] "History of England, from the Peace of Utrecht," by Lord Mahon, vol. vii.
p. 465.
[165] Life of Sydney Smith, by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. 374.
[166] "Correspondence of Thomas Gray and Mason, edited from the originals,"
by the Rev. John Mitford, p. 112.
[167] Dr Bowring's "Life of Jeremy Bentham," Works, vol. xi. p. 80, 81.
[168] "Bowring's Life," vol. x., Works, p. 186.
[169] By Robert Chambers, Edinburgh, 1851, 4 vols., vol. i., p. 146.
[170] The stick used for clearing away the clods from the plough.
[171] An occasional ear of corn in a thrave,—that is, twenty-four sheaves.
[172] "Worthies of England," vol. i. p. 545.
[173] "Wilson's Life," p. 28.
Page 286
[174] "Memoir of Wilson," p. 27, prefixed to his poetical works. Belfast, 1844.
[175] Gentleman's Magazine, for June 1784, being the sixth number of vol. liv.,
pp. 412-414, "Unnoticed Properties of that little animal the Hare."
[176] "History of England," vol. vi. p. 486.
[177] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 59.
[178] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 182.
[179] Biography of S. Bisset in G. H. Wilson's "Eccentric Mirror," vol. i., No. 3,
p. 29.
[180] Published by Lord Lindsay in vol. iii. of his "Lives of the Lindsays," p.
387.
[181] "Worthies of England," vol. ii. p. 445 (ed. 1840).
[182] Dr Hannah's "Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers,
D.D., L.L.D.," vol. ii. p. 237.
[183] Sydney Smith, "Review of Waterton's Wanderings." Edinburgh Review,
1826. Works, vol. ii. p. 145.
[184] From μυρμηξ, ant; ψαγω, I eat; jubata, maned.
[185] "Wanderings in South America" (Third Journey), p. 159, (ed. 1839).
[186] "A Narrative of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro," by Alfred R.
Wallace, 1853, p. 452.
[187] This memoir has been published, and the subject of it was this very ant-
eater. Professor Owen has introduced many striking facts from the history of its
structure, in his lecture delivered at Exeter Hall, 1863, and published by the
Messrs Nisbet.
[188] "The Life of the Right Hon. Francis North, Baron Guilford, Lord Keeper
of the Great Seal, under King Charles II. and King James II., &c." By the Hon.
Roger North. A New Edition, in three vols., 1826, vol. ii. p. 167.
[189] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 329.
[190] "John Holland and James Everett," vol. iv. p. 283.
[191] "A Book for a Rainy Day," p. 92.
[192] "Letters of Horace Walpole," edited by Peter Cunningham, ix., 319.
[193] "Memoirs of Baron Cuvier," by Mrs R. Lee (formerly Mrs T Ed.
Bowdich), 1833, p. 93.
[194] "Letters from Sarawak," p. 104. 1854.
[195] "Divides the hoof, and is cloven-footed, yet cheweth not the cud" (Lev. ii.
7).
[196] Boner's "Chamois Hunting in the Mountains of Bavaria," p. 97.
[175] Gentleman's Magazine, for June 1784, being the sixth number of vol. liv.,
pp. 412-414, "Unnoticed Properties of that little animal the Hare."
[176] "History of England," vol. vi. p. 486.
[177] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 59.
[178] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 182.
[179] Biography of S. Bisset in G. H. Wilson's "Eccentric Mirror," vol. i., No. 3,
p. 29.
[180] Published by Lord Lindsay in vol. iii. of his "Lives of the Lindsays," p.
387.
[181] "Worthies of England," vol. ii. p. 445 (ed. 1840).
[182] Dr Hannah's "Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers,
D.D., L.L.D.," vol. ii. p. 237.
[183] Sydney Smith, "Review of Waterton's Wanderings." Edinburgh Review,
1826. Works, vol. ii. p. 145.
[184] From μυρμηξ, ant; ψαγω, I eat; jubata, maned.
[185] "Wanderings in South America" (Third Journey), p. 159, (ed. 1839).
[186] "A Narrative of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro," by Alfred R.
Wallace, 1853, p. 452.
[187] This memoir has been published, and the subject of it was this very ant-
eater. Professor Owen has introduced many striking facts from the history of its
structure, in his lecture delivered at Exeter Hall, 1863, and published by the
Messrs Nisbet.
[188] "The Life of the Right Hon. Francis North, Baron Guilford, Lord Keeper
of the Great Seal, under King Charles II. and King James II., &c." By the Hon.
Roger North. A New Edition, in three vols., 1826, vol. ii. p. 167.
[189] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 329.
[190] "John Holland and James Everett," vol. iv. p. 283.
[191] "A Book for a Rainy Day," p. 92.
[192] "Letters of Horace Walpole," edited by Peter Cunningham, ix., 319.
[193] "Memoirs of Baron Cuvier," by Mrs R. Lee (formerly Mrs T Ed.
Bowdich), 1833, p. 93.
[194] "Letters from Sarawak," p. 104. 1854.
[195] "Divides the hoof, and is cloven-footed, yet cheweth not the cud" (Lev. ii.
7).
[196] Boner's "Chamois Hunting in the Mountains of Bavaria," p. 97.
Page 287
[197] "Travels" (Home and Colonial Library), p. 147.
[198] "Travels in Syria and the Holy Land," p. 9.
[199] Symbolæ Physicæ.
[200] Potamochœrus penicellatus. Ποταμος, a river; χοἱρος, a pig; penicellatus,
pencilled. It is said to be the Sus porcus of Linnæus.
[201] "A New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea, written
originally in Dutch." London, 1705, p. 247.
[202] See Dr Sutherland's interesting account in his "Journal of a Voyage in
Baffin Bay and Barrow's Straits in the years 1850, 1851;" a truly excellent work
on the Arctic regions, by one who is now Surveyor of Natal.
[203] See Biography in G. H. Wilson's Eccentric Mirror, i., No. 3, p. 30.
[204] "Common-Place Book," iv. p. 514.
[205] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 107.
[206] Ibid., p. 337.
[207] "Memoir of the Life of Elizabeth Fry," vol. ii. p. 30. 1847.
[208] "Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A.," by the late George William
Fulcher, edited by his Son, p. 122. 1856.
[209] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 328.
[210] Ibid., p. 2.
[211] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 31. The latter of these jests is attributed by
Dean Ramsay to a half-witted Ayrshire man, who said he "kenned a miller had
aye a gey fat sow."—Reminiscences, p. 197.
[212] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 269. This worthy nobleman was and is much
attached to his home-farm. He is well known in Perthshire.
[213] "Wit and Wisdom of Rev. Sydney Smith," third edition, p. 253. From a
lecture at Royal Institution.
[214] "Memoirs of Joseph Sturge," by Henry Richard.
[215] "Journal of Horticultural Tour," p. 306.
[216] "Memorials of Angus and the Mearns," by Andrew Jervise (1861), p. 175.
[217] "History of the Life and Times of Edmund Burke," by Thomas Macknight,
vol. i. p. 160.
[218] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," &c., by James Northcote, Esq., R.A. (2d
edition), vol. ii. p. 80.
[219] "Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds," by C. R. Leslie and Tom Taylor,
M.A., vol. ii. p. 219.
[198] "Travels in Syria and the Holy Land," p. 9.
[199] Symbolæ Physicæ.
[200] Potamochœrus penicellatus. Ποταμος, a river; χοἱρος, a pig; penicellatus,
pencilled. It is said to be the Sus porcus of Linnæus.
[201] "A New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea, written
originally in Dutch." London, 1705, p. 247.
[202] See Dr Sutherland's interesting account in his "Journal of a Voyage in
Baffin Bay and Barrow's Straits in the years 1850, 1851;" a truly excellent work
on the Arctic regions, by one who is now Surveyor of Natal.
[203] See Biography in G. H. Wilson's Eccentric Mirror, i., No. 3, p. 30.
[204] "Common-Place Book," iv. p. 514.
[205] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 107.
[206] Ibid., p. 337.
[207] "Memoir of the Life of Elizabeth Fry," vol. ii. p. 30. 1847.
[208] "Life of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A.," by the late George William
Fulcher, edited by his Son, p. 122. 1856.
[209] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 328.
[210] Ibid., p. 2.
[211] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 31. The latter of these jests is attributed by
Dean Ramsay to a half-witted Ayrshire man, who said he "kenned a miller had
aye a gey fat sow."—Reminiscences, p. 197.
[212] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 269. This worthy nobleman was and is much
attached to his home-farm. He is well known in Perthshire.
[213] "Wit and Wisdom of Rev. Sydney Smith," third edition, p. 253. From a
lecture at Royal Institution.
[214] "Memoirs of Joseph Sturge," by Henry Richard.
[215] "Journal of Horticultural Tour," p. 306.
[216] "Memorials of Angus and the Mearns," by Andrew Jervise (1861), p. 175.
[217] "History of the Life and Times of Edmund Burke," by Thomas Macknight,
vol. i. p. 160.
[218] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," &c., by James Northcote, Esq., R.A. (2d
edition), vol. ii. p. 80.
[219] "Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds," by C. R. Leslie and Tom Taylor,
M.A., vol. ii. p. 219.
Page 288
[220] "Lives of Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, and of Bernard Gilpin," by
William Gilpin, M.A. (3d edition), 1780, p. 275.
[221] Loc. cit., p. 284.
[222] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 39.
[223] "The Lives of Robert Haldane of Airthrey, and of his Brother, James
Alexander Haldane," by Alex. Haldane, Esq., of the Inner Temple (1852), p. 223.
[224] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 318.
[225] "Memoirs of Thomas Holcroft" (ed. 1852), pp. 40, 41.
[226] "Memoirs of the late Thomas Holcroft," written by himself (ed. London,
1852), p. 112.
[227] "Lives of the Chief-Justices of England" (Lord Ellenborough), vol. iii. p.
100.
[228] Vol i. pp. 94-115.
[229] "Physic and Physicians: a Medical Sketch-Book," vol. i. p. 59.
[230] "Memoirs of Frederick Perthes," vol. i. p. 309.
[231] "Lives of the Engineers," vol. ii. p. 185.
[232] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i.
pp. 172-174.
[233] A horse which he called so.
[234] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i.
p. 117.
[235] Mrs Marcet, in Lady Holland's Memoirs of her Father, the Rev. Sydney
Smith, vol. i. p. 364.
[236] "Life and Letters of Joseph Story, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court
of the United States, and Dane Professor of Law at Harvard University," edited
by his son, Wm. W. Story, vol. ii. p. 611.
[237] "The Intellectuality of Domestic Animals: a Lecture Delivered before the
Royal Zoological Society of Ireland," p. 25. Dublin, 1847.
[238] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 263.
[239] "The Poems of S. T. Coleridge," pp. 26, 27 (1844).
[240] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A.," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, vol. i. p. 232.
[241] Edition of Sir T. D. Lauder, Bart., vol. ii. p. 273.
[242] "Gilpin's Forest Scenery," vol. ii. p. 275. Edited by Sir T. D. Lauder.
[243] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 129.
William Gilpin, M.A. (3d edition), 1780, p. 275.
[221] Loc. cit., p. 284.
[222] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 39.
[223] "The Lives of Robert Haldane of Airthrey, and of his Brother, James
Alexander Haldane," by Alex. Haldane, Esq., of the Inner Temple (1852), p. 223.
[224] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 318.
[225] "Memoirs of Thomas Holcroft" (ed. 1852), pp. 40, 41.
[226] "Memoirs of the late Thomas Holcroft," written by himself (ed. London,
1852), p. 112.
[227] "Lives of the Chief-Justices of England" (Lord Ellenborough), vol. iii. p.
100.
[228] Vol i. pp. 94-115.
[229] "Physic and Physicians: a Medical Sketch-Book," vol. i. p. 59.
[230] "Memoirs of Frederick Perthes," vol. i. p. 309.
[231] "Lives of the Engineers," vol. ii. p. 185.
[232] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i.
pp. 172-174.
[233] A horse which he called so.
[234] "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i.
p. 117.
[235] Mrs Marcet, in Lady Holland's Memoirs of her Father, the Rev. Sydney
Smith, vol. i. p. 364.
[236] "Life and Letters of Joseph Story, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court
of the United States, and Dane Professor of Law at Harvard University," edited
by his son, Wm. W. Story, vol. ii. p. 611.
[237] "The Intellectuality of Domestic Animals: a Lecture Delivered before the
Royal Zoological Society of Ireland," p. 25. Dublin, 1847.
[238] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 263.
[239] "The Poems of S. T. Coleridge," pp. 26, 27 (1844).
[240] "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, R.A.," by his son, W. Wilkie
Collins, vol. i. p. 232.
[241] Edition of Sir T. D. Lauder, Bart., vol. ii. p. 273.
[242] "Gilpin's Forest Scenery," vol. ii. p. 275. Edited by Sir T. D. Lauder.
[243] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 129.
Page 289
[244] Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 307.
[245] Photius, quoted by Southey in his "Common-Place Book," first series, p.
588.
[246] "Memoirs of the Life of the Right Hon. Warren Hastings, compiled from
original papers," by the Rev. G. R. Gleig, M.A., vol. iii. p. 367.
[247] "The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli, Esq., M.A., R.A.," the former
written and the latter edited by John Knowles, Esq., F.R.S., vol. i. p. 364.
[248] "A Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland,
&c., vol. i. p. 152.
[249] "Memoirs and Letters of Rev. Sydney Smith," vol. ii. p. 393.
[250] "A Century of Anecdote from 1760 to 1860," by John Timbs, F.S.A., vol. i.
p. 252 (1864).
[251] "Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo," by Mr M. A. Titmarsh,
p. 177 (1846).
[252] "View of Society and Manners in France, Switzerland, and Germany," vol.
i. pp. 191, 192 (9th edition).
[253] Quoted in Timbs' "Century of Anecdote," vol. i. p. 223 (1864).
[254] "A Ride through the Nubian Desert," by Captain W. Peel, R.N., p. 49.
[255] "Life and Correspondence of Charles Lord Metcalfe," by John William
Kaye, vol. i., p. 8.
[256] "The Art of Deer-Stalking," p. 33.
[257] "Deer-Stalking," p. 229.
[258] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," vol. i., p. 124.
[259] "Truth and Poetry from my own Life; the Autobiography of Goethe,"
edited by Parke Godwin, part i., p. 3.
[260] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 18.
[261] Translated from the German by John Oxenford, vol. i., p. 138.
[262] Roos must have been limited in his powers, unlike our Landseer, who
paints dogs, sheep, horses, cows, stags, and fowls with equal power.
[263] Dean Ramsay's "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character," 10th
edition, p. 19.
[264] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 214.
[265] There are two copperplates devoted to the figure and portrait of "lang
Sandy Wood," as he was called.
[266] "Philosophical Transactions," LXI. p. 176 (1771). Paper on Nyl-ghau, with
plate, by George Stubbs, engraved by Basire.
[245] Photius, quoted by Southey in his "Common-Place Book," first series, p.
588.
[246] "Memoirs of the Life of the Right Hon. Warren Hastings, compiled from
original papers," by the Rev. G. R. Gleig, M.A., vol. iii. p. 367.
[247] "The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli, Esq., M.A., R.A.," the former
written and the latter edited by John Knowles, Esq., F.R.S., vol. i. p. 364.
[248] "A Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland,
&c., vol. i. p. 152.
[249] "Memoirs and Letters of Rev. Sydney Smith," vol. ii. p. 393.
[250] "A Century of Anecdote from 1760 to 1860," by John Timbs, F.S.A., vol. i.
p. 252 (1864).
[251] "Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo," by Mr M. A. Titmarsh,
p. 177 (1846).
[252] "View of Society and Manners in France, Switzerland, and Germany," vol.
i. pp. 191, 192 (9th edition).
[253] Quoted in Timbs' "Century of Anecdote," vol. i. p. 223 (1864).
[254] "A Ride through the Nubian Desert," by Captain W. Peel, R.N., p. 49.
[255] "Life and Correspondence of Charles Lord Metcalfe," by John William
Kaye, vol. i., p. 8.
[256] "The Art of Deer-Stalking," p. 33.
[257] "Deer-Stalking," p. 229.
[258] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," vol. i., p. 124.
[259] "Truth and Poetry from my own Life; the Autobiography of Goethe,"
edited by Parke Godwin, part i., p. 3.
[260] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 18.
[261] Translated from the German by John Oxenford, vol. i., p. 138.
[262] Roos must have been limited in his powers, unlike our Landseer, who
paints dogs, sheep, horses, cows, stags, and fowls with equal power.
[263] Dean Ramsay's "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character," 10th
edition, p. 19.
[264] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 214.
[265] There are two copperplates devoted to the figure and portrait of "lang
Sandy Wood," as he was called.
[266] "Philosophical Transactions," LXI. p. 176 (1771). Paper on Nyl-ghau, with
plate, by George Stubbs, engraved by Basire.
Page 290
[267] Baird, "Report on the County of Middlesex," quoted in view of the
agriculture of Middlesex, &c., pp. 341, 342, by John Middleton, Esq. London:
1798.
[268] The wool which grows on different parts of their bodies, under very long
hair, is obtained by gently combing them.
[269] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," vol. i., p. 32.
[270] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 36.
[271] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 111.
[272] "An Account of the Religious and Literary Life of Adam Clarke, LL.D.,
F.A.S.," by a Member of his Family, vol ii., p. 346.
[273] "Memoirs of Samuel Foote, Esq.," by Wm. Cooke, Esq., vol. i., p. 13.
[274] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book", p. 246.
[275] Lord Sidmouth lived near Burghfield, where Mr Bird kept pupils, and was
curate. See "Sketches from the Life of the Rev. Charles Smith Bird."
[276] "Lives of Hugh Latimer and Bernard Gilpin," by the Rev. William Gilpin,
p. 271.
[277] Anecdotes. Supplement, p. 249 (Singer's edition). Spence died in 1768,
aged 70.
[278] "Velasquez and his Works," by William Stirling, p. 62.
[279] Lady Holland's "Memoirs of her Father, the Rev. Sydney Smith," vol. i., p.
118.
[280] "Memorials of the Rev. William Bull of Newport, Pagnel," &c., by his
grandson, the Rev. Josiah Bull, M.A. 1864.
[281] "Speeches in Parliament of the Right Honourable William Windham, to
which is prefixed some account of his Life," by Thomas Amyot, Esq., vol. i. pp.
332, 353 (1812).
[282] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 122.
[283] Ibid., p. 201.
[284] Ibid., p. 142.
[285] "Noctes Ambrosianæ," Works of Professor Wilson, vol. ii., p. 4.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
agriculture of Middlesex, &c., pp. 341, 342, by John Middleton, Esq. London:
1798.
[268] The wool which grows on different parts of their bodies, under very long
hair, is obtained by gently combing them.
[269] "Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds," vol. i., p. 32.
[270] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 36.
[271] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 111.
[272] "An Account of the Religious and Literary Life of Adam Clarke, LL.D.,
F.A.S.," by a Member of his Family, vol ii., p. 346.
[273] "Memoirs of Samuel Foote, Esq.," by Wm. Cooke, Esq., vol. i., p. 13.
[274] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book", p. 246.
[275] Lord Sidmouth lived near Burghfield, where Mr Bird kept pupils, and was
curate. See "Sketches from the Life of the Rev. Charles Smith Bird."
[276] "Lives of Hugh Latimer and Bernard Gilpin," by the Rev. William Gilpin,
p. 271.
[277] Anecdotes. Supplement, p. 249 (Singer's edition). Spence died in 1768,
aged 70.
[278] "Velasquez and his Works," by William Stirling, p. 62.
[279] Lady Holland's "Memoirs of her Father, the Rev. Sydney Smith," vol. i., p.
118.
[280] "Memorials of the Rev. William Bull of Newport, Pagnel," &c., by his
grandson, the Rev. Josiah Bull, M.A. 1864.
[281] "Speeches in Parliament of the Right Honourable William Windham, to
which is prefixed some account of his Life," by Thomas Amyot, Esq., vol. i. pp.
332, 353 (1812).
[282] Mark Lemon, "Jest Book," p. 122.
[283] Ibid., p. 201.
[284] Ibid., p. 142.
[285] "Noctes Ambrosianæ," Works of Professor Wilson, vol. ii., p. 4.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
Page 291
Transcriber's note:
"The Aye-Aye, or Cheiromys of Madagascar
(with a Plate)"
Unfortunately no plate could be found for this
particular section. Reference to it was removed
from the Table of Contents.
"The Aye-Aye, or Cheiromys of Madagascar
(with a Plate)"
Unfortunately no plate could be found for this
particular section. Reference to it was removed
from the Table of Contents.
Page 292
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