Part 24

Those who, from extreme youth or illness, were unable to travel so soon, had another two weeks allowed them. Where the rats went to, no one knows.

The most remarkable friend of rats on record, is Susanna, Countess of Eglintoune, who died more than a hundred years ago, at the great age of ninety-one. She had a brilliant youth; natural distinction, beauty and wit combined to make her the brightest star in the society where she moved. In old age, still beautiful and witty, she tried the effect of her charms on rats, as before on human beings, and with equal success. A sliding panel was constructed in the oak wainscot of her dining-room; and the great feature of the day was when, at a certain stage of the dinner, she would first tap loudly on the panel, then open it. Obedient to the signal, a dozen fat, comfortable rats would emerge, and join her at table. After a bountiful meal of such things as are dear to rats, the tap would be repeated, the panel opened, and back would go her long-tailed guests, even as they had come, with perfect decorum.

One rat lived a long time with the naturalist Buckland, and became quite domesticated, wandering at will around the study, examining books and papers, and helping himself from the sugar-bowl. As he was too modest, or too shy to eat before folks, and as a space of nearly two feet separated the table with the sugar from the mantel where stood his cage, Mr. Buckland put up a little ladder. The rat easily learned to climb it, even when loaded with plunder. Judy, a small marmoset, inhabited the same mantel, and the pair had a reprehensible fashion of stealing each other’s food.

Buckland’s pets being as various as his interests, the house was full of them, and a queer lot they were! Joe, a pet hare, also occupied the study, but being averse to civilization, he would hide by day, and only come out at night, hopping across the room--if he thought himself unobserved--to the fire-place, where he would sit up on his legs, so as “to warm his white waistcoat.”

Tiglath-Pileser was a bear, who for a short period attended college with his master, went boating with him, and to parties, and like him wore cap and gown. He once was present at a meeting of the British association in Oxford, and had the honor of being introduced to Sir Charles Lyell, and the Prince of Canino. After so brilliant a career, it is doubly sad to relate that Tiglath-Pileser fell under the ban of the college authorities, and was rusticated for an indefinite period. He died some years ago at the Zoölogical Garden in London.

Jenny (from Gibralter) and Jacko the Capuchin (from South America) were monkeys, and an unfailing source of diversion to Buckland and his friends. Jacko was very delicate, and each year, as winter approached, was provided by his master with a warm close-fitting dress. In spite of this care, he one year grew sickly and thin. Oil was prescribed for him, but refused, until by a happy thought he was allowed to steal it. Even theft, from a commonplace, safe saucer, grew monotonous; and erelong he was detected thieving his medicine at the risk of his life from a lighted lamp.

Other interesting, if less amusing pets--an eagle, a jackal, countless marmots, dormice, squirrels, etc.--evince the interest felt by this lovable scientist in the objects of his study--an interest as affectionate as scientific. Indeed, it is very reassuring to find scientific people more often than otherwise the possessors of hearts as well as brains. Occasionally something happens to make us doubt their humanity, like the experiment of a modern physiologist, who, after teaching a dog to regard him as its friend, had it killed, and the blood of another dog transfused into its arteries. “No sooner was it injected,” we are told, “than the inert head became animated, the eyes opened, and on the Professor calling the dog by its name, it attempted to answer with a caressing look.” Surely, as with Desdemona, that last look of ill-rewarded affection will rise in judgment against the experimenter!

(Zoölogical Gardens, London.)]

A greater physiologist, Professor Agassiz, would not have pets. He must experiment, and he said that when he came to feel for an animal the affection of intimacy, experiment became impossible. And then, when it was a question of experiment, a good fortune, peculiar to himself, attended him--whatever he wanted was sure to turn up, whether a rare specimen or common one; whether bird or insect, fish or reptile. Birds, indeed, were his familiar friends, and he had a faculty of taming them not unlike that of Madame George Sand. Snakes, too, were friendly; and I have myself seen him put his hand in the water, and a little fish move tranquilly back and forth between his outspread fingers. If he had lived in the time of those great primeval creatures--mammoths, pterodactyls, and the like--he certainly would have been on friendly terms with them.

It may be said in passing that the first skeleton of a pterodactyl ever seen was discovered by an English woman--Mary Anning of Lyme-Regis. She became a capital geologist, and made many important “finds.” Her assistant, although devoted, and, to her, invaluable, is not so well known, being only--a little dog! He was, so long as he lived, the companion of her walks; and when she found a valuable specimen embedded in the rocks, would stand guard until she could get it removed, sharing faithfully in her toil, and grudging her none of the glory.

Very little appreciated in general are pigs! Pork is one thing, the pig another. The merits of pork are well understood; the merits of Piggy doubtful. Charles Lamb could sing with delicious enthusiasm the praises of roast pig--that “young and tender suckling, under a moon old, guiltless as yet of the sty”; but if he had been asked to take Piggy, unroasted, alive, into his good graces, he probably would have declined with a shrug.

But still, to a degree, the pig is appreciated. Jerrold’s sketch, called “The Manager’s Pig,” had a foundation in fact. The manager of a London theater, anxious for novelty, had a play written expressly to bring a pig upon the stage. It was very successful, and after a run of forty nights, it was suggested that the principal actor should be prepared for the manager’s table, and the other actors invited to partake. Whether this was done I cannot learn. A poor reward, indeed, for Piggy--the glory of being eaten!

The old poet, Robert Herrick, had a pet pig, and did not find his affection for it at all inconsistent with writing lovely verses to violets, daffodils, roses and fair maidens. Sir Walter Scott had a similar pet; so had Miss Martineau, and so had Lord Gardenstone, of legal fame, who cultivated his favorite’s society to a degree quite unusual. In its pigdom it followed him everywhere, and even shared his bed. But, says Chambers, “when it attained the mature years and size of swinedom, this, of course, was inconvenient. However, his lordship, unwilling to part with his friend, continued to let it sleep in the same room, and, when he undressed, laid his clothes upon the floor as a bed for it. He said that he liked it, for it kept his clothes warm till the morning!”

This was even outdoing Mr. Hawker, the clergyman, whose eccentric ways have been so delightfully described by Baring-Gould. Gyp, a black Berkshire pig, was one of his eccentricities. Being daily washed and curried, it grew up cleanly and intelligent, and followed its master exactly like a dog. It even followed him into ladies’ drawing-rooms--not always to the satisfaction of those present. In this case, he would order it to go home, and it would obey, slinking off with an air of conscious disgrace, and its tail hanging limply, out of curl.

Gyp was not the only pet at the vicarage; birds, horses, a pair of stags and a family party of nine cats added considerable variety to the good clergyman’s life. Especially the cats! They convoyed him, like a bodyguard, to and from church, and either frisked in the chancel during service, or, rubbing up against him, purred an accompaniment to his prayers. One black-letter Sunday the best-loved cat of all yielded to temptation--forgetful of the day, she caught a mouse! Never again was this sinner allowed to enter the church its conduct had disgraced; hereafter, eight cats only formed their master’s escort--the ninth staid at home in solitary shame.

How delighted Mr. Hawker would have been with a squirrel which was once chronicled in the New York Tribune. Its owner is a member of the great family Anonymous, but, thanks to his humorous, sympathetic observation, the personality of his(?) pet is more distinct. “He began life,” says the Unknown, “by tumbling out of the nest when an infant. He fell into the hands of my nephew, then at Harvard, and lived in his pockets. He could be put to sleep at any moment if made to stand on his head--which was odd but convenient. He always went to recitation, which must have been very gratifying to the professors.”

The little fellow had a moral nature as well as keen wits, and knew perfectly well when he was doing wrong.

“His chief sin was tearing off slivers of wall-paper. I would then pick him up and say, ‘Oh, you naughty squirrel! what have you been doing?’ and carry him round the room. When I got near the place, his guilty conscience invariably compelled him to shriek. Then I would flick his nose, and say, ‘Go away, naughty squirrel!’ and he would fly to a corner of the room, and fling himself on his stomach, with his fore and hind legs stretched out to their extreme length, and his bushy tail curled over his back and down his nose, to conceal his shame.”

Once he was ill for several weeks, and his teeth grew so long that in order to save his life it became necessary to take him to a dentist. He kicked furiously, but the operation was successful. “Although not much hurt, his rage and indignation at the whirligig thing dentists use were unbounded, and his shrieks brought people in from the streets to know what was happening.”

The fate of this amusing patient we are not told.

From the squirrel to the despised skunk is no very long step, nor is it an unpleasant one--popular prejudice to the contrary. One gentleman, at least, has had the courage to study its habits, and to introduce a number of young skunks into his home. At different times he had ten. From some he removed the scent-bags, but the majority retained them, and behaved with the utmost propriety. They were coaxing, kittenish little creatures, and responded to his caresses with delightful readiness.

Crowley--late favorite in Central Park--was a chimpanzee of enlarged culture. He was often photographed, and once was painted by the artist J. H. Beard. He “took his reg’lar meals,” used spoon and napkin with propriety, understood the meaning of plate and cup, drank from a glass, and when his meal was ended, would assist digestion by a series of gymnastics, before which the feats of Milo pale. Like royalty of old, he dined in public, and a crowd was always present to witness the ceremony.

Sally, who adorned the London “Zoo,” had not been so well trained in table refinements; but in other respects was quite as remarkable as Crowley. She seemed to understand every look and tone of her keeper; she performed many knowing little tricks, had a keen sense of humor, and crowned her achievements one day by sitting for her photograph. I remember her in exactly this pose, mutely examining with great critical eyes the crowd of visitors, and I could not help wishing I knew her thoughts. But she kept them to herself, and only by an occasional snicker did she betray the fact that we amused her.

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Among the famous people who have interested themselves in hares may be mentioned the dashing Prince Rupert (Boy’s master), and the shy, melancholy poet, Cowper. The association was doubtless accidental with the Prince; but with Cowper it was the result of strong natural sympathy between himself and these timid creatures of the woodland. He contributed to the Gentleman’s Magazine, I believe, a delightful account of his pets; and was almost childishly pleased by the present of their picture, drawn for him by a friend.

“They look exactly like other hares,” said an undiscriminating lady; but the poet did not agree with her; for him each had its differing ways and whims, its own individuality. Little Puss, for instance, grew quite tame, was affectionate, and grateful for kindness; while Tiney would not suffer the slightest caress--being gruff and surly, a little Diogenes in fur; and Bess never had to be tamed, but was docile from the first, and took a humorous delight in playing tricks on her companions. Bess died young, surly Tiney lived nine years; and Puss, the best beloved of all, died of a hare’s old age when within a month of completing his twelfth year. Deep was his master’s grief; long and sincere his mourning.

The slow tortoise has had almost as many friends as the agile hare, but none more famous than Mr. Gilbert White of Selborne. In 1770, while visiting an old friend, he observed in her garden a land tortoise, which had been there, she told him, for the last thirty years. Timothy, the pet’s name, spent nearly half of his life in retirement, but in the other half had learned to recognize his mistress and to come at her call. On her death, some ten years later, he passed into the possession of Mr. White; and in March was dug out of the ground to accompany his new master to Selborne. He took the transfer in high dudgeon; so much so that immediately on arriving he went into winter quarters again, and staid there until May. The fourteenth of this month he walked out in the garden, and found it more to his mind than he expected, with nice paths, soft, short grass, and plenty of succulent vegetables. He gained rapidly in health and spirits, and after a few months was able to dictate a letter for Miss Mulso, a letter almost as good as that of little Nero to Carlyle.

After telling her that by birth he was a Virginian, and that he had been kidnapped into England, he speaks of his happy life with the lady now deceased, as contrasted with the disquietude he suffers in having a naturalist for a master, and being all the time a subject for experiments. “Your sorrowful reptile, Timothy,” he concludes. What became of him eventually, I cannot say. Turtles are proverbially long lived; but if Timothy is dead let us trust that he left a small reptilian ghost, still to wander through the garden of his fame.