I.

SOME SCOTCH CELEBRITIES.

Beautiful Edinburgh, her gray warmed into gold by the summer sunshine, lies half-asleep at the foot of her Castle Rock, and dreams, through the peaceful present, of her stormy, impetuous past. Each grain of dust there is historic. The traveler’s every footstep wakes some memory of old days. Over castle and palace, broad way and narrow close, over Canongate, Grassmarket, Arthur’s Seat, over hills that environ and streams that link, a magician has cast his spell—so intimately blending past and present, that we cannot look upon the one without remembering the other.

To-day in sculptured marble, as erstwhile in life, the weaver of the spell yet guards his time-worn city, like the good genius of its fate. Passionless, mute, he sits brooding—the bustle of existence all around him—while the hound at his side gazes up at him, in rest unbroken as his own. The Scott monument—that is what rises before us; and the broad-browed, deep-eyed enchanter within, that—as every schoolboy knows—is the great Sir Walter Scott, the good, well-loving, dearly-loved Sir Walter.

“What has he not done for every one of us?” writes the historian of Rab. “Who else ever, except Shakespeare, so diverted mankind, entertained and entertains a world so liberally, so wholesomely?” Who, indeed? And, in truth, we owe him far more than mere diversion, however liberal and wholesome; and may count it not least among his gifts to the world that, from the height of his fame, he set it example of a wise, distinguishing regard for animals.

“He prayeth well who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast”—

“He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast”—

might stand for the motto of his life. From babyhood to old age the power of loving enriched him, and won from “all things, great or small,” a warm response.

The most conversible, attachable, and hence, dearest, among his humble friends were, naturally, horses and dogs. He liked, however, almost everything that breathes; and poultry, cattle, sheep, or pigs, cats and birds—all shared, to greater or less degree, in his good-will. An old gray badger lived, hermit-like, in a hole near Abbotsford for many years under his protection. A hen and a pig formed ardent attachments to him; and a pair of little donkeys would trot like puppies at his heels whenever they got the chance.

Carlyle tells the story of a Blenheim cocker in Edinburgh, the most timid and reserved of its race, which shrank from all attention save that of its mistress, until one day on the street it made a sudden spring towards a tall, halting stranger, and fawned upon him in an ecstasy of delight. This was, of course, our own Sir Walter, whose great heart, like a magnet, drew to it all other hearts, whether bold or shy.

STATUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN EDINBURGH.

His horses all fed from his hand, and preferred his attendance to that of the grooms; while, until lameness obliged him, in lateryears, to give up walking, he would never ride on Sunday, believing that “all domestic animals have a full right to their Sabbath of rest.” If his four-footed dependants were ill, he nursed and prescribed for them. When little Spice, an asthmatic terrier, was following the carriage, he would carry it over the brooks, that it might not get wet. In fine, he was always what too few are—“a gentleman, even to his dogs.”

Pets were so numerous at Abbotsford that their record must be brief. The long list of pet horses opens in his childhood with a Shetland pony called Marion—a dwarfish creature that fed from his hand, and ran in and out of the house like a dog. The pair were close friends, and passed hours together exploring the hills. In his twentieth year, or thereabouts, Lenore is mentioned as doing him good service, but ere long was succeeded by Captain, coal-black and full of mettle. Next came Lieutenant, and then Brown Adam, a special favorite, who would let none but his master ride him, and who, when saddled and bridled, would trot out of the stable by himself to the mounting-stone, and wait there for Sir Walter. Daisy, next in order, was “all over white, without a speck, and with such a mane as Rubens delighted to paint.” His temper, unfortunately, was less perfect than his mane, and eventually Sir Walter sold him. Daisy was succeeded by the original of Dandie Dinmont’s “Dumple,” in the shape of a sober cob named Sybil Grey; and the list closes with a staid old horse known indifferently as Donce Davie and the Covenanter.

In 1803, the canine favorite was Camp, a fine bull-terrier, “very handsome, very intelligent, and naturally very fierce, but gentle as a lamb among the children.” It is this dog that appears in the painting by Raeburn. He had considerable intellect in his way, and understood much that was said to him. Once he bit the familybaker, and was severely punished for it—his offense being at the same time explained to him, says Scott. After this, “to the last moment of his life, he never heard the least allusion to the story, in whatever voice or tone it was mentioned, without getting up and retiring into the darkest corner of the room, with great appearance of distress. Then if you said, ‘The baker was well paid,’ or, ‘The baker was not hurt after all,’ Camp came forth from his hiding-place, capered, and barked, and rejoiced.”

He lost none of his brightness, although strength began to fail him in 1808, so that he could no longer accompany Sir Walter on his rides. But still when as evening drew on, the servant would say, “Camp, the shirra’s comin’ hame by the ford,” or “by the hill,” Camp would patter stiffly to the front door or back, as the direction might imply, and there await the master whom he could no longer follow. He died the ensuing year, in January, and was buried in the garden of Scott’s Edinburgh house, where even yet the place is pointed out. The whole family stood in tears around the grave, while Sir Walter himself, with sad face, smoothed the turf above his old companion. He had been invited to dine from home that night, but excused himself on account of the death of a dear old friend; and none wondered when they learned that the friend was Camp.

Contemporary with Camp were the two greyhounds, Percy and Douglas, who, though far less dear, were much petted. It is on record that despite Lady Scott’s fear of robbers, a window was always left open for these dogs to pass in and out. They lie buried at Abbotsford with other of their doggish kin. Percy, in particular, is honored by a stone of antique appearance, and this inscription, befitting some valiant knight:

“Cy git le preux Percie.”

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS BULL-TERRIER, CAMP.(From the painting by Raeburn.)

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS BULL-TERRIER, CAMP.

(From the painting by Raeburn.)

Poor Camp went over to the majority of dogs in January; in July, Sir Walter wrote to a friend that he had filled the vacant place with a shaggy terrier-puppy of high pedigree, and named it Wallace—its donor being a descendant of that famous Scotchman. Somewhat later the family was enlarged by a smooth-haired kintail terrier called Ourisque, which, if attending the master on his rides, would sometimes pretend fatigue, and whine to be taken up on horseback, where it would sit upright, without any support, in great state.

But of all Sir Walter’s pets, the most famous was Maida, a gift in 1816 from his Highland friend Glengarry. He describes it with enthusiasm, as “The noblest dog ever seen on the Border since Johnny Armstrong’s time, ... between the wolf and deer greyhound, about six feet from the tip of the nose to the tail, and high and strong in proportion.” Captain Thomas Brown, who knew Maida well, says, “So uncommon was his appearance, that he used to attract great crowds in Edinburgh to look at him whenever he appearedon the streets. He was a remarkably high-spirited and beautiful dog, with black ears, cheeks, back and sides, ... the tip of his tail white, ... his hair rough and shaggy; ... that on the ridge of his neck, he used to raise like a lion’s mane, when excited to anger.”

Maida was uniformly gentle except—aristocrat that he was!—to the poorly-dressed and to artists. His detestation of the latter may be explained by the number of times he had been obliged to pose for them;—the mere sight of a brush and palette was at last enough to make him run. His bark was deep and hollow; and sometimes, says Sir Walter, “he amused himself with howling in a very tiresome way. When he was very fond of his friends he used to grin, tucking up his whole lips and showing all his teeth, but it was only when he was particularly disposed to recommend himself.”

Once he got hung by the leg, in trying to jump a park paling, and began to howl. But seeing his friends approach, “he stopped crying, and waved his tail by the way of signal, it was supposed, for assistance.” Luckily he was not much hurt, and most grateful for his rescue.

The pleasant Irish authoress, Miss Edgeworth, was also fond of animals; and Scott’s correspondence with this lady is full of allusions to their mutual canine friends. In April, 1822, he tells her that Maida can no longer follow him far from the house, and adds: “I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives; and I am quite satisfied that it is in compassion to the human race; for if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?”

We can well imagine his grief when finally (October, 1824) Maida passed away painlessly, in his straw. They buried him atAbbotsford gate where he had so long kept watch and ward, with his own marble likeness for monument,—and for epitaph—

“Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master’s door.”

“Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,

Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master’s door.”

He still lives, however, in the story of Woodstock, as Bevis, the gallant hound of Alice Lee.

Nimrod and Bran succeeded Maida, and although they could not replace him, were fine fellows. There was also a black greyhound, Hamlet, who usually “behaved most prince-like,” but when Washington Irving visited Abbotsford, got into mischief and killed a sheep. Nimrod, too, was occasionally naughty, but the master never failed to befriend his dogs when they were in trouble, preferring to pay damages rather than lose them.

Besides the large dogs, there was a whole retinue of smaller ones, among them Finette, a sensitive, lady-like spaniel, greatly favored by Lady Scott; and a number of Dinmont terriers. The latter all bore “cruet names,” there being in the house at one time a Pepper, Mustard, Ginger, Catchup, Soy and Spice. Spicie was a warm-hearted, affectionate little creature, and is often mentioned, especially to Miss Edgeworth. Her little friend—Scott once assured her—is recovering from an asthmatic attack, and is active, though thin, “extremely like the shadow of a dog on the wall.”

Other dogs there were, but where is the space to chronicle them or their deeds? A few lines must be kept for Hinsefeldt, the large black family cat that usually lay on the top stair of the book-ladder in Sir Walter’s study, coming down if Maida left the room, to guard the footstool until he should return. Irving saw Pussy at Abbotsford, and describes her clapper-clawing the dogs—anact of sovereignty which they took in good part. Scott was by nature not very fond of cats, but Hinse reconciled him to the race, so that even in a dull London hotel, he could enjoy the society of a “tolerably conversible cat, that ate a mess of cream with him each morning.”

In 1825 a great business crash involved Sir Walter in a debt, to pay which he wore out the remnant of his life. Just before, he had been planning a return to Abbotsford. “But now,” he writes, “my dogs will wait for me in vain.... I feel their feet on my knees, I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere. This is nonsense, but it is what they would do could they know how things may be.” Two or three years later, being asked to write something for a Manual of Coursing, he refused sadly:—“I could only send you the laments of an old man, and the enumeration of the number of horses and dogs which have been long laid under the sod.”

Indeed, for master as for petted friends, the end was now approaching. He grew each day more sad and feeble, until at last even his staghound’s rough caress was more than his spent frame could bear. As a last hope he was taken on a voyage; but the remedy was powerless, and he hurried home to die. Half-wild with joy at seeing the old familiar scenes once more, he finally reached Abbotsford, and sank exhausted in his chair. There the dogs gathered around him; “they began to fawn upon him and lick his hands; and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them until sleep oppressed him.” This sleep ere long deepened into a slumber more profound, and death came between Sir Walter and his friends on earth.

Contemporary with Scott was Prof. John Wilson, so well-known to all as Christopher North. He, too, was passionately fond of animals, and his daughter, Mrs. Gordon, has left a delightfulaccount of his pets. Of Grog, chestnut-brown in color, meek and tiny, “more like a bird than a dog,” with “little comical, turned-out feet, a cosey, coaxing, mysterious, half-mouse, half-birdlike dog,” who crept noiselessly out of life one morning, and was found dead on his master’s bed. Of Brontë, the beautiful Newfoundland, all purple-black, save the white star on his breast, who daily walked to and from the college with his master, but at last was cruelly poisoned, and died, leaving “no bark like his in the world of sound.”

RAB.(By permission of David Douglass, publisher of“Rab and His Friends.”)

RAB.

(By permission of David Douglass, publisher of“Rab and His Friends.”)

Of O’Brontë, Brontë’s son, with “the same still, serene, smiling and sagacious eyes.” Of Rover, the best beloved, whose master stood beside him when he died, “trying to soothe and comfort the poor animal. A very few minutes before death closed his fast-glazing eye, the professor said, ‘Rover, my poor fellow, give me your paw.’ The dying animal made an effort to reach his master’s hand; and so thus parted my father with his favorite, as one man taking leave of another.”

Of Charlie, Fido, Tip, and Fang, Paris and many more, not to mention his friendly canine friends, Neptune, Tickler, Tory, Wasp, and Juba, who graciously kept him on their visiting-list. Should any one wish to know more of these dogs, he will find plenty to interesthim in the writings of Christopher North, especially in that pleasant miscellany called theNoctes Ambrosianæ.

“BABY RAB.”(Sketch by Dr. John Brown.)

“BABY RAB.”

(Sketch by Dr. John Brown.)

But the pet most singular and most fairy-like of all, was a sparrow, that for eleven years inhabited his study, dwelling with him in an intimacy so entire that the family declared it was developing both in size and character by the association, and if it lived, would in time become an eagle. To think of the tiny creature fluttering around great Christopher, nestling in his waistcoat pocket, carrying stray hairs from his shoulders to its cage, with nest intentions; perching on his inkstand, even pecking at his pen! What familiarity, what audacity with genius! And supposing the nest actually had been made, with those precious hairs inwoven, how relic-hunters would be seeking it to-day!

The intimacy between this strangely dissimilar pair is only one more proof that

“The brave are aye the tenderestThe loving are the daring;”

“The brave are aye the tenderest

The loving are the daring;”

and I cannot but think that if his books should be forgotten, the legend of the sparrow would still keep Wilson’s memory green.

A friend and brother-author of Scott and Wilson was the Ettrick Shepherd, James Hogg. To judge from his own account, and from that in theNoctes, his liking for dogs must have equaled theirs. His perception of canine character was acute; and through his description we feel well acquainted with Hector, the Collie. According to the Shepherd, Hector had a sense of humor matched only by his politeness, and once even, when intensely amused by a conversation between his master and a friend, “louped o’er a stonewa’,” that he might laugh unseen behind it. Maida used to grin; why not Hector?

With these three lovers of the canine race must be grouped a fourth, the good physician, Doctor John Brown of Edinburgh. He has written about dogs as only Landseer has painted them—sympathetically, lovingly, with intuitive comprehension of dog-nature. “Rab and his Friends” is an idyl that brings tears for sole applause; “Our Dogs” is a Shakespearean comedy, over which we smile or softly laugh. We remember them as we remember only the intensely alive. Still we see that night procession where the living guides homeward the beautiful dead, with faithful Rab slow-following behind.

PITY THE SORROWS OF USHOMELESS DOGS

Then the scene changes, and “Our Dogs” frolic over the stage. A daring little fellow leads them—the one that begged admission to the band by a look that saidCur non? Here is Toby the Tyke, with his unequaled tail and moral excellence; here Wylie, the collie, blithe, beautiful and kind; and here Rab himself, whose baby outlines are imagined in a funny sketch by Dr. Brown. Here is Wasp, the dog-of-business; here, Jock, “insane from his birth,” as might be expected of a dog whose mother was called Vampire, and whose father, Demon. Enter the Dutchess, of wee body and great soul; enter Crab, John Pym, and Puck; pass as enter Dick and Peter, Jock and Bob. In fact, Bob closes the list, and his character was thus briefly summed up for me in a room in Edinburgh made sacred by mementoes of his master.

“Bob,” said my informant, “was the last dog we had, and reallyhe was too much for us all. He was very pure-bred,—so pure, that my brother used to say it had driven the wits from him. He had no discretion whatever, yet at the same time so much energy that he was always getting both himself and us into trouble. He became very grubby at last,—oh! very grubby, indeed, and we were obliged to dispose of him.”

Dr. JOHN BROWN, DR. PEDDIE, AND DANDIE.(From photograph, by permission of Mr. Moffat, Edinburgh.)

Dr. JOHN BROWN, DR. PEDDIE, AND DANDIE.

(From photograph, by permission of Mr. Moffat, Edinburgh.)

The Edinburgh refuge for lost dogs found a warm advocate in Dr. Brown; his sketch of two little terriers supporting a hat for contributions appeals to us still to pity the sorrows of homeless dogs. Even more vividly does it recall the artist—that kindest gentleman and friend who spent his life in caring for the needy, sick, and sad. Here in the picture you see him—the same kind presence as in life—seated with Dr. Peddie, and Dr. Peddie’s Dandie. This photograph was taken in 1880. Dandie belonged to Dr. Peddie, but was a great favorite with Dr. John whom (as both gentlemen lived on the same street) he visited daily, never seeming content until his regular call was made.

DRINKING FOUNTAIN MONUMENT TO GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY, EDINBURGH.

Very unlike the homeless, boneless paupers of Dr. Brown’s Plea, is an Edinburgh dog now living, to whose luxurious habits the following anecdote, given me by one acquainted with its truth, bears witness.

Edinburgh, though nominally on the Firth of Forth, lies really some miles from the sea. In summer, a bather’s train is run sufficiently early to enable gentlemen to reach their offices in good time. Mr. Thomas Nelson (of the publishers’ firm Nelson & Co., Edinburgh, London, New York, etc.) was in the habit of availing himself of this early train, accompanied by a favorite dog, who enjoyed a sea-bath as much as did his master. On one occasion Mr. Nelson was away from home for three weeks, and on his return was surprised to receive a bill from the railway company for three weeks’ first-class dog fares. On inquiry, he found that during his absence, the dog had gone daily, as hitherto, by train, taken the usual bath, and then returned to town—exactly as he had been used to doing in his master’s company.

GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY.

All will agree, I fancy, that this anecdote bears witness to the dog’s neat and gentlemanly habits, as well as to his master’s indulgence.

Just off High Street in Edinburgh, beyond GeorgeIV. Bridge, is a little drinking-fountain with a trough for dogs attached. It is a point of interest to more than the thirsty—being unique both in subject and design. Seated on a pedestal is the image of a shaggy, large-eyed terrier, whose averted gaze continually seeksGreyfriars’ churchyard, across the intervening houses of the street. Beneath are the words:

Greyfriars’ Bobby.From the life, just before his death,

Greyfriars’ Bobby.

From the life, just before his death,

and below this, the following inscription:

A TributeTo the affectionate fidelity ofGreyfriars’ Bobby.In 1858 this faithful dog followedThe remains of his master to Greyfriars’churchyard, and lingerednear the spot until his death in 1872.With permission,Erected by theBaroness Burdett-Coutts.

A Tribute

To the affectionate fidelity of

Greyfriars’ Bobby.

In 1858 this faithful dog followed

The remains of his master to Greyfriars’

churchyard, and lingered

near the spot until his death in 1872.

With permission,

Erected by the

Baroness Burdett-Coutts.

The story of leal Bobby has been often told, but is well worth telling once again. While life sits warm at our hearts, we should remember this other little heart, so constant and loving. He has been sculptured, painted, sketched, memorialized, as though he were royal.

One gloomy day I passed the memorial fountain, and turned in at Greyfriars. It was already closing time, still the old curator let me in, and while searching for a “potograph” as he called it, of Bobby, told me what he could about him. Bobby lies buried in a flower-bed in front of the church. For more than a dozen years he made his master’s grave his home—a grave unmarked until his own devotion became its monument. The curator tried at first to drive him away, but without success, and ended by letting him do as he would. A friendly restaurant-keeper gave him food; every body indeed was kind, and in his doggish heart he must have felttheir kindness; yet outwardly he drew near to none. Why should he when his real life lay deep down in six feet of earth?

“Here’s the potograph at last, ma’am,” said the old curator, “and here’s his collar, if you’d like to see it.”

I touched reverently the half-worn band of leather, remembering how near it had once lain to a faithful little heart.

“They tried to get his body from me,” continued Bobby’s friend, “that they might stuff the skin, and keep it in the museum. But I said to myself, ‘No, sirs; you mean it well, but it ain’t what Bobby ‘d ‘a’ wanted, and he’s the first call to be axed.’ I meant to do the fair thing by him, dead or alive. He’d never ‘a’ lain here thirteen year, wet weather or dry, cold or warm, summer and winter, unless he’d meant it. You see, ma’am, I naturally knew it wa’n’t right for his skin to be that far from his master’s; so when he died, I just quietly took my own way, and got him under ground before them as wanted him knew rightly he was dead. And there he is,”—pointing to the flower-bed—“all that’s left of him.”

A soft Scotch rain had been falling while we talked, but now slackened; and a misty beam of sunlight pierced the clouds low-piled in the west. Its pale gold lit up Bobby’s resting-place, under-scoring, as it were, the epitaph just spoken, then glanced along the gray front of the church, and brought into relief an ancient slab, where a skeleton, fantastically poised, appeared to be keeping guard. A little robin hopped lightly to a bush in the flower-bed, whence soon its clear vespers thrilled the air. Death was there, alas! yet overcome by life; since love is the only real life, and by right of loving Bobby lives forever.

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