Part 11
“It happened in 1775, in Boston, that the animal gave such a spring from the floor that he dropped his rider upon the table, and then bounding over the heads of some officers, he ran to the barracks with all his trappings, to the no small joy of the garrison.”
The officer goes on to say that “the same goat which threw the drummer accompanied the regiment into action at Bunker’s Hill, when the Welsh Fusileers had all their officers except one placed _hors de combat_. What became of the Bunker’s Hill goat, we do not know; nor can we say how many successors he had between the years 1775 and 1844. In the latter year the regimental goat died, and to compensate the Twenty-third for its loss, Her Majesty presented the regiment with two of the finest goats belonging to a flock--the gift of the Shah of Persia--in Windsor Park. Since that date the queen has continued to supply the Royal Welsh Fusileers with goats as occasion has required. Billy--‘Her Majesty’s Goat,’ as he is styled--bears between his horns a handsome silver shield or frontlet, surrounded by the Prince of Wales’ plumes and motto, with the inscription: ‘The gift of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, to the Royal Welsh Fusileers. A. D., MDCCCXLVI. _Duw a Cadwo y Frenhines._’
“Billy always marches at the head of his battalion, alongside of the drum-major.”
From this account, it would almost seem as though Billy had a share in placing all his officers but one _hors de combat_ at Bunker’s Hill. If such was the case, then he undoubtedly contributed to the American victory on that occasion, and I do not see why a grateful nation should not place his portrait in the Old South. Billy as a corner-stone of American Independence--that is certainly a new side-light upon history!
Of all creatures, the most unfit for war appear to be birds; yet they, too, have had their share of military vicissitudes and military fame. Geese have shown a genuine vocation for soldiering, and often have been seen waddling over a battle field with derisive composure, as though it were no more than a quarrelsome barnyard. The Romans honored them hardly less than their national eagle, ever after the geese of the Capitol gave the alarm, and enabled them to drive back the Gauls. If Rome was saved, to the geese was the glory!
A modern goose for twenty-three years accompanied an Uhlan regiment, and yet another, Jacob by name, joined the Coldstream Guards in Canada. He had been living in the usual barnyard retirement of fowls when one evening, as he was returning home from a little trip outside, a fox gave chase. All would soon have been over with Jacob had he not spied a sentry near by and taken refuge between his feet. The fox was shot, and henceforth, so long as a sentry was stationed at this place, the grateful bird would join him on his beat.
Some two months later he repaid his preserver by saving the latter’s life, when he in turn was attacked. Flying at the enemy, and beating his wings in their faces, he so disconcerted them that his friend was enabled to kill part and beat off the rest.
A gold collar, with suitable inscription, was his reward; and Jacob, in high favor with all, accompanied the battalion to England. In London he shared its barracks and had a sentry-go of his own, until one luckless day he was run over by a cart and killed.
A great contrast to Jacob, morally, was the raven Ralph, which Thomas Campbell saw in garrison at Chatham. He was one of those clever, swaggering, disreputable, yet kind-hearted rascals who so often enlist; who are always in hot water, and who, nevertheless, make many friends. Ralph had a fluent tongue, and his “Attention, Corporal!” “Turn out, Guard!” and “Sentry go!” often cheated the listeners. His wings had been clipped, but in other respects he enjoyed all the freedom his own reckless habits permitted; and when in an excess of curiosity he fell over into a water-butt and was drowned, there was general lamentation, as though he had been a very upright bird instead of an extremely depraved one.
A pleasanter story is that of the little bantam cock which perched on the poop of Lord Rodney’s ship during a great battle with the French, flapping his wings and crowing shrill defiance. It is a pleasure to know that this tiny hero never figured on the dinner-table, but was carefully provided for so long as he lived, by the admiral’s special orders.
There has been no more famous pet in our own military history than Old Abe, the eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Regiment. From being at first the pet of a company, he rose to be the pet of a regiment, and finally of the nation, being supported at the public expense from the close of the war until his death. He has been photographed and painted; he has had his biography written; has been exhibited for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission, and was an honored guest in Philadelphia at the Centennial. More lucky in one respect than human celebrities--he was never annoyed by requests for his autograph!
It is tame to say that in war he stood fire like a veteran; in truth, he thrilled with a wild excitement in battle. Its smoke and roar and carnage were his proper element. Borne always next to the regimental colors, his perch was seamed with bullets; and why he was not, the enemy’s sharpshooters could never tell. Sometimes he would soar high above the fighting, and, poised in mid-air like one of Homer’s deities, survey the fearful scene. He shared all the battles of the regiment, and died full of years and honors.
Always beautiful and picturesque in his best estate, the horse is never more so than in connection with war. Here, more than elsewhere, except on the race-course, he has fame and a career. His interests no longer conflict with those of his master; the honor of each reflects credit on the other. As under different circumstances he might be an excellent carriage-horse, so now he is an excellent soldier, and knows “the keen delight of battle with his peers.”
Achilles had his Chestnut, his Dapple, and his Spry; Hector, too, had his favorites--Whitefoot and Firefly; but far more famous and certainly more authentic, is Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander. Plutarch relates the whole beautiful story: how Philip of Macedon paid a great sum for the horse, only to find it quite unmanageable. Just as he was ordering its removal, the young Alexander, who had been watching the futile efforts of the grooms, begged leave to try his hand. By a method similar to Rarey’s--by gentleness, confidence and a firm hand--he won Bucephalus. Henceforth, the two were fast friends and fellow-soldiers. They fought together in Asia, accompanied part of the time at least by Peritas, a great Molossian hound. Once Bucephalus was captured by a party of barbarians, but they wisely surrendered him in time to avert the king’s vengeance.
Wounded in the great battle with Porus, and worn out by age, this noble horse died in India on the banks of the Hydaspes. His monument was a city, built on the spot where he died, and named after him by his master. The pair are commemorated in various ancient works of art, of which the most notable is a great mosaic, now in Naples, representing the battle of Issus.
Next to Bucephalus might be placed the black horse which Cæsar rode during his campaigns in Gaul. It had curiously divided hoofs, whence the augurs predicted good fortune to its rider; and, as though to preserve that fortune for one alone, it would let no one mount but Cæsar. Its after-fate is uncertain--except that the master of the world was not ungrateful, and placed the statue of his good servant before the temple of Venus in Rome. Possibly its history is summed up in the story Suetonius tells--that Cæsar ordered the horses which had served him in Gaul to be consecrated and maintained without labor the rest of their lives. Among them, it is more than likely, was the nameless steed of good augury.
A thousand years later we find the famous Cid in Spain riding Bavieca to victory, and mindful of his horse’s welfare even in the hour of his own death. “When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep!” says Ruy Diaz, “for shameful thing were it that he should be eat by curs.”--“And this good horse lived two years and a half after the death of his master, and then he died also, having lived, according to the history, full forty years.”
Yet another group of centuries, and what equine hero is this, standing firm as a rock, small, but deep-chested, in color a rich chestnut, and gazing at us with large velvety eyes?--who but Copenhagen, the war-horse of Wellington!
A grandson of the great racer, Eclipse, he had wonderful powers of endurance, and combined good temper with sagacity. The Duke rode him for eighteen consecutive hours at Waterloo; and then, says he, “thinking how bravely my old horse had carried me all day, I could not help going up to his head, to tell him so by a few caresses. But, hang me, if when I was giving him a slap of approbation on the hind quarters, he did not fling out one of his hind legs with as much vigor as if he had been in stable for a couple of days!”
After the war was over he was taken to Strathfieldsaye, the Duke’s country-seat; and there, an object of general interest, spent the rest of his days in honorable leisure. It is true that this distinction had its drawbacks. Young ladies would entreat the “kind duke” or the “dear duchess” for a little of Copenhagen’s hair to set in a ring; until finally, his neck growing bare of mane, and his tail threatening to become a mere stump, his admirers were forced to content themselves with such stray hairs as might fall. A fine paddock was assigned him, with a summer house at one corner, opening into it by means of a wicket. Here he would come daily to receive bread and gentle petting from the duchess.
With age his eyesight partially failed, and his teeth grew so poor that he could not eat oats unless they were broken up beforehand. He was twenty-seven years old when he died, in 1835. He was buried in his paddock, with military honors, and a small circular railing still marks the spot. Some person--unknown--stole one of his hoofs, which poor memorial is now preserved in the same museum as Bobby, together with the skeleton of Marengo, the horse of Wellington’s great rival, Napoleon.
Various horses have served with credit in America; but more renowned than any--glorious as Roland “who brought good news from Ghent”--is the one that bore Sheridan to Winchester, and enabled him to turn defeat into victory. He was coal-black save for a small white star in the forehead, beautifully formed, and full of fire. From 1862 until the end of the war, he was present in ninety battles, and several times, but not seriously wounded. The climax of his fame was that wild ride when--
“With foam and with dust the black charger was gray.”
It roused a storm of enthusiasm at the time; nor will a memory soon die which like this has received such splendid praise in art and song. So--
“Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky-- The American soldiers’ temple of fame-- There, with the glorious general’s name, Be it said in letters both bold and bright: ‘Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester--twenty miles away!’”
_X._
_ANIMALS AT SCHOOL._
X.
ANIMALS AT SCHOOL.
A good deal of time is devoted, especially of late years, to the education of animals and birds. The simplest form of training is that which adapts them to our service, and teaches them to recognize and obey the different words of command.
Sir Miles Fleetwood would have been poorly off indeed if his horse had not understood the meaning of whoa! and had the discretion to obey it. A London magistrate under James I., he was, according to Aubrey, “a severe hanger of highwaymen, and the fraternity were for revenge.” They caught him riding alone one night, set him on horseback beneath the gallows, with his hands tied behind him, fastened one end of a rope to the gallows’ arm, the other being noosed around his neck, then left him to his fate.
“So he cried ‘Ho, Ball! Ho, Ball!’ and it pleased God that his horse stood still until somebody came along, which was a quarter of an hour or more. He ordered that this horse should be kept as long as he should live, which was so; he lived till 1646.”
The history of animals abounds in examples of their intelligence and docility; and probably no one who has a favorite animal has failed to notice some such instance for himself.
The idea of teaching animals to perform tricks is certainly a very old one. The trained horses, dogs and elephants of our modern circus had their predecessors more than two thousand years ago, in Roman amphitheaters.
We learn from historians that, when Tiberius was emperor, his kinsman Germanicus exhibited a play in which the actors were elephants. They were dressed in regular garments, danced, performed various tricks, and finally, at a given signal, seated themselves around a table on couches spread with velvet, and concluded the performance by eating and drinking with perfect propriety. A modern artist has amusingly represented this ancient bit of comedy.
Plutarch mentions a trained dog which was exhibited before Vespasian, in the theater of Marcellus, and which won great applause from that jolly emperor.
Coming down to the middle of the seventeenth century, we have a print of “The Cat Showman” surrounded by a cat orchestra in a state of high performance; we have also the famous “chestain-coloured naig,” Morocco, which was exhibited in Scotland; and which “being trained up in dancing, and other conceits of that kind, did afford much sport and contentment to the people, but not without gain, for none was admitted to see the dancing without two pence the piece, and some more.” His master Banks, to borrow Anderson’s entertaining account, would ask--
“from twenty or thirty of the spectators a piece of gold or silver, put all in a purse, and shuffle them together; thereafter he would bid the horse give every gentleman his own piece of money again. He would cause him to tell by so many pats with his foot, how many shillings the piece of money was worth. He would say to him: ‘I will sell you to a carter’; then he would seem to die. Then he would say, ‘Morocco, a gentleman has borrowed you, and you must ride with a lady of court.’ Then would he most daintily hackney, amble, and ride a pace, and trot.... By a sign given him, he would back for the King of Scots, and for Queen Elizabeth, and when ye spoke of the King of Spain, would both bite and strike at you--and many other wonderful things. I was a spectator myself in those days.”
The mule Marco, whose tricksy, sagacious countenance confronts us in the photograph along with that of his master, Pinta, was the delight of little Florentines and Romans, not to mention their elders. His tricks were the ordinary ones, but whatever he did was rendered original by the indescribable air of humorous intention with which it was performed. He had always the air of voluntarily combining with his friend Pinta to play a practical joke upon the spectators; and it was impossible not to enjoy the situation, when after some particularly knowing performance, Marco would slightly turn his head over his shoulder, and glance at the audience out of the tail of his eye, as if to say: “You are great fools to be taken in with so little; I could do bigger things if I cared to try.”
The poor shoemaker, Bisset, a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott, succeeded after a year and a half of patient effort, in teaching his pig to perform a number of tricks. Not only would it answer to his name, obey signals, kneel down, stand erect on its hind legs, and bow, but it would pick out certain letters with its foot, and form them into words. Still “curiouser and curiouser,” to quote Miss Alice, it would add up a column of figures, and put the correct sum total below. So wonderful were its feats, that both master and pig came near being killed by an excited audience, as the possessors of unholy wisdom.
The education of dogs is in itself a profession, and has opened multifarious employments to those intelligent creatures. The collie will convoy a flock of sheep to pasture, guard them all day, drive them into shelter if storms arise, and guide them home to the fold at night. The dogs of the St. Bernard hospice have been devoted for centuries to the task of saving life amid Alpine wastes; and they perform this duty with a patience, zeal and sagacity that no human being could surpass. Old Barry saved forty-two persons--a record unequaled in any records.
There are firemen’s dogs, who in most cases volunteer for the service, apparently from pure adventurousness, but have often saved life and property in the way of their profession. Not least among deeds of daring was that splendid rush of “Bob, the London Fireman’s Dog” into a blazing building, whence he brought out alive a poor cat!
Help, a collie, has been trained to collect money; is an accredited agent, in fact, for the “Society of Railway Servants.” “I am Help,” says the inscription on his collar, “the railway dog of England, and traveling agent for the orphans of railway men who are killed on duty. My office is at 306, City Road, London, where subscriptions will be thankfully received.” In three years this dog collected five hundred pounds. One can hardly resist the mute, dignified appeal with which this noble collie approaches you, looks up gravely into your face, then after waiting long enough for you to inspect his credentials, and contribute if you like, passes on to another.
Some dogs, like that of Allan Pinkerton, show an aptitude for detective business, and become valuable auxiliaries; others, in the service of dishonest owners, become smugglers. Immense ingenuity has been expended in training them for the latter business, with results highly satisfactory to their owners, “Le Diable”--so named by French custom-officers, from his cleverness and daring--in this way made his master a rich man, and--guiltless outlaw that he was--was killed at last while smuggling a packet of costly lace.
A more honorable outlet for canine activity has been found in the Prussian army, where a “Watch-Dog Battalion” is formed. Its members--usually collies--are trained to carry dispatches, hunt up stragglers on a march, look for the wounded, and do outpost duty; all of which they do so well that no soldier could possibly do better.
But it has been reserved for the present decade, and for Sir John Lubbock, to train a dog to converse. He says that he was struck first by the applicability to animals of the deaf-mute system (as used by Dr. Howe with Laura Bridgman), and began to test it on his black poodle Van. After preparing a number of cards, printed in large clear letters, with such words as “water,” “tea,” “bone,” “food,” “out,” etc., he by degrees associated them in the dog’s mind with the objects they represented, and in a few weeks succeeded in teaching Van their meaning. When the little fellow wished to go out, he would bring the card with that word, if food, then that card, and so on; selecting the desired card from a number of others with evident discrimination, and greatly pleased with his own success.
Lately too, Prof. Bonnetty and his troupe of feline actors have come to the fore in Paris, where they have aroused immense enthusiasm. The professor takes his cats at random from gutters, streets or roofs, as chance may have it, and for about three months leaves them at perfect liberty in a large room, quietly observing their dispositions and manners. At the end of this time he begins to train them--in no case compelling them by fear. Their education usually requires a year and a half.
Master and pupils are on the best possible terms with each other. Their “hours in school” are short, their quarters exquisitely tidy, and their food--of milk, bread and liver--invariably the best and freshest of its kind.
They are really cats of high culture; the best proof whereof is the simplicity and ease with which they do difficult things. No circus-rider ever jumped through hoops, walked ropes, climbed poles or waltzed over chairs, with greater agility. They sheathe their claws to live and play in amity with birds and mice. They are “cats with a conscience,” as the professor says, and their helpless, confiding little associates have no more fear of them than of one another.
Juno, Sjenni, Maor, Tommek, Blanc, Cæsar, Brutus, Paris, Bruxelles, Henderik, Swart and Gora were the members of the troupe some years past--together with Boulanger, a tiger-marked kitten who displayed “little fear and a great thirst for fame,” and Tyber, the star-actor. The latter was a wonderful performer, evincing a fine intellect, and, says De Biez, would certainly have been a god in Egypt!
A parallel may be found for these clever French felines in the Brighton cats of England. They are more discriminatingly chosen than Prof. Bonnetty’s actors; but their performances, although different in some respects, are no more wonderful. One of them, a white Angora, rides a bicycle with much grace. When fairly started she becomes enthusiastic, and urges her two-wheeler rapidly along, with an evident enjoyment that the by-standers find contagious. The tabbies do housework to perfection, scrub little handkerchiefs or towels in a tub, hang up the washing, preside over the roast beef of Old England, or the tea things, skate on rollers, and all with such blithe content and spirit, that they seem like little witches masquerading in fur.
One of the most notable efforts at educating Pussy has been made recently by a Russian, Prince Krapotkine. This gentleman’s revolutionary sentiments landed him one day in a prison, where he had plenty of leisure to educate anything he could find. The anything in this case proved to be the prison cat. His fellow-prisoner, M. Emile Gautier, being already educated, was a disinterested observer of the experiment. He reports among other things, that Pussy became very expert at the game of hide-and-seek. He adds:
“I ought to tell you, besides, that Nature has ornamented my head with a luxurious mass of hair. Krapotkine, on the other hand, is extremely bald.... It has often happened when playing with her, that she softly passed her paw over our respective heads, as if to ascertain that her eyes did not deceive her. This inspection concluded, and the visual notions confirmed by touch, her physiognomy took the air of comic surprise. The variety of sensations perplexed her. Nearly every evening the scene was gone through, to our great edification, as you may imagine.”