Part 4
“Your letter finds me mourning the loss of the one pet animal of my life. In the year 1878, having taken a country place, and being in want of an animal as companion, I went to the Dogs’ Home at Battersea, and on visiting the kennels, was at once struck with the piteous and earnest expression on the face of a female collie, looking up, with many others, through the wire netting; an expression which said, as plainly as possible, ‘Take me out of this, for Heaven’s sake, and I will be loving and true.’ I could learn nothing of her previous history, but I paid a sovereign for her, and took her away with me in a cab; and from that hour to the day of her death, just two months ago, Nelly, as I called her, was the light of my household, and won the admiration and love of all who saw her.
“Under kind treatment she developed into a very handsome dog, never large, but wonderfully graceful, leaping and bounding like a deer. Her back was a reddish-brown, her chest and paws beautifully white; she looked bright and intelligent, and her eyes had a certain wistful expression, which is well reproduced in the accompanying photograph. She was not particularly clever. She seemed to say, like one of Tennyson’s heroines:
“‘I cannot understand, I love.’
“She was always with me, and in places which I frequent, she was thoroughly well-known; she lay opposite me in the carriage, on the deck of my steam-launch, with her nose up in the air, sniffing the fresh breeze to windward. (‘See the kind-eyed old collie; on the deck, in the sunshine, she loves to recline,’ sang my friend Ashby-Sterry of her in one of his pretty Lazy Minstrel Lays.)
“She followed me in my long rides on horseback, over down and through wood, ranging far away on her own business, but ever and anon coming back to see how I was getting on. She lay at my feet in my library, and slept on a couch at the bottom of my bed. About eighteen months before her death, she developed signs of failing sight, and gradually grew totally blind. This blindness was the cause of an accident on which I do not care to dwell, but which necessitated her destruction; and on the twenty-seventh of July she passed away without a pang. She lies buried in the garden here, at the foot of a flag-staff, and on her prettily turfed grave is the following inscription:
HERE LIES NELLY A COLLIE DOG; FOR NINE YEARS A MUCH LOVED FRIEND, GENTLE, AFFECTIONATE, AND TRUE. DIED JULY 27TH, 1887. E. Y., L. K. Y., A. M. B., W. W.
“This is the history of Nelly, whose memory is so dear to me that I will never have another pet.”
_Vorbei! vorbei_--past and gone!--says Andersen in telling the fir-tree’s story. It is also _vorbei!_ with these pets--with Mouche and Dash and Kaiser, with Geist and Nelly and Flush.
_IV._
“_THE UPPER TEN._”
IV.
“THE UPPER TEN.”
Biography is so genial nowadays, and full of easy gossip, that we cannot help wondering a little at her former stiffness. Nothing is below her notice now, but the personalia of earlier times slip into her pages more by accident than design. This, no doubt, is the reason why she referred so seldom or so briefly to the pet animals of royalty. There was a divinity in monarchs then, and she treated them with such ceremonious respect that if we had only her account to look to, we should know but little of their real selves.
Fortunately for us, letters have been written in every age, and countless private journals. From these sources come the anecdotes, the jests, the bits of gossip which recall the past more vividly, and make these old rulers seem life-like even yet. In this way many a simple, natural trait has been preserved to relieve the court background of formality and grandeur; many a little incident is told that proves our common blood. Kings and queens loved and hoped, or grieved and feared, even as ourselves who wear no crowns; and while the soft afterglow of years falls on royalty surrounded by its pets, we realize anew how one touch of nature can make the whole world kin.
About the beginning of the seventeenth century, there might have been seen in India at the magnificent court of Jehangir, a favorite of unusual intelligence and size, whose story has come down to us in memoirs written by the Emperor himself. It reads like a page from the Arabian Nights.
“Among my brother’s elephants,” he says, “was one of which I could not but express the highest admiration, and to which I gave the name of Indraging (the elephant of India). It was of a size I never beheld before--such as to get upon his back required a ladder of fourteen steps. It was of a disposition so gentle and tractable that under the most furious incitements, if an infant then unwarily threw itself in its way, it would lay hold of it with its trunk, and place it out of danger with the utmost tenderness and care. The animal was at the same time of such unparalleled speed and activity that the fleetest horse was not able to keep up with it; and such was its courage that it would attack with perfect readiness a hundred of the fiercest of its kind.
“Such in other respects, although it may appear in some degree tedious to dwell upon the subject, were the qualities of this noble and intelligent quadruped, that I assigned a band of music to attend upon it; and it was always preceded by a company of forty spearsmen. It had for its beverage every morning a Hindostany maun (twenty-eight pounds) of liquor; and every morning and evening there were boiled for its meal four mauns of rice, and two mauns of beef or mutton, with one maun of oil or clarified butter. From among all the others this same elephant was selected for my morning rides, and for this purpose there was always upon its back a howdah of solid gold. Four mauns of gold were moreover wrought into rings, chains, and other ornaments for its neck, breast and legs; and lastly, its body was painted all over every day with the dust of sandal-wood.”
There is something quite captivating in the idea of all this oriental pomp enshrining the favorite of an emperor--in its careful tendance, its perfumes, jewels and musicians--the latter, in particular, being an attention as delicate as unusual.
One would like to know its after-history--whether it survived so magnificent a patron, and whether, in that case, its splendor remained undiminished to the end. But the story of the Elephant of India stops with Jehangir.
About the same time that this liberal-minded monarch ascended the throne of the East, there died in Genoa another imperial favorite--the hound Roldarno, which had belonged to Charles V., and was by him given to Andrea Doria. Such at least is the common version; but it is also stated that Roldarno belonged to a later Doria, and did not die until nine years after the old Admiral was in his grave. In either case, he was a notable dog, and received the final honor of interment at the foot of a statue of Jupiter--to the end “that Roldarno still might guard a king.” His life-size portrait may be seen in the Doria palace.
This same Emperor had an almost feminine liking for birds and flowers; and he who would not lift a finger to keep his heretic subjects from the flames, once ordered his tent to be left standing in the camp, otherwise dismantled, simply because a swallow had nested in its folds.
“And it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o’er those walls of stone That the cannon-shot had shattered.”
In the last years of his life at Yuste, he made great pets of a cat and parrot. After his death, they were transferred to his daughter, the Princess Juana, who with true Spanish courtesy, dispatched a litter for them in charge of a faithful servant. In due time they reached Valladolid, well and happy, having traveled together a number of days without one single recorded peck or scratch.
Charles’s contemporary, William of Orange, liked dogs--and with reason--for he owed his life to a pet spaniel. It roused him from sleep just in time to escape by one door as the enemy entered the other.
Either this dog, or another of the same race, after William was murdered, detected the assassin beneath a pile of rubbish. Having done this act of justice, he refused food, and died upon the corpse of his master. William’s monument at the Hague represents him in armor, reclining under a marble canopy, with the faithful dog at his feet. Bunsen says that as he looked at it he could not help hoping the two friends were buried together. Why not?
A monarch who not only liked dogs, but much preferred them to men, was Frederick the Great of Prussia. His grim father, who curtailed all the son’s amusements, his freedom, friendships, and food, was probably unaware of his fondness for animals, or he would have curtailed them also. The moment Frederick became his own master, a crowd of Italian greyhounds began to caper at his side across the historic stage. He was never without a half dozen at the least to divert his leisure moments. When they were not at their sport, they occupied the blue satin chairs and couches in his room. Leather balls were supplied for their amusement, but in spite of this precaution they kept the furniture ragged.
“How can I help it?” said the king; “if I should get the chairs mended to-day, they would be as badly torn to-morrow; so it is best to bear with the inconvenience.”
He was found one day upon the floor with a platter of fried meat, from which he was feeding his dogs. He kept order among them by means of a little stick--now driving back an over-greedy applicant, and now shoving a choice morsel towards some special favorite.
He was apt to dislike any one whom they disliked, and to favor those they favored. If his pets were ill, he sought medical advice, and nothing more enraged him than to find--as he several times did--that the physicians considered it beneath their dignity to prescribe for an animal.
The best beloved, the Joseph among his dogs, was Biche. The story goes that when reconnoitering one day during the campaign of 1745, he was pursued by the enemy, and concealed himself under a bridge, with Biche in his arms. Discovery was imminent--the least whine or snuffle would have betrayed them; but the nervous little creature crouched motionless, almost breathless, and the pair escaped.
It was this dog, which along with the king’s baggage, was captured at Sohar, and at whose return he wept with joy. An elaborate monument at Sans Souci commemorates its virtues. All his dogs lie buried there, at either end of the terrace, under flat stones inscribed with their names. Frederick wished to be buried with them, but his successor was unwilling, and interred the great king with his ancestors. In his last illness he would sit for hours together on the sunshiny terrace--averse as ever to the society of his kind, but always with a chair at his side for a dog, and a feeble hand ready to pat its head. A few hours before he died, he bade the attendant throw an extra quilt--not over his own chill form--but over a shivering greyhound at his feet! What a tragic contrast to the joyous little drummer shown in the painting by Pesne.
No less fond of dogs than Frederick, is Prince Bismarck to-day. It is his ardent wish that they too may live on in another world, so that death need not separate us from them. One noble hound twice saved his life, and--trustiest of confidants--accompanied him to the conference between the Emperors of Germany and Austria--behaving there with a diplomatic courtesy and reserve that would have done credit to Metternich.
Sultel, or Sultan, a remarkably intelligent animal, was poisoned in 1877, at his master’s country-seat. He died, after some hours of intense suffering, throughout which Bismarck watched by his side. He has been long and deeply mourned. The princess offered a life pension to any one who would point out the assassin--but in vain; the wretch is still undetected.
It is said that Prince Bismarck feeds his dogs himself, and (whisper it low!) that he actually feeds them at table! No unpleasant “Off with you!” reminds his four-footed friends that they are not as men and brothers, and hence, as diners-out. Admitted to an honorable intimacy, the companions of their master’s walks and meals, the habitués of his study--they live with him on terms of mutual respect, and show by their stately bearing how truly they are dogs of distinction.
Statesmen are very apt to make friends of animals, for they realize that no intimates are so safe as those who cannot betray them--who understand, but never repeat. Daniel Webster had his favorite horses, and Randolph of Roanoke his dogs, who traveled with him wherever he went, and were served at table with clean plates, choice beefsteaks and new milk--anything less excellent than the best being, in their master’s opinion, unworthy of himself and them. Henry Fawcett had Oddo, who was promoted from the post of house-dog to be his companion, and Lord Eldon had the inimitable Pincher. The latter reached a good old age, contrary to all expectations, since in the matter of diet he lived “not wisely but too well.” In the character of a sitter he made acquaintance with Sir Edwin Landseer, who pronounced him “a very picturesque old dog, with a great look of cleverness in his face.” He figured with his master in several other portraits and drawings, was a faithful, amusing little friend, and as such was remembered by name in Lord Eldon’s will. When he died, in 1840, he was buried in a peaceful garden, where, to this day, his tombstone may be seen.
Among the powers that were, who had their pets, Peter the Great must be included--the Czar whose evil-tempered monkey was a terror to all the attendants at court, obliged as they were to endure without resenting its malice. A much more agreeable favorite was Lisette, an Italian greyhound presented to Peter by the Sultan. Once she saved a life, and her Victoria Cross is the record in history of this achievement. A poor fellow had been condemned, for some small error, to the knout. All intercession had failed, and the hour of execution was at hand, when his friends bethought them of fastening a petition to Lisette’s collar and sending her with it to the Czar. This was done, and what he had refused to his loyal subjects he granted to little Lisette. Not without reason is the skeleton of this timely advocate still preserved in the city where she lived!
The Norman kings of England were for the most part sturdy soldiers, with a passion for the chase in their leisure hours. Very naturally, therefore, such pets as they possessed came under the head of knightly belongings, and were either horse and hound or hawk. In truth, they were too stern a race to spend much time in endearments of any kind. We can hardly imagine them tending a “fringie-pawe,” or toying with “spaniels gentle.” The aristocratic greyhound was their favorite instead, and they spared no pains to develop its peculiar excellencies. Old Wynken de Worde tells us in a rather bald rhyme, that the thorough-bred greyhound should be:
Headed lyke a snake, Neckyed lyke a drake, Footyed lyke a catte, Taylled lyke a ratte, Syded lyke a teme And chyned lyke a beme;--
while another rough-edged rhyme bears witness to the fact that dogs as well as ancestors came over with the Conqueror. Thus it runs:
William de Conigsby Came out of Brittany, With his wyfe Tiffany, And his maide Manfas, And his dogge Hardigras.
Richard Cœur de Lion was called an excellent judge of a hound, a characteristic remembered by Scott in his novel of “The Talisman”; but a life of crusading left him small leisure for canine friendships. His brother John is thought to have given the famous Gellert to Llewellyn, but this is far from certain. Perhaps, as modern authorities seem to think, the pathetic story of this hound is only a myth, but in any case it is too well-known for repetition, and we pass on to the hound of Richard II.
“It was informed me,” says Froissart, “that Kynge Richard had a grayhounde, who always wayted upon the kynge, and wolde knowe no man els. For whensoever the kynge did ryde, he that kept the grayhounde dyd lette hym lose, and he wolde streyght runne to the kynge, and faun uppon hym, and lepe with his fore-fete uppon the kynge’s shoulders. And as the kynge and the Erle of Derby talked togyder in the courte, the grayhounde, who was wonte to leape uppon the kynge, left the kynge, and came to the Erle of Derby, Duke of Lancastre, and made hym the same friendly countenance and chere he was wonte to do to the kynge. The Duke, who knew not the grayhounde demanded of the kynge what the grayhounde wolde do; ‘Cosin,’ quod the kynge, ‘it is a greate goode token to you and an evyl sygne to me.’ ‘Sir, how know ye that?’ quod the Duke. ‘I know it well,’ quod the kynge; ‘the grayhounde maketh you chere this day as king of Englaunde, as ye shal be, and I shal be deposed. The grayhounde hath this knowledge naturally, therefore take hym to you: he will followe you and forsake me.’ The Duke understood well these words, and cheryshed the grayhounde, who wolde never after followe Kynge Richard, but followed the Duke of Lancastre.”
Such is the tragic legend whose embroidery does not hide the underlying fact. It is easy to see that, with crown, and queen, and life itself in the balance, the king had yet another pang to endure, when his own dear hound turned from him, and fawned upon his rival.
Of the hapless princes who were murdered in the tower, little is known. There is a picture of them, however, painted long years afterward by Paul Delaroche, which everybody knows. Seated on the antique bed, they have been looking together at a book, when, all at once, speech and motion are arrested by the sound of a stealthy step, or it may be a whisper in the passage outside their room. With tense gaze and bated breath they listen; meanwhile, their little spaniel peers around the corner of the bed, in an attitude of keen attention. Like his masters, he is aware of danger, if indeed he was not the first to detect it. And thus united by a common fear, the three remain--a tragic, listening group--immortal forever on the painter’s canvas.
Several English kings kept a menagerie, Henry I. having formed one at Woodstock, and Henry III. at the Tower, while their successors kept up and amplified the collections already formed. In this connection an unpleasant story is told of Henry VII., a story that proves him no lover of the canine race. It seems that a lion from the royal menagerie was baited one day for the king’s amusement, its opponents being four noble English mastiffs. The struggle was long and severe, but in the end the mastiffs conquered. Then Henry, who feigned to believe that the lion was lawful king over other beasts, caused the four luckless victors to be hung, as traitors to their lord. In this way he pointed a moral for the use of his turbulent nobles.
A pleasanter story concerns his parrot. It fell from a window in Westminster Palace into the Thames. “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!” screamed Polly at this dreadful crisis; and twenty pounds the king actually paid to the waterman who restored his pet. This was doing pretty well for a parsimonious king.
Baitings, whether of bull, bear, or lion, were greatly in vogue during his reign. Henry VIII. also enjoyed them, but preferred the chase, and his account-books are full of items referring to hawk and hound. Spaniels, mastiffs, greyhounds; their muzzles, collars and chains; their keeper’s salary; the cost of their transportation in accompanying the king from place to place--all these items help to swell the bill of His Majesty’s personal expenses. Occasionally, too, they get into mischief, killing some poor fellow’s sheep or cow, a loss invariably paid for, and as duly chronicled in the account-book. Dogs are often given to the king, who of course does not fail to reward the donor. One man presents him with a mastiff that has been taught to fetch and carry, and gets twenty shillings for his gift. Another time four shillings, eight pence are paid “to one that made the dogges draw water.” A poor woman gets “four shillings, eight pence in rewarde for bringinge of Cutte, the kynge’s dog.” He had been lost at least once before, as is proved by an entry of ten shillings “for bringing back Cutte, the kynges spanyell.” Other five shillings went for restoring “Ball, that was lost in the forreste of Walltham.”
From this and similar evidence we may infer that the dogs of yesterday comported themselves very much like the dogs of to-day; that they learned tricks, and were skilled in field-sports; that occasionally they poached; that they were lost, and again found--after the time-honored fashion of dogs.
About this time, there seems to have been a growing attachment on the part of the court ladies to “lytel dogges” as pets. When Catherine of Aragon was queen, each maid of honor to Her Majesty was allowed one maid, and _a spaniel_. Anne Boleyn followed the example of her predecessor--at least where dogs were concerned. The tell-tale account-books name several of her favorites, but refer most often to a greyhound, Urian, which, owing to an unruly disposition, was often in trouble. Once it killed a cow, but Henry recompensed the cow’s owner by a present of ten shillings.
This was in Anne’s day of prosperity, when she and hers could do no wrong in the king’s sight. A few years later, when the son she had hoped for was born dead, and Henry’s dislike was apparent to all; when ill, sad and apprehensive, we see her once more with her dogs. The king is away, taking his pleasure, and she mopes alone at Greenwich Palace. Here, in what was called the Quadrangle Court, we are told that she “would sit for hours in silence and abstraction, or seeking a joyless pastime playing with her little dogs, and setting them to fight each other.”
A few weeks more, and the curtain fell on poor Anne with her short-lived royalty; erelong, too, on Henry himself, his sickly son, and unhappy daughter Mary; and now, amidst general rejoicing, Elizabeth mounted the throne. This remarkable queen, in whose character blended some very masculine traits with others equally feminine, revealed her twofold nature in amusements as well as in more serious affairs. She was fond of singing-birds, of apes, and little dogs; but much fonder of the chase and bear or lion baitings. Her greatest pet was the famous wardrobe which at her death numbered three thousand dresses, and of which a queer specimen is shown in a painting by Zucchero at Hampton Court. He has depicted her in a loose short robe, figured with birds and flowers, and wearing an Oriental cap. Her expression is decidedly ill-tempered, and rather vain. One cannot help congratulating her many suitors on their lack of success.
As in dress, so in other things--Elizabeth liked to be thought original; and her fancy for the tiny hunting-dogs called beagles, made them the fashion during her reign. It is to this whim that Dryden’s lines refer:
“The graceful goddess was array’d in green-- About her feet were little beagles seen That watched with upward eye the Motions of their queen.”