Part 5
But it is not until the time of the Stuarts that we find something like the modern feeling for pets--a feeling based on genuine kindly regard for the animal race. Some of them carried it to excess, no doubt, but still it is a trait that adds to our liking for these luckless kings--a pleasant feature in the story of lives that were continually passing from mirth to tears, from poetry to prose, and from a throne to the cushionless seat of a Pretender. There is no sadder lesson in history than this of the Stuart kings, who began with so much, and ended with nothing. They had beauty, talent, high estate, devoted friends, and good intentions; yet somehow, what they touched did not prosper, their good gifts did not avail them.
Beneficent fairies were present at their birth, and brought priceless gifts; but all was counteracted by one fatal oversight, since the malevolent fairy, uninvited, came only to punish the slight.
“What boots it thy virtue? What profit thy parts? If one thing thou lackest-- The art of all arts?”
Something--whatever it might be--they assuredly lacked, and atoned for the lack by their misfortunes. Meanwhile they enjoyed life, and in many ways made it pleasant, exhibiting wit, ready courtesy, and a good-will that, as before said, extended to both animals and men.
James I., like his Tudor predecessors, was extremely fond of the chase. Contemporary writers give queer accounts of his awkward, headlong riding, and disgusting eagerness for the trophy. “The King of England,” says one, “is merciful except in hunting, where he appears cruel. When he finds himself unable to take the beast, he frets and storms, and cries ‘God is angry with me, but I will have him for all that!’”
Dogs were a prominent feature in the royal establishment, and one hound named Jewel, Jowel, or Jowler, is often mentioned. Almost his first appearance in history is in the character of a petitioner. Royal visits in these earlier days were luxuries expensive to the host, however welcome. Letters yet exist that prove how much they were dreaded. Elizabeth bestowed many such marks of honor on her subjects, and no matter how great the inconvenience, her involuntary entertainers dared not hint it. That a hint on the matter was once given to James, may be taken as a proof of his good nature.
He had gone with his retinue to Royston, where, erelong, the presence of so many guests made a deep hole in their host’s larder and purse. Therefore--but this part of the story is best told in a letter written at the time by Edmund Lascelles, a groom of the Privy Chamber.
He says: “One day, one of the king’s special hounds, called Jowler, was missing. The king was much displeased at his absence; he went hunting notwithstanding. The next day, when they went to the field, Jowler came in among the rest of the hounds; the king was told, and was glad of his return, but, looking on him, spied a paper about his neck. On this paper was written. ‘Good Mr. Jowler, we pray you speak to the king (for he hears you every day, and so he doth not us), that it will please His Majesty to go back to London, for else the country will be undone; all our provision is spent, and we are unable to entertain him longer.’”
This plain hint was not taken amiss--in fact, it was not taken at all; and His Majesty staid on at Royston until it quite suited him to leave, which was not until some days later.
Poor Jewel’s end was untimely. The court was at Theobalds, and Queen Anne, who liked hunting as well as James, went out to shoot deer. “She mistook her mark,” writes Sir Dudley Carleton, “and killed Jewel, the king’s most principall and special hound, at which he stormed exceedingly a while; but after he learned who did it, was soon pacified; and, with much kindness, wished her not to be troubled with it, for he should love her never the worse; and the next day he sent her a diamond worth two thousand pounds, as a legacy from his dead dog.”
How vividly the scene rises before us--the richly dressed huntress and courtiers, the too confident aim, the brief suspense then the horror-struck certainty that no deer, but a hound is the victim--even Jewel, “most speciall” to the king! And then, it may be, an embassy was sent to break the news; and we can imagine how cautiously it was done. But still, there follows a bad half-hour, for the king raves and storms, until at last the embassador ventures to say, “The queen is full of grief at her mischance.”
“The queen, ye rogues!” he shouts, “was it her mischance? Why not have said so before?”
The storm is over, and kind-hearted James hurries off to comfort his wife.
He does not appear in so amiable a light on all occasions, and often tried the patience of his friends by asking for such of their dogs or hawks as happened to particularly please him. A royal request was in the nature of a command, and our former kings were not very nice in the matter. It was assumed as a matter of course that people would be only too happy to gratify their wishes; so they asked for what they wanted, and rarely failed to get it.
Besides this indirect levy, King James was at considerable pains to import valuable hawks and hunting-dogs. There is extant a letter of his to the Earl of Mar, asking him to send for three or four couples of Earth-Dogs, as terriers were then called.
“Have a special care,” he urged, “that the oldest of them be not passing three years of age;” and again, “Send them not all in one ship, but some in one ship, some in another, lest the ship should miscarry.”
It was customary in these days, when the king visited a school or university, for some of the students to hold a disputation in his presence, that he might see their facility in logic, and that they might do credit to their college. Well, King James once visited Cambridge, and the Philosophy Act, as it was called, was kept before him. The subject to be disputed was, “whether dogs were capable of syllogisms.” Gravely was it argued, gravely did King James listen (perhaps with a memory of Jowler) and great was the applause when young Matthew Wren maintained that just as the king was mightier and wiser than other men, so also, by virtue of their prerogative, were the king’s dogs more gifted, and more capable than other dogs, even in the matter of syllogisms. The royal listener was wonderfully pleased with this bit of logic; and we may add that the logician rose high in his favor, becoming eventually Bishop Wren.
The children of James and Anne inherited their love of animals, if indeed they did not derive it from a source more remote. We know that their unfortunate grandmother, Mary Stuart, had pets: and no more piteous tale has ever been told than that of the little creature who staid with her on the scaffold. It was a long-haired Skye terrier, Bébé by name. When she knelt at the block, he lay concealed in the folds of her dress; but after the fatal stroke, while the executioners were despoiling the body, he crept out, and placed himself between the severed trunk and head. There he was found by Jane Kennedy, and there he clung, wet with his mistress’s blood, until removed by force. Who can measure the agony of that faithful little heart, when, all in a moment, its world of affection had shrunk to a lump of irresponsive clay! One would fain know of Bébé--whether, as some say, he died of grief, or, as others maintain, lived several years, well cared for by a noble lady. And where, when death came, was he buried? Fidelity like his deserves a memorial, and doubtless had it at the time, although history is silent on the point. And after all, it does not matter, for we do not forget him.
One of the most charming figures in this connection, is the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I. As is usually the case with royal children, she was educated apart from her parents. They sent her with six little companions to Combe Abbey, to be under the charge of Lord and Lady Harrington. Through the park of this pleasant country-seat, flowed a river, and in the river was a tiny island which they gave to the princess for her very own. A house was built upon it for the manager of the small farm, and the farm itself was stocked with cattle, equally diminutive. An aviary was also given her, netted over with gilt wire, and filled with birds of gay plumage or musical throats. Furthermore, there was a garden, in which grew flowers for pleasure, and herbs “for ye animalls’ helth.” It was as nearly a child’s paradise as anything can be; and I fancy that many a time the discrowned Queen of Bohemia looked back with longing to the “Fairy Farm” of her youth.
Lord Harrington’s account-books are often and amusingly enlivened by such items as: so much “to shearing her Hieness’ great rough dog;” to making cages for her birds, or, to supplying cotton for her monkey’s bed, etc. A further evidence of her tastes is the childish portrait preserved at Combe Abbey, which represents her surrounded by her pets. And many another proof is given, her whole life through, in the presents of animals her friends sent her, in her own pleasant mention of her pets, and in her correspondence. Here, for instance, is an amusing note, dated 1618:
“To Sir Dudley Carleton, from the fair hands of Mrs. Elizabeth Ashley, chief gouvernante to all the monkeys and dogs. The monkeys you sent came hither very well, and are now grown so proud that they will come to nobody but her Highness, who hath them in her bed every morning, and the little prince. He is so fond of them that he says he desires nothing but such monkeys of his own.”
All of Elizabeth’s children inherited her fondness for pets, but most of all, Prince Rupert, whose devotion to Boy became a by-word among the Roundheads.
As a child Charles I. liked animals, but little is said of his favorites, after he became king. The times were too serious, a revolution was seething, and writers were busy with larger themes. Still, a few anecdotes have reached us. “Methinks,” says Sir Philip Warwick, “because it shows his dislike of a common court vice, it is not unworthy the relating of him, that one evening his dog scratching at the door, he commanded me to let in Gipsy; whereupon I took the boldness to say, ‘Sir, I perceive you love a grayhounde better than you do a spanell.’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘for they equally love their masters, and yet do not flatter them so much.’”
Not long before his execution, Charles bade farewell to his dogs and had them sent to the queen, lest their presence might distract him from more solemn thoughts. Of this queen, Henrietta Maria, a charming story is told, which, though it says little for her prudence, bears ample witness to her affectionate heart. On her return from Holland, she landed at Burlington, and staid there over night. Before daybreak the Parliamentary forces were at hand, and she with her ladies fled in haste. They had not gone very far when she noticed that Mitte, her lap-dog, had been left behind. Madame de Motteville calls it “an ugly old dog,” but adds that the queen was extremely fond of it. So it would seem, for heedless of remonstrance, back she rushed, caught up Mitte, who was still dozing on her bed, and once more sped away--in safety.
It may be added that there was formerly, in Holyrood Palace, a painting of Charles and Henrietta, surrounded by their dogs. Prominent among these is a white Shock, which some think to be the identical Mitte of Burlington fame.
Of the little dogs petted in former reigns, numerous specimens may be seen in pictures and engravings. A rare print of Lady Margaret Lenox, the mother of Darnley, shows one of them playing at her feet, with a dapper air that contrasts amusingly with her dignified appearance.
It was reserved for Charles II. to bring the “Comforter” cult to its highest development, and win thereby much sarcastic notice from the writers of the time. Old Dr. Carns, who lived in Elizabeth’s reign, was particularly severe on this folly, but he could not have dreamed to what lengths it would reach a few years later. We might, with a little change of spelling, apply his words directly to the pug and terrier craze of fashionable ladies to-day. Speaking of the “spaniells gentle, or comforters,” he says:
“These dogges are little, pretty, proper, and fyne, and sought for to satisfie the delicateness of daintie dames, instrumentes of folly for them to play and dally withal, to tryfle away the treasure of time, to withdraw their mindes from more commendable exercises.”
Sarcasm and good advice alike were wasted. Where a king set the fashion, fine gentlemen and ladies delighted to follow, and lap-dogs became as necessary to their equipment as lace ruffles or brocades. Charles II. and his brother, James II., always liked dogs; and some fine canvases by Vandyke remain, in which the royal children are grouped with their four-footed friends. In one painting, Prince Charles is the central figure; one hand hangs idly at his side; the other rests on the head of a huge mastiff, near which frisks a tiny spaniel. The same spaniel probably, and another that might be its twin, act as “supporters” in a second painting to the three oldest children.
When, after many vicissitudes, Charles finally reached the throne, his devotion to pets was more marked than ever, and he gave them a good deal of attention that by rights belonged elsewhere. Under date of September 4, 1667, Repys notes in his Diary that he “went by coach to Whitehall, to the Council Chamber. All I observed there is the silliness of the king’s playing with his dog all the while, and not minding the business.”
As a matter of course, contemporary wits and playwrights are not silent, and have many a squib too at this foible of Charles:
“His dogs would sit at Council Board, Like judges in their furs; We question much which had most sense,-- The Master, or the Curs.”
John Evelyn, another diarist, speaks with some disgust of the lengths to which Charles’ affection for his pets led him. The king would have them always about him, and allowed them to consider his bedroom and study their kennels.
That dogs were lost and stolen with modern frequency, that rewards were offered for their return, is shown by notices like the following:
“Lost out of the Mews, on the 6th of the present month (March, 1667) a little brindled greyhound belonging to His Majesty; if any one has taken her up, they are desired to bring her to the Porter’s Gate at Whitehall, and they shall have a very good content for their pains.”
The king might often be seen when the weather was fine, sauntering along in St. James Park, his dogs beside him; and stopping every now and then to feed the ducks in the water. It is a pleasant picture--one we like to remember, and more creditable to Charles than most other scenes in his life. Such as we see him here, good-natured, kind-hearted, self-indulgent, just so he passed from the scene of the world. He had enjoyed the last gleam of prosperity that was to fall on the Stuart race. Their good fortune died with him, and with him, too, passed the golden age of the “Comforter.”
With William of Orange came in pugs; and for a long time their odd ugly faces might be seen in all establishments of rank. Garnished with orange ribbons, in compliment to the king, they were known as Dutch pugs, and commanded high prices in the market.
The Georges divided their royal favor impartially between spaniels, terriers and pugs. The Princess Charlotte, a sister of George III., was particularly fond of terriers, and had herself painted with a long-haired darling of the species in her arms. The Duchess of York (wife to a son of George III.) was such a lover of dogs as to have forty at one time, of different varieties. All her favorites were buried at Oatlands, where even yet some sixty or more tombstones may be seen. The Duchess herself wrote most of their epitaphs, of which the following may serve as a specimen:
“Pepper, near this silent grotto, Thy fair virtues lie confest; Fidelity thy constant motto,-- Warmth of friendship speaks the test.”
Little Princess Amelia, the darling of all who knew her, petted every thing that came in her reach--her family, her servants, her horses, kittens, dogs and birds. One painting represents her as a chubby, winsome baby, playing with a King Charles; another shows her as a merry little girl with her pet bird. When she had grown up into a young lady, her sister Augusta gave her a bird which she greatly prized. Two days after her death it was brought by an attendant to the donor. The Princess Amelia had so ordered it, she said, requesting only that it should not be returned the day of her death, nor yet the day after, lest its presence might affect her sister too deeply in those first hours of sorrow.
Both Victoria and Prince Albert had many favorites, which in being painted by Landseer have established a claim to immortality. The artist Leslie tells a pretty story of the young queen on her coronation day. The ceremony took an unconscionable time, and when she returned from it, she heard her pet spaniel barking wildly in the room where he was shut up. “Oh! there is Dash,” she cried, and hastened to lay off her splendid robes so that she might give him his long-deferred bath. There is a burial-place on the terrace at Windsor, as at Sans-Souci, and in one sunny corner rest the bones of this early favorite.
Eos and Cairnach, Prince Albert’s dogs, were painted together by Landseer, and form a most dignified, graceful group. Islay, one of the Queen’s terriers, was painted with a mackaw and several love-birds, which reveals another trait of his royal mistress. She is very fond of birds, and in the fowl-house, in the Home Park, are preserved the bodies of various feathered pets who have paid their last debt to nature. The most celebrated is a dove, which many years ago, when she visited Ireland with Prince Albert, was thrown into her carriage--a living message of good will. She cherished it to the end of its life; and its descendants still flutter around the towers of Windsor.
Her stables, too, contain favorites. Prince Albert’s horse survived, an honored inmate, until quite lately; and the cream-colored Herrenhausen horses dream their lives away here in luxurious ease, being used by Her Majesty only on state occasions.
“A favorite at Marlborough House” indicates clearly one taste at least of the exquisite princess who rouses so much enthusiasm in English hearts; and emphasizes a little speech she made at a meeting of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. “If,” said she, “I have saved even one cat from misery, I shall feel that I have done some good in the world.”
If the cats at Windsor and Marlborough House have anything to complain of, it can only be over-indulgence. The bill for their silk throat-ribbons and silver bells is a large one, even at the most moderate estimate; they have their own special cushions and attendants; they often go out riding with their royal mistresses, and when the latter leave one palace for another, _Messieurs et Mesdames Les Chats_ travel with them, in such state and comfort as befit the possessions of royalty.
But now let us turn from England to France, and glance at a few pets there. A pleasant memory remains of Louis XIII.--his intercession, when a child, for the poor cats that were to be burned as witches on St. John’s Day. It availed not only for those particular cats, but for all their race henceforth in France.
One of his predecessors, Henry III., used to carry a daintily-lined basket suspended from his neck by a silken cord. As he languidly talked with his guests or courtiers, he would at intervals, with hands delicate as a woman’s, sparkling with rings, caress the tiny, long-haired dogs which occupied the basket.
Louis XIV. petted himself more than any living creature; yet he had some sympathy to spare for his numerous dogs; he even had their portraits painted, at a considerable cost; and he also, presumably, had a favorite cat--if the story in Swift’s Memoirs is one to be relied upon. This story is to the effect that during the reign of Queen Anne, a Miss Nelly Bennet, a young lady who took prestige as a great beauty, visited the French court.
She traveled in the care of witty Dr. Arbuthnot, who in a letter to the Dean, describes the outbursts of admiration that greeted his fair charge.
“She had great honours done her,” he remarks, then adds, “and the hussar himself was ordered to bring her the king’s cat to kiss.”
When this important bit of news came to be reported in England, a wit, now unknown, wrote a poem on the event, describing how--
“... When as Nelly came to France (Invited by her cousins), Across the Tuileries each glance Killed Frenchmen by whole dozens. The king, as he at dinner sat, Did beckon to his hussar, And bid him bring his tabby-cat For charming Nell to buss her.”
Louis XVI. had a favorite spaniel, playful and intelligent, like all its race. It accompanied him to the prison which he was only to exchange for the scaffold, and was bequeathed by him as a last remembrance to his daughter. Through four years of imprisonment it was her only friend and companion, and when upon her release “Madame Royale” went to her relatives in Austria, it was not left behind. But when, in 1801, the royal exiles were in Warsaw, the poor little favorite fell from a balcony in the Poniatowsky Palace, and was instantly killed.
The first Napoleon cared little for any animal--except his war-horses. Cats, indeed, he detested; and of Fortune (a pet dog of the Empress Josephine) he was always jealous, and could not bear to see his wife caress it. But age, they say, brings wisdom; and in his case, it certainly brought toleration--of one dog at least. Here is the story:
The seventeen-year-old Marie Louise, who was to be his second wife, had a favorite Italian greyhound which accompanied her on her way into France. Her Austrian suite was replaced at the frontier by a French one; and at Munich her last Austrian attendant was dismissed, together with the dog--a thing never intended by Napoleon, and only effected by intrigue. We can imagine the young girl’s grief, and can readily believe, as the historian says, that “the acquisition of a colossal empire did not console her for the loss of a little dog.”