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.
[Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS SISTER WILHELMINA.
(_From the painting by Antoine Pesne._)]
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.
[Illustration: PRINCE BISMARCK AND HIS DOGS.
(_From life photograph._)]
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.
[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH IN HER PEACOCK GOWN.
(_From the painting by Zucchero, at Hampton Court._)]
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.
[Illustration: MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, AT THE AGE OF TEN.
(_From the painting in Lord Napier’s collection._)]
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.
[Illustration: LADY MARGARET LENOX, MOTHER Of LORD DARNLEY.
(_In the Hampton Court Collection.--From a rare print._)]
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.”
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.
[Illustration: CHILDREN OF CHARLES I., WITH SPANIELS.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
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.
[Illustration: CHILDREN OF CHARLES I.; PRINCE CHARLES AND HIS MASTIFF.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
“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.
[Illustration: JAMES STUART, DUKE OF RICHMOND, SON OF ESME STUART.
(_From a painting by Vandyke._)]
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.”