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.
[Illustration: LOVE LEADING THE ORCHESTRA.
(_After painting by A. Gill._)]
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.
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANTS OF GERMANICUS.]
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.”
[Illustration: THE CAT SHOWMAN.
(_Fac-simile of a print of the seventeenth century._)]
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.”
[Illustration: PINTA AND HIS MULE MARCO.]
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!
[Illustration: HELP, THE RAILWAY DOG OF ENGLAND.]
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.
[Illustration: PROF. BONNETTY’S TROUPE.]
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.
[Illustration: THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.
FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.
A FAVORITE DIVERSION.
“A SPIN.”
(_The Brighton Cats._)]
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.”
[Illustration: A CAT WITH A CONSCIENCE.
(_One of Prof. Bonnetty’s Troupe._)]
The birds which act with these different troupes have been
comparatively unimportant, except in connection with their feline
companions. Nevertheless, birds, too, can be trained, and are. There is
a charming pathetic story of a little Sardinian, Francesco Micheli, who
turned his liking for birds to account in earning money for his family.
He trained sparrows, thrushes, linnets, canaries--whatever feathered
creature came within his reach. Some he taught to pipe simple tunes,
others to play hide-and-seek with his white Angora cat; a nest of young
partridges, under his teaching, embraced the military profession,
learned to drill, hold little swords, fire off little cannon, pretend
to be killed, and then come to life again. One of these intelligent
partridges, Rosolotta, grieved with a human grief when her dear master
died, and is said--like “Greyfriars’ Bobby”--to have watched over his
grave so long as she lived.
[Illustration: “TELL ME THY SECRET, BEPPO.”
(_The Roman Bird Girl._)]
I was reminded of this little Sardinian and his pets by a scene I
witnessed one morning in Rome. A crowd of people had gathered near
the broad base of the Antonine column, watching the performance of
four pigeons and three canaries. The little maid with the pigeons was
charming--and so were they--as she bid them tell her their secrets, and
in response they fluttered up her shoulders, and cooed into her ear.
But the true interest of the entertainment--its dramatic part--began
with the canaries. The little actors were sitting in a row on top of
their cage, demurely waiting for orders. Their mistress talked to them
meanwhile, now praising their talents, now admiring their beauty, they
following each motion of her lips with keen, inquisitive glances.
“Thou, Beppo, art a bird of great character, _un gran carattere_!
Really, thou art wonderful! Zirlo, my fine fellow” (to the second),
“what a bird art thou! Who like thee can climb the _scaletta_ (little
ladder)! No one, in truth, and they are base _ladroni_ that deny thy
merits; eh Pippa?” (to the third). “Dost thou hear? _Bellissima!_ One,
two, three, come then, my Pippa, kiss me.” She extended a finger. Pippa
transferred herself to it from the perch, and climbing the arm to her
face, gave a fluttering little salute first to one cheek, then to the
other. After which, hopping back to the finger, she made a droll little
bow, and returned to the perch.
Then it was Zirlo’s turn; and this enterprising bird not only climbed
the _scaletta_, but finding a gun at the top, shouldered it, pulled
the trigger with an infinitesimal claw, and--bang!--who should tumble
from his perch but poor Beppo, and lie perfectly rigid on the ground.
Zirlo’s fit of anger was quenched at this piteous sight; carefully
he examined the stiff figure and at last, picking up an inch-square
pocket-handkerchief with one foot, applied it to his eyes, and wept
bitterly. Then up jumped Beppo, who had only been feigning, and the
two touched bills in token of reconciliation, and waltzed--wing in
wing--fraternally off the stage.
It was a pretty scene--the sunshine, the people, the tiny performers
below, and the mighty column towering high above them--the grandeur of
old Rome looking down upon the present thus lightly amusing itself.
_XI._
_A MENAGERIE IN STONE._
XI.
A MENAGERIE IN STONE.
In Rome there is always something to stir the fancy and quicken the
pulse--always something to recall to the Present the magnificent Past.
Now it is a column or statue, now a ruined palace, and now the vast
fabric of an amphitheater. But the ruins are weighted with such tragic
memories of by-gone Cæsars--their wars, their triumphs, their funeral
pomp--as to be almost oppressively solemn. Let us then leave them
for once, and go where the Past will suggest itself in some simpler,
happier fashion--let us visit a Roman “Zoo.”
No day could be better for the purpose than this sunny one; for the Zoo
has its home in the Vatican, and we need all the sunshine we can get to
counteract its chill. Besides, no matter with how definite a purpose we
set out, once within that marble world we are sure to linger--so many
are the objects that claim the eye. It is only after a lingering stroll
that we at last reach the _Sala degli Animali_, or Hall of the Animals.
An odd world it is, suggesting the pictures of Paradise before the
dispersion of species; a world that includes creatures wild and
tame, familiar and suppositious--birds, harpies, dragons, reptiles,
quadrupeds, Minotaur, insects and fish. Three patrons of the chase
preside, Diana and Hercules at one end of the hall, the imperial hunter
Commodus at the other.
[Illustration: SCULPTURE OF GREYHOUNDS IN THE VATICAN.]
The longer we gaze the stronger grows our feeling that it is in truth
a menagerie, surviving somehow from early days. Only, how very silent!
The last party of tourists has passed on, we are quite alone, save for
these many shapes all around us--and it is hardly in nature that no
faintest sound or movement should be heard. Those graceful greyhound
puppies play with each other in perfect silence; not a footfall nor
crackling twig betrays the flight of yonder deer.
And so, gradually, it dawns on us that although this is life, it is
life long turned to stone. Some Arabian Nights’ enchantment has been
at work, arresting these varied forms in their prime of activity; and,
doubtless, on some future day, at the true wizard’s touch, they will
turn back again from marble into breathing flesh. But that will not
happen to-day, nor yet to-morrow, so we may as well take advantage of
the stillness to see what the menagerie contains.
[Illustration: SCULPTURE OF THIEVING MONKEY IN THE VATICAN.]
A dun cow, not far from Diana, stands snuffing the fresh air with
upraised head; and a horse which once was roan--at least the marble
still bears traces of reddish paint--looks inquiringly toward her.
Near these peacefully-inclined animals crouches a lion, in readiness
to leap upon his prey. In the next group the victim is secured; it
represents a horse pulled down by a lion. Note the relentless grasp of
the one, the helpless agony of the other. Wonderful as a work of art,
it is nevertheless too painful to linger before; we are glad to turn
away. Similar in character are two groups of deer seized by hounds, and
another of a panther devouring its prey.
Here is a wild boar, here the ugly phiz of a camel; here an alligator,
to whose neutral character an existence in marble seems peculiarly well
adapted; and here, at a respectful distance from his jaws, are a cock,
a goose, a pelican, several peacocks and an eagle. The dignity of the
latter is worth noting--its calm, imperial reserve, so indicative of
the Rome whose emblem it was.
Of the monkey hard by it can only be said that he is as perfect as
monkeyish a monkey as ever breathed. He has been stealing fruit,
probably from some old Roman garden, and has made off to this corner to
eat it on the sly, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to
make sure that no one will interrupt.
[Illustration: STAG IN ALABASTER IN THE VATICAN.]
A goat, a rhinoceros and a hyena come next, and then we approach a
most remarkable bust of the Minotaur, that bull-headed, human-bodied
terror which demanded a yearly tribute of youths and maidens, and was
finally slain by Theseus, to the great relief of the Athenian world.
What brutal, pitiless life, what fierce joy in the anticipated victims,
looks out from his eyes and dilates his nostrils! It is a relief to
turn away from the brute and examine instead his near neighbors, a crab
and a green-gray dolphin rising from waves of white marble.
The queer object just beyond is an armadillo with stone scales scarcely
harder than real ones; while every one will recognize at first glance
the jolly little rabbit beside him, and the two hares nibbling at a
bunch of grapes. The next animal is a historic one--the famous white
sow of Alba. She reclines among part, not all of her thirty pigs, for
the artist seems to have given out in exhaustion after carving the
first dozen.
[Illustration: PLINY’S DOVES: A MOSAIC IN THE CAPITOL AT ROME.]
In the neighborhood of Commodus are several panthers and lions; a
leopard, whose black spots have been inserted, like mosaic; a stag,
whose dappled skin is represented by the natural venation of the
alabaster from which it is carved; an eagle with her young; a craw-fish
and a porphyry frog.
[Illustration: PATRICIAN OR PLEBEIAN?]
There are also a number of dogs, in every way admirable, and probably
the exact portraits of some fair Roman lady’s pets. Nothing could be
more natural or charming than the two greyhound puppies frolicking with
each other; nothing more graceful or aristocratic than the full-grown
greyhound which sits upon its haunches, and offers a paw. They are
patrician to their very toes and tail-tips, just as the honest mastiff
hard by, growlingly protecting her puppies, is plebeian.
The shaggy dog who looks up at you in friendly fashion, and whose
portrait appears above, is also decidedly a patrician, if the
conjecture is right that he represents the famous Molossian breed.
Such, in barest outline, is the Vatican menagerie--the work of the
Baryes, Bonheurs and Landseers of days past. It has overflowed its
bounds to some extent, and a number of fine specimens must be sought
in other collections. In the Capitol, for instance, are “Pliny’s
Doves,” whose gurgling coo we quite expect to hear, until closer
inspection proves them--a mosaic! They are called the doves of Pliny,
not because they belonged to that delightful letter-writer, but because
he described them in terms so accurate that we cannot help knowing the
mosaic of the Capitol is the same he looked at almost nineteen hundred
years ago. “There is a dove,” he says, “which is greatly admired, in
the act of drinking, and throwing the shadow of his head upon the
water, while other doves are present, sunning and pluming themselves on
the margin of a drinking-bowl.”
Pliny was an excellent judge of art matters, and certainly these doves
are no less admired to-day than in his time.