ROYAL PETS
It has often been remarked that persons of the most rough and unfeeling
disposition have displayed extraordinary tenderness towards their
favourite animals, illustrations of which are of frequent occurrence in
the pages of history. And perhaps one of the most touching pictures of
animal love is that given by Homer, who tells how, unrecognised by his
wife, the way-worn monarch Ulysses, though disguised in squalid rags, is
at once remembered by his noble hound, even in the last moments of
existence. Cautioned by his guide at the palace entrance of the wrong
and insult he might encounter, Ulysses pauses at the door, but only to
see his faithful dog perishing in want, misery, and neglect, yet still
remembering his long-lost master, and making one final effort of
expiring nature to give a sign of joy at his return:--
“The dog, whom Fate had granted to behold
His lord, when twenty tedious years had rolled,
Takes a last look, and having seen him--dies;
So clos’d for ever faithful Argus’ eyes.”
It has been remarked that dogs, like men, have their different ranks,
and that “Fortune showers her gifts among them with just as uneven a
hand as she uses when busying herself with their masters:--
“Some wake to the world’s wine, honey, and corn,
Whilst others, like Colchester natives, are born
To its vinegar only, and pepper.”
Thus, during the middle ages the greyhound came in for such stars and
blue ribands as are to be enjoyed in the canine world. A certain breed
of them had the privilege of appearing with their masters whenever they
pleased in the presence of the Emperor Charlemagne; and as a mark of
this privilege the hound’s right paw was closely shaven, “a less
oppressive distinction,” it has been remarked,[111] “than the richly
damasked corselets and back-plates which were fastened about the best
greyhounds when about to take part in the boar-hunt.”
In this country animals have in many cases shared the fame of their
royal owners, and many an interesting anecdote has been handed down of
pets that, through their associations with the Court, have gained a
place in history.
Henry I.’s love of animals induced him to form an extensive menagerie at
Woodstock during the life of his first queen, Matilda of Scotland, who
was in all probability well acquainted with natural history. It was the
first zoological collection ever seen in this country, and it is thus
described by Stowe: “The King craved from other kinges lions, leopards,
lynxes, and camels, and other curious beasts of which England hath none.
Among others there was a strange animal called a stryx or porcupine,
sent him by William of Montpelier, which beast,” he adds, “is among the
Africans counted as a kind of hedgehog, covered with pricking bristles,
which they shoot out naturally on the dogs that pursue them.” But
Henry’s second wife, Adelicia of Louvaine, evidently knew nothing of
zoology previous to her marriage; but in order to adapt herself to his
pursuits, she turned her attention to that study, for Philippe de Thuan
wrote a work on the nature of animals for her special edification, thus
alluding to the personal charms of his royal patroness in his
dedication:--
“Philippe de Thuan, in plain French,
Has written an elementary book of animals,
For the praise and instruction of a good and beauteous woman,
Who is the crowned Queen of England, and named Alix.”
Richard II. had a favourite greyhound named Math, “beautiful beyond
description,” writes Froissart, “who would not notice or follow any but
the King. Whenever Richard rode abroad the greyhound was loosed by the
person who had the care of him, and that instant he ran to caress his
royal master by placing his two fore-feet on his shoulders. It fell out
that as the King and his cousin Henry Bolingbroke were conversing in the
courtyard of Flint Castle, when their horses were preparing, the
greyhound Math was untied, but, instead of running as usual to King
Richard, he passed him and leaped to Henry’s shoulders, paying him every
court, the same as he used to his own master.
“Henry, not acquainted with this greyhound, asked the King the meaning
of his fondness.
“‘Cousin,’ replied Richard, ‘it means a great deal for you and very
little for me.’
“‘How?’ said Henry, ‘pray explain it.’
“‘I understand by it,’ added the unfortunate king, ‘that this my
favourite greyhound Math fondles and pays his court to you this day as
King of England, which you will be, and I shall be deposed, for that the
natural instinct of the creature perceives. Keep him therefore by your
side, for, lo! he leaveth me, and will ever follow you.’ Henry treasured
up what King Richard had said, and paid attention to the greyhound Math,
who would no more follow Richard of Bordeaux, but kept by the side of
Henry, as was witnessed by thirty thousand men.”
History has many pathetic traditionary stories of this kind, one of
which Southey has painted in poetic colours. Roderick, the last king of
the Visigoths, having escaped from the battlefield in the guise of a
peasant, where he had been defeated by Count Julian and his Moorish
allies, finally returned to his shattered kingdom after a hermit life of
twenty years. His dog Theron alone knew him, yet not even he at once,
but only after eyeing him long and wistfully, did he recognise at length
his master--
“Changed as he was, and in those sordid weeds,
His royal master. And he rose and licked
His withered hand, and earnestly looked up
With eyes whose human meaning did not need
The aid of speech; and moaned as if at once
To court and chide the long withheld caress.”
Queen Mary was a lover of birds and animals, allusions to which occur in
the entries relating to her household expenditure. Thus, in the year
1542, Boxley, a yeoman of the king’s chamber, was given by the princess
15s. for bringing her a present of a little spaniel. Sir Bryan Tuke sent
her “a couple of little fair hounds,” evidently white Italian
greyhounds, which we find frequently introduced in her portrait, and in
those of her contemporaries. Then a woman of London had a present of 5s.
for bringing her a bird in a cage; and the woodman of Hampton Court took
charge of a white pet lark which the Princess had left there, and he was
paid 3d. for bringing it to her at Westminster in April 1543.
Elizabeth, too, was very fond of singing-birds, apes, and little dogs;
and there was the favourite lap-dog of Mary Queen of Scots, connected
with which there is the well-known incident in the last tragic scene at
Fotheringay. After the headsman had done his work, it appeared that the
dog had followed its mistress, and was concealed under her clothes. When
discovered it gave a short cry, and seated itself between the head and
the neck, from which the blood was still flowing.
James I., as is well known, had a miscellaneous taste for all kinds of
pet animals--Virginian spaniels, a cream-coloured fawn, the splendid
white gryfalcon of Ireland, an elephant, five camels, and naturally dogs
of every description forming his menagerie. His Majesty had a favourite
dog Jewel, or Jowler, “his special and most favourite hound.” One day,
seeing his favourite lie dead, no one dared to tell him who had done the
deed. At last one of the Queen’s attendants ventured to break the matter
to him, saying that “the unlucky shaft proceeded from the hand of her
Majesty,” which news at once pacified his Majesty’s anger. He sent word
to her “not to be concerned at the accident, for he should never love
her the worse,” and on the next day he gave her a jewel worth £2000,
intimating that it was a legacy from his deceased dog.
Greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds are classed by Sir Philip Sidney--the
first as the lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last “the yeomen
of dogges.”[112] The gentlemen, in the opinion of Charles I., were the
more courtly, though not for this reason the better companions.
“Methinks,” writes Sir Philip Warwick, who was in attendance on the King
at Newport, “because it shows his disesteem of a common court vice, it
is not unworthy the relating of him that, one evening, his dog scraping
at his door, he commanded me to let in Gipsey, whereupon I took the
boldness to say: “Sir, I perceive you love a greyhound better than you
do a spaniel.” “Yes,” replied the King, “for they equally love their
masters, and yet do not flatter them so much.”
Charles II. was constantly followed by a number of small spaniels
wherever he went. Indeed his fondness for these animals was
extraordinary, for it is said that he even permitted them to litter in
his own apartment; and, according to Evelyn, “neither the room itself,
nor any part of the Court, was rendered more savoury from the King’s
fancy.” His Majesty’s liking for dogs is alluded to in more than one
lampoon of the period, and in a rhyme sung at the Calve’s Head Club we
are told:--
“His dogs would sit at Council Board,
Like judges in their furs;
We question much which had most sense,
The master or the curs.”
And, in another pasquinade, we read:--
“His very dog at Council Board
Sits grave and wise as any lord.”
In the early numbers of the _London Gazette_ we find numerous instances
in which rewards are offered for dogs stolen or strayed from Whitehall,
many of which were undoubtedly the King’s. On the 12th of March 1667 a
dog is notified as having been lost by Charles, the advertisement
running thus:--
“Lost out of the Mews on the 6th of this present month, a little
brindled greyhound bitch, 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.”
And again, on the 17th of May following, a reward is offered for “a
white hound bitch of his Majesty’s, with a reddish head, and red upon
the buttocks, some black spots on the body, and a nick in the right
hip.” Advertisements of this kind were constantly, it is said,
attracting the public gaze, and were from time to time the cause of
considerable excitement.
And one of the favourite hobbies of Charles II. was to saunter into St.
James’s Park, and to feed with his own hand the numerous birds with
which it was stocked; constant allusion to which practice are made by
contemporary writers.
At Oatlands the Duchess of York passed much of her time when the Duke
was in Flanders. Her Royal Highness had an eccentric taste for keeping
pet dogs, and near the grotto might be seen between sixty and seventy
small upright stones inscribed with the names of an equal number of
dogs, which were buried here by her direction. She supplied their
epitaphs, one of which was as follows:--
“Pepper, near this silent grotto
Thy fair virtues lie confest;
Fidelity thy constant motto;
Warmth of friendship speak the rest.”
The Duchess of York extended her kindness even to the rooks which, when
driven from the neighbouring fields, experienced a sure protection in
this demesne, where, finding themselves in security, they soon
established a flourishing rookery, to which Lord Erskine alludes in his
little poem commemorative of this humane trait in the character of the
Duchess:--
“Where close in the o’ershadowing wood,
They build new castles for their brood,
Secure, their fair Protectress nigh,
Whose bosom swells with sympathy.”
One of the most charming traits in Queen Victoria’s character was her
love for animals, and it is pathetically recorded that when she lay
dying she sent for her favourite little Pomeranian dog, Marco, and
caressed it as it jumped on her bed.[113] She always had a large number
of dogs of different breeds, and she raised the Scotch collie to its
present proud position--her collies, Sharp and Noble, being the daily
companions of her rides among the mountains. At Windsor, we are told
that her dogs, instead of being kept in cold kennels in some sunless
court of the castle, were all housed in a cosy part of the Home Park,
where she could, if so disposed, have them under personal observation.
Among the anecdotes recorded of the Queen’s early domestic life, a
pleasing one is told of Prince Albert, who being delayed for a day by
some formal business when coming to England in 1839--on the visit to
Windsor which ended in his betrothal--sent his greyhound “Eos” in
advance, as a token that he himself would shortly arrive. The effigy of
this faithful companion--which with its two puppies was afterwards
painted by George Morley and by Landseer--is carved on the Prince’s
tomb. Her Majesty’s love for animals prompted her loyal subjects in
distant lands to send her specimens of foreign dogs, whilst Indian
Rajahs and African Chiefs presented her with a large collection of
animals, from lions to Thibetan mastiffs, some of which she kept at the
Windsor farms. There, we are told, she kept the great bull bison
brought over from Canada by the Marquis of Lorne, and the fine zebra
sent by the Emperor Menelek.
But the Queen, it seems, had in early life a dislike of cats, in
connection with which prejudice an amusing story is told of the Princess
Royal as a very little girl, who, in order to attract attention when no
one else would take notice of her, called out, “There’s a cat under the
trees.” Every one looked up, but there was no cat to be seen. She had
achieved her purpose, and remarked demurely, “Cat come out to look at
the Queen, I suppose.” As the Queen did not allow cats, there was
evidently an inner meaning in her remark.
Marie Louise, wife of Charles II. of Spain, had two parrots which talked
French, and these with her spaniels were her chief companions.
Disappointed, as it seemed she was likely to be, in the hope of
children, which, however, the King persisted in looking for, she
concentrated all her affection on these pets. The Duchess of Terra
Nueva, hating all things French, and trusting to the King’s dislike of
things French likewise, one day when the Queen was out for a drive,
twisted the parrots’ necks; but on her return the Queen as usual called
for her birds and her dogs.
At the mention of her birds, the maids of honour look at each other
without speaking, but the truth was told. Accordingly, when the Duchess
of Terra Nueva appeared to kiss the Queen’s hand as customary, the meek
spirit of Marie Louise could endure no longer, and she gave her two or
three slaps on either cheek. The rage of the Duchess was unbounded, and
collecting all her four hundred ladies, she went at the head of them to
the King to ask for redress. Thereupon the King betook himself to the
Queen, and demanded an explanation.
“Señor,” she maliciously replied, “this is a longing of mine--an
_antojo_,” for not only in the case of a royal lady, but in that of the
humblest woman of Spain, the _antojo_ had a prescriptive right to be
satisfied. So Charles II., whose soul was bent on having children, to
save the succession of the crown from passing out of the House of
Austria, was delighted with the _antojo_ and its significance, and
declared to his queen that if she was not satisfied with the two slaps
of face, she should give the Duchess two dozen more; and he checked the
remonstrances of the Duchess, exclaiming, “Hold your tongue, you; these
slaps on the face are daughters of the _antojo_.”
The rigid etiquette of the Spanish Court was carried to such an absurd
extent that whatever the King had used or touched became sacred. Hence a
horse he had once crossed could never be used by any one else, on which
account Philip IV. declined the gift of a fine animal, he had admired,
from a Spanish nobleman, saying it would be a pity so noble a beast
should ever be without a master.
It is impossible to say how much not his master alone, but all Europe,
owed to the spaniel whose marble effigy lies crouched at the feet of
William the Silent, the great founder of the Dutch Republic, on his
tomb in the church at Delft. It was this dog which saved the Prince’s
life by springing forward, barking, and scratching his master’s face
with his paws, when, in the night attack on the camp before Mons, a band
of Spanish arquebusiers were on the point of entering the tent of
William. His guards and himself were in profound sleep, and there was
but just time for the Prince, after the spaniel had roused him, to mount
a horse which was ready saddled, and to make his escape through the
darkness. His servants and attendants lost their lives. To his dying
day, Mr. Motley tells us, “the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel of
the same race in his bed-chamber.”
Alfonso VI. of Portugal, despite his wild and savage nature, had an
affection for mastiffs. Hearing, by accident, that the Jesuits kept some
fine specimens of those animals, he once rode over at night to the
convent where the fathers resided. He had alighted from his horse, and
was waiting for torches to be conducted to the kennels, when, impatient
of waiting, he strolled into the streets and almost immediately he got
engaged in a quarrel, whereby, instead of seeing the mastiffs, he was
carried to bed wounded.
Charles XII. of Sweden, when scarcely seven years old, was handing a
piece of bread to his favourite dog, when the hungry animal, snapping at
it too greedily, accidentally bit the Prince’s hand. But the young
Prince, sooner than betray his dog, which he knew intended no mischief,
kept the matter a secret to himself, until an officer who attended at
table perceived what had happened, for the Prince had grown pale with
the pain and loss of blood, and he could not but admire his nobility of
character.
Frederick the Great’s greyhounds had quite a standing at Court, and
supplied the place of the monkeys which, as Crown Prince and for a short
time after his accession, he kept in his room strangely dressed. His
dogs were his constant companions at home, in his walks, in his
journeys, and in the field. Of these animals, Biche and, above all,
Alcmene were the favourites, and with the former he once concealed
himself from the Pandours under a bridge, where she crouched close to
him without betraying him by the least sound. But, alas! “poor Biche
died,” as Frederick said, “because ten doctors were trying to cure her.”
About 1780, when his Majesty went to the review in Silesia, he left
Alcmene very ill at Sans Souci, and every day a courier was sent with
the latest news of its condition. When informed of the poor animal’s
death, Frederick gave orders for the dead body to be placed in a coffin
in the library, and after his return he would for two or three days look
at it “for whole hours, in silent grief, weeping bitterly,” after which
he had it buried.
Frederick’s favourite dogs and their companions had for their attendant
one of the so-called royal “small footmen,” who fed them and led them
for exercise on fine days in the garden, and on wet ones in a large
hall. For their amusement small leather balls were provided, and two
dollars a month were allowed for the keep of each dog. One evening in
1760 the Marquis d’Argens found the King in his winter quarters at
Leipzic, sitting on the floor with a dish of fricassee before him, from
which the dogs made their repast, and holding a small stick in his hand
with which he kept order, and pushed the best bits towards his
favourites.
In addition to his dogs, his Majesty took great interest in his horses,
one of his favourites being “the long Mollwitz Grey” which had belonged
to his father, on which he retreated from the battlefield, and which he
never afterwards rode, but kept till its death. Then there was Cæsar, a
roan, that walked freely about in the garden of the palace of Potsdam,
and was so accustomed to Frederick that it followed him to the parade,
where his Majesty would occasionally order a different movement rather
than disturb his old steed. Another pet horse was Condé, which was
almost daily brought out before the King, who fed it with melons, sugar,
and figs; other favourites being Choiseul, Kaunitz, Brühl, and Pitt.
Another very fine horse, writes Vehse in his “Memoirs of the Court of
Prussia,” was Lord Bute, and when the English minister had discontinued
the subsidies, revenge was taken on the horse, which had to help the
mules in drawing orange trees.
Peter the Great had a favourite monkey, which was allowed to take all
kinds of liberties. During his Majesty’s stay in this country, William
III. “made the Czar a visit to his lodgings in York Buildings, in which
an odd incident happened. The Czar had his monkey, which sat upon the
back of his chair,” writes Lord Dartmouth, and “as soon as the King was
sat down the monkey jumped upon him in some wrath, which discomposed the
whole ceremonial, and most of the time was spent afterwards in apologies
for the monkey’s behaviour.”[114] Alexander III. was much attached to
animals, and would tramp for miles through forest and marsh with his
favourite setters--Spot and Juno--for sole companions. The imperial
kennels and stables were models of order and propriety.
After children, dogs and animals in general were a great delight to
Catherine II. of Russia, in connection with which many anecdotes have
been recorded. In 1785, we are told how she took a fancy to a white
squirrel, of which she made a pet, and about the same time she became
possessed of a monkey of whose cleverness she would often boast. “You
should have seen,” she writes to Grimm, “the amazement of Prince Henry
one day when Prince Potenkin let loose a monkey in the room, with which
I began to play. He opened his eyes, but he could not resist the tricks
of the monkey.”
Her Majesty also had a favourite cat, which seems to have been a
wonderful animal--“the most tomcat of all tomcats, gay, witty, not
obstinate.” In one of her letters she writes: “You will excuse me if all
the preceding page is very badly written. I am extremely hampered at the
moment by a certain young and fair Zemire, who of all the Thomassins is
the one who will come closest to me, and who pushes her pretensions to
the point of having her paws on my paper.”
Henry III. of France was never happy unless a whole kennel of puppies
yelped at his heels; and Dumas has given an amusing sketch of his
Majesty as he travelled with his fool Chicot in the same litter drawn by
half-a-dozen mules. “The litter,” he writes, “contained Henry, his
physician, his chaplain, the jester, four of the King’s minions, a
couple of huge hounds, and a basketful of puppies, which rested on the
King’s knees, but which was upheld from his neck by a gold chain. From
the roof hung a gilded cage, in which there were white turtle-doves, the
plumage of their necks marked by a sable circlet of feathers.
Occasionally two or three apes were to be seen in this ‘Noah’s Ark,’ as
it was called.”
Henry IV. was fond of dogs, and when King of Navarre, was found one day
in his cabinet by his great minister, Sully, with his sword by his side,
his cloak on his shoulders, carrying in a basket suspended from his neck
two or three little pugs.
Even in his sports, one of the early exploits of Louis XV. gives a
painful impression of his wanton character. He had a pet white doe at
Versailles, at which one day he fired in mere mischievousness. The poor
creature came wounded towards him and licked his Majesty’s hand, but the
young King drove it away from him, and shot it again and again till it
died.
Alfred de Musset’s dislike of dogs was intensified by unfortunate
experience, for more than once a dog had nearly wrecked his prospects,
one occasion being when at a royal hunting-party he blunderingly shot
Louis Philippe’s favourite pointer. To Goethe, too, dogs were an
abhorrence, and a story is told of the poet’s troubles as theatrical
manager at Weimar, when the cabal against him had craftily persuaded the
Duke Carl August--whose fondness for dogs was as remarkable as Goethe’s
aversion to them--to invite to his capital Karsten and his poodle, which
had been performing at Paris the leading part in the melodrama of “The
Dog of Montargis.” But Goethe indignantly replied, “One of our theatre
regulations stands, ‘No dogs admitted on the stage,’” and dismissed the
subject. But the invitation had already gone, and the dog arrived. After
the first rehearsal Goethe gave his Highness the choice between the dog
and his Highness’s then stage manager; whereupon the Duke, angry at his
opposition, sent a most offensive letter of dismissal. He quickly
regretted the act, and wrote to Goethe, whom no entreaty could ever
induce to resume his post.