Part 14

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.

(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.

(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.

(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.

(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.”

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.