Part 28

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!’”

ANIMALS AT SCHOOL.

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.

(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.

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.”

(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.”

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!

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.

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.