the sole companion of his misery, the door was at once walled up; but after a time the King, according to one account, induced his dwarf to counterfeit sickness, and to solicit his removal from prison, when, if he should be successful, he was to try and make his escape from the Danish dominions to the Court of the Electress. The dwarf feigned illness and was liberated, but was recaptured on his attempting to leave the Danish territory.
Peter the Great kept a dwarf whom he used to call his puppet; and in 1710 he celebrated a marriage of two dwarfs at St. Petersburg with great ceremony, when he invited all his courtiers and the foreign ambassadors, and ordered that all dwarfs residing within 200 miles of his capital should be present. But some would not consent to come for fear of ridicule, an act of disobedience which Peter punished by compelling them to wait on the rest at dinner. For this miniature company “everything provided was suitable in size. A low table held small plates, dishes, glasses, and other necessary articles, diminished to the standard of the guests”—the banquet being followed by a dance, opened with a minuet by the bridegroom, who was three feet two inches high.[109]
Marie Anne, wife of Philip IV. of Spain, having laughed once at the eccentric antics of a dwarf clown, was sternly reproved for her bad taste in so doing, upon which she sensibly replied that they should take the clown away if they did not mean her to laugh—so austere was Spanish etiquette.
A favourite dwarf of Charles V. of Spain was Corneille, a portrait of whom, by Francesco Torbido, in the Louvre at Paris, represents him dressed as a knight, with his left hand resting on the back of a large dog; and Velasquez has painted some dwarfs which were once attached to the Spanish Court, “where the most ugly of such deformities were most valued.”[110]At Madrid there is a painting by this artist representing the Infanta Margarita with her two dwarfs, Maria Borbola and Nicolasico Pertusano, who are teasing a good-natured dog. Some years ago a dwarf named Don Francisco Hidalgo held his levees in the Cosmorama Rooms, Regent Street, having previously for eighteen years, it was stated, been attached to the Court of Madrid, in the reign of Ferdinand VII.
The first wife of Joachim Frederick, Elector of Brandenburg, assembled together a number of dwarfs of both sexes, in order to marry them with a view of multiplying their species—an experiment said to have been practised also by Catherine de Medicis, but in each case the attempt was fruitless. And at the castle of Ambras, in the Tyrol, was a wooden image, “only three spans high, representing a dwarf who lived in the Archduke Ferdinand’s Court.”
From an early period dwarfs were kept in Turkish palaces, an amusing reference to this custom being given by Lord Byron, who, describing the Sultan’s palace in Turkey, says:—
“This massy portal stood at the wide closeOf a huge hall, and on its either sideTwo little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,Were sate, like ugly imps, as if alliedIn mockery to the enormous gate which roseO’er them in almost pyramidic pride;The gate so splendid was in all its features,You never thought about those little creatures,Until you nearly trod on them, and thenYou started back in horror to surveyThe wondrous hideousness of those small men,Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,But an extraneous mixture, which no penCan trace, although perhaps the pencil may;They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb—Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum,” &c.
“This massy portal stood at the wide closeOf a huge hall, and on its either sideTwo little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,Were sate, like ugly imps, as if alliedIn mockery to the enormous gate which roseO’er them in almost pyramidic pride;The gate so splendid was in all its features,You never thought about those little creatures,Until you nearly trod on them, and thenYou started back in horror to surveyThe wondrous hideousness of those small men,Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,But an extraneous mixture, which no penCan trace, although perhaps the pencil may;They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb—Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum,” &c.
“This massy portal stood at the wide closeOf a huge hall, and on its either sideTwo little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,Were sate, like ugly imps, as if alliedIn mockery to the enormous gate which roseO’er them in almost pyramidic pride;The gate so splendid was in all its features,You never thought about those little creatures,
Until you nearly trod on them, and thenYou started back in horror to surveyThe wondrous hideousness of those small men,Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,But an extraneous mixture, which no penCan trace, although perhaps the pencil may;They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb—Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum,” &c.
Dwarfs formed part of the retinue of William, Duke of Normandy, at which period it was customary for them to hold the bridle of the King’s horse in State processions. Although it is commonly said Queen Elizabeth detested as ominous all dwarfs and monsters, yet among the New Year’s gifts presented by her on January 1, 1584-85, at Greenwich, was the following: “To Mrs. Tomysen, the dwarf, two ounces of gilt plate.”
Henrietta Maria, Queen Consort of Charles I., had a great fancy for dwarfs. And on the occasion of a royal progress, during which Charles I. and herself were entertained by the Duchess of Buckingham, the Queen was induced to partake of a noble venison pasty in the centre of the table, when, on the removal of the crust, the dwarf Jeffrey Hudson, only eighteen inches high, rose out of the pie, entreating to be taken into herservice, a favour she granted. He seems to have proved a valuable acquisition to the Court household, being sent to France to fetch a midwife for Queen Henrietta Maria; but the homeward journey was disastrous, for “a Dunkirk privateer captured both the midwife and Jeffrey, plundered them of all the rich presents they were bringing to the Queen from her mother, Marie de Medicis, and what was worse, detained the midwife till her office was no longer needed by the royal patient.”
About 1615 was born Richard Gibson, who became Court dwarf to Charles I., and married Anne Shepherd, who was Court dwarf to Queen Henrietta Maria. Her Majesty was present at the marriage, Charles I. giving away the bride, and the Queen presenting her with a diamond ring as a bridal present. These married dwarfs both attained celebrity as miniature painters; they had the honour of teaching Mary II. and Princess Anne drawing, and they died in the service of the former.
And coming down to modern times, it may be mentioned that the dwarf Matthew Buchinger was patronised by George I. And theLondon Gazettefor January 10, 1752, records that “on Wednesday evening Mr. John Coan, the Norfolk dwarf, was sent for to Leicester House by her Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales, and was immediately introduced before her, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Prince Edward, Princess Augusta, and all the other princes and princesses being present, where he stayed upwards of two hours; and we are assured by the pertinency of hisanswers, actions, and behaviour, their Royal Highnesses were most agreeably entertained the whole time, and made him a very handsome present.”
On March 23, 1844, Charles S. Stratton, popularly known as General Tom Thumb, visited the Queen, Prince Albert, and the Duchess of Kent at Buckingham Palace, where he went through his performances, repeating them again on April 2 before her Majesty, when there also were present the Queen of the Belgians, the Prince of Wales, the Princess Royal, and the Princess Alice. At the conclusion of the entertainment her Majesty presented the General with a souvenir of mother-of-pearl, set with rubies, and bearing the crown and the initials V.R., and subsequently she presented him with a gold pencil-case. On April 19 he appeared for the third time before the Queen, Prince Albert, the King and Queen of the Belgians, and Prince Leiningen at Buckingham Palace, and sang on this, as on previous occasions, a comic song to the air of “Yankee Doodle,” in which he introduced the royal personages.
On May 21, 1846, three Highland dwarfs performed their national dances, and sang at Buckingham Palace before the Queen, Prince Albert, and the Duchess of Kent; and in 1848 a dwarf, called Admiral Van Tromp, was patronised by her Majesty, Prince Albert, the Duchess of Kent, the Duchess of Gloucester, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, the Prince and Princess of Parma, the Prince of Orange, and the King and Queen of Holland. And lastly, in 1853, the two Aztec children appearedbefore the Queen, Prince Albert, and the Prince of Wales at Buckingham Palace; and subsequently before the Emperor Napoleon and his family at the Tuileries, the Emperors of Austria and Russia, the Kings and Queens of Prussia, Bavaria, Holland, Hanover, and Denmark, and other illustrious personages.
ROYAL PETS
Ithas 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 beholdHis lord, when twenty tedious years had rolled,Takes a last look, and having seen him—dies;So clos’d for ever faithful Argus’ eyes.”
“The dog, whom Fate had granted to beholdHis lord, when twenty tedious years had rolled,Takes a last look, and having seen him—dies;So clos’d for ever faithful Argus’ eyes.”
“The dog, whom Fate had granted to beholdHis 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 showersher 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 bornTo its vinegar only, and pepper.”
“Some wake to the world’s wine, honey, and corn,Whilst others, like Colchester natives, are bornTo its vinegar only, and pepper.”
“Some wake to the world’s wine, honey, and corn,Whilst others, like Colchester natives, are bornTo 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. Amongothers 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.”
“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.”
“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 lickedHis withered hand, and earnestly looked upWith eyes whose human meaning did not needThe aid of speech; and moaned as if at onceTo court and chide the long withheld caress.”
“Changed as he was, and in those sordid weeds,His royal master. And he rose and lickedHis withered hand, and earnestly looked upWith eyes whose human meaning did not needThe aid of speech; and moaned as if at onceTo court and chide the long withheld caress.”
“Changed as he was, and in those sordid weeds,His royal master. And he rose and lickedHis withered hand, and earnestly looked upWith eyes whose human meaning did not needThe aid of speech; and moaned as if at onceTo 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, wasrendered 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.”
“His dogs would sit at Council Board,Like judges in their furs;We question much which had most sense,The master or the curs.”
“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 BoardSits grave and wise as any lord.”
“His very dog at Council BoardSits grave and wise as any lord.”
“His very dog at Council BoardSits grave and wise as any lord.”
In the early numbers of theLondon Gazettewe 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 publicgaze, 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 grottoThy fair virtues lie confest;Fidelity thy constant motto;Warmth of friendship speak the rest.”
“Pepper, near this silent grottoThy fair virtues lie confest;Fidelity thy constant motto;Warmth of friendship speak the rest.”
“Pepper, near this silent grottoThy 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.”
“Where close in the o’ershadowing wood,They build new castles for their brood,Secure, their fair Protectress nigh,Whose bosom swells with sympathy.”
“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 greatbull 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 threeslaps 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—anantojo,” for not only in the case of a royal lady, but in that of the humblest woman of Spain, theantojohad 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 theantojoand 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 theantojo.”
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 whoattended 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 wereallowed 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. TheCzar 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 whopushes 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 adog 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.
ROYAL JOKES AND HUMOUR
Fromthe earliest times history records many an amusing anecdote illustrative of royal wit and humour, and it is related how when Leonidas, King of Sparta, was informed that the Persian arrows were so numerous that they obscured the light of the sun, he replied, “Never mind that, we shall have the advantage of fighting in the shade.” But, coming down to later times, if monarchs have occasionally indulged in wit at the expense of their subjects, they have themselves not infrequently resented a joke when levelled at them, as in the case of Henry I. of England, who, once being ridiculed in a clever lampoon, rejoined by having the author’s eyes put out. But to the credit of royalty, be it said, instances of this kind have been the exception, despite the sharp retorts it has at times experienced from persons of low degree. Thus a smart rejoinder was that of Frederick the Great’s coachman when he had upset the carriage containing his master. Frederick began to swear like a trooper, but the coachman coolly asked, “And you, did you never lose a battle?”—to which the King was forced to reply with a good-natured laugh.
Henry VIII. appointed Sir Thomas More to carry an angry message to Francis I. of France. Sir Thomas told his Majesty that, if he carried a message to so violent a king as Francis, it might cost him his head. “Never fear,” said the King, “if Francis should cut off your head, I would make every Frenchman now in London a head shorter.” “I am obliged to your Majesty,” said Sir Thomas, “but I much fear if any of their heads will fit my shoulders.”
Even Queen Elizabeth could now and then brook a smart rejoinder. It is reported that she once saw in her garden a certain gentleman to whom she had held out hopes of advancement, which he discovered were slow of realisation. Looking out of her window, her Majesty said to him in Italian, “What does a man think of, Sir Edward, when he thinks of nothing?” The answer was, “He thinks, madam, of a woman’s promise.” Whereupon the Queen drew back her head, but she was heard to say, “Well, Sir Edward, I must not argue with you; anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.”
It would seem, too, that Elizabeth had more than once experienced the folly of sovereigns in allowing persons of more wit than manners the opportunity of exercising their sharp weapons against royalty. A certain jester, Pace, having transgressed in this way, she had forbidden him her presence. One of his patrons, however, undertook to make his peace with her Majesty, and in his name promised that for the future he wouldbehave with more discretion if he were allowed to resume his office. The Queen consented, and, on seeing him, she exclaimed, “Come on, Pace; now we shall hear of our faults!” To which the incorrigible cynic replied, “What is the use of speaking of what all the town is talking about?”
But her Majesty was fond of jests herself, and there is the familiar impromptu couplet she made on the names of the four knights of the county of Nottingham:—
“Gervase the gentle, Stanhope the stout,Markham the lion, and Sutton the lout.”
“Gervase the gentle, Stanhope the stout,Markham the lion, and Sutton the lout.”
“Gervase the gentle, Stanhope the stout,Markham the lion, and Sutton the lout.”
And it has generally been supposed that the subjoined rebus on Sir Walter Raleigh’s name was her composition:—
“The bane of the stomach, and the word of disgrace,Is the name of the gentleman with the bold face.”
“The bane of the stomach, and the word of disgrace,Is the name of the gentleman with the bold face.”
“The bane of the stomach, and the word of disgrace,Is the name of the gentleman with the bold face.”
James I. was fond of buffoonery, and according to Sir Anthony Weldon was very witty, and had “as many ready jests as any man living, at which he would not smile himself, but deliver them in a grave and serious manner.” A little work entitled “Witty Observations of King James” is preserved in the British Museum, and another one, “The Witty Aphorisms of King James,” has often been quoted as a specimen of his Majesty’s talent in this style of literature. But Walpole was far from complimentary when he wrote of James: “A prince, who thought puns and quibbles the perfection of eloquence, would have been charmed with themonkeys of Hemskirk and the drunken boors of Ostade.”
Asking the Lord-Keeper Bacon one day what he thought of the French ambassador, he answered that he was a tall and proper man. “Ay,” replied James, “but what think you of his headpiece? Is he a proper man for an ambassador?” “Sir,” said Bacon, “tall men are like high houses, wherein commonly the uppermost rooms are worst furnished.”
James, however, did not escape being ridiculed by the wits of the period. A lampoon containing some impudent reflections upon the Court caused him some indignation, but when he came to the two concluding lines he smiled:—
“God bless the King, the Queen, the Prince, the peers,And grant the author long may wear his ears!”
“God bless the King, the Queen, the Prince, the peers,And grant the author long may wear his ears!”
“God bless the King, the Queen, the Prince, the peers,And grant the author long may wear his ears!”
“By my faith, and so he shall for me,” said his Majesty; “for though he be an impudent, he is a witty and pleasant rogue.” James was fond of retorting on others when occasion offered. When one of the Lumleys, for instance, was boasting of his ancestry, “Stop, man,” he cried, “you need say no more: now I know that Adam’s name was Lumley.”
Again, one day when a certain courtier, on his death-bed, was full of penitent remorse for having cheated his Majesty, “Tell him,” he said, “to be of good courage, for I freely and lovingly forgive him.” And he added, “I wonder much that all my officers do not go mad with the like thoughts,for certainly they have as great cause as this poor man hath.”
A laughable story is told of an expedient adopted by Buckingham, and his mother, to divert the royal melancholy at the most dismal part of his reign. A young lady was introduced, carrying in her arms a pig dressed as an infant, which the Countess presented to the King in a rich mantle. One Turpin, robed as a bishop, commenced reading the baptismal service, while an assistant stood by with a silver ewer filled with water. The King, for whom the joke was intended as a pleasing surprise, hearing the pig suddenly squeak, and recognising the face of Buckingham, who personated the godfather, exclaimed, “Away, for shame, what blasphemy is this?” indignant at the trick which had been imposed on him. But it is improbable that Buckingham would have ventured on such a piece of buffoonery had he not been prompted by the success of former occasions.
Charles II., it is said, enjoyed fun as much as any of the youngest of his courtiers. On one of his birthdays a pickpocket, in the garb of a gentleman, obtained admission to the drawing-room, and extracted a gold snuff-box from a gentleman’s pocket, which he was quietly transferring to his own when he suddenly caught the King’s eye. But the fellow was in no way disconcerted, and winked at Charles to hold his tongue. Shortly afterwards his Majesty was much amused by observing the nobleman feeling one pocket after another in search of his box. At last he couldresist no longer, and exclaimed, “You need not, my lord, give yourself any more trouble about it; your box is gone, and I own myself an accomplice: I could not help it, I was made a confidant.”
One day this facetious monarch, it is said, asked Dr. Stillingfleet how it happened that he always read his sermons before him, when he was informed that he preached without a book elsewhere. The doctor told the King that the awe of so noble an audience, and particularly the royal presence, made him afraid to trust himself.
“But, in return, will your Majesty give me leave to ask you why you read your speeches when you can have none of the same reasons?”
“Why, truly, doctor,” replied the King, “your question is a very plain one, and so will be my answer. I have asked my subjects so often, and for so much money, that I am ashamed to look them in the face.”
But his Majesty did not always escape himself being made the victim of a joke. He was reputed to be skilled in naval architecture, and visiting Chatham to view a ship which had just been completed, he asked the famous Killigrew “if he did not think he should make an excellent shipwright?” To which Killigrew replied that “he always thought his Majesty would have done better at any trade than his own.” Meeting Shaftesbury, his Majesty one day said to the unprincipled Earl, “I believe thou art the wickedest fellow in my dominions.” “For a subject, sir,” said the other, “I believe I am.” Thehappy retort of Blood is well known, who, when Charles inquired how he dared to make his bold attempt on the crown jewels, replied, “My father lost a good estate in fightingforthe crown, and I considered it no harm to recover itbythe crown.”
James II., when Duke of York, made a visit to the poet Milton, and asked him if he did not think the loss of sight was a judgment upon him for what he had written against his father, Charles I. Milton replied, if his Highness thought his loss of sight a judgment upon him, he wished to know what he thought of his father’s losing his head.
Mary II. did not often indulge in badinage or playfulness. But one day she asked her ladies “what was meant by a squeeze of the hand?” They forthwith answered, “Love.” Then said her Majesty, laughing, “Vice-Chamberlain Smith must be in love with me, for he squeezes my hand very hard.”
George I. was humorous, a trait of character of which many anecdotes have been told. When on a visit to Hanover, he stopped at a Dutch village, and, whilst the horses were being got ready, his Majesty asked for two or three eggs, for which he was charged a hundred florins.
“How is this?” inquired the King. “Eggs must be very scarce here.”
“Pardon me,” said the host, “eggs are plentiful enough, but kings are scarce”—a story of which there are several versions.
“This is a very odd country,” King George remarked, speaking of England. “The first morning after my arrival at St. James’s, I looked out of the window and saw a park with walls and a canal, which they told me were mine. The next day Lord Chetwynd, the ranger of my park, sent me a brace of fine carp out of my canal, and I was told I must give five guineas to my Lord Chetwynd’s man for bringing me my own carp out of my own canal in my own park.”
Equally did George I. enjoy listening to those who either exposed their own follies, or retailed those of others. The Duchess of Bolton, for instance, often made him laugh by reason of her ridiculous blunders. Having been present when Colley Cibber’s first dramatic performance, “Love’s Last Shift,” was played, the King asked her the next day what piece she had seen performed, when she answered, with a serious face, “La dernière chemise de l’amour.”
Like George I., his successor, George II., had a certain amount of humour, and his fondness for Hanover occasioned all sorts of rough jokes among his English subjects. He thought there were no manners out of Germany, and on one occasion when her Royal Highness “was whipping one of the roaring royal children,” George, who was standing by, said to Sarah Marlborough, “Ah, you have no good manners in England, because you are not properly brought up when you are young.”
A smart retort was that of his Majesty to the French ambassador. The regiment that principally distinguished itself at the battle of Dettingen was the Scots Greys, who repulsed the Frenchgens d’armeswith much loss. Some years afterwards, when the King was reviewing some English regiments before the French ambassador, the latter, after admitting that they were fine troops, remarked disparagingly, “But your Majesty has never seen thegens d’armes.” “No,” replied the King, “but I can tell you, and so can they, that my Scotch Greys have.”
When George II., too, was once expressing his admiration of General Wolfe, some one remarked that the general was mad. “Is he, indeed?” said his Majesty. “Then I wish he would bite some of my other generals.”
Queen Caroline thought she had the foolish talent of playing off people, and, after Sir Paul Methuen had left the Court, she frequently saw him when she dined abroad during the King’s absence at Hanover. On one occasion, when she dined with Lady Walpole at Chelsea, Sir Paul was there as usual. The Queen still harped upon the same string—her constant topic for teasing Sir Paul being his passion for romances—and she addressed him with the remark: “Well, Sir Paul, what romance are you reading now?”
“None madam! I have gone through them all.”
“Well, what are you reading then?”
“I am got into a very foolish study, madam—the history of the kings and queens of England.”
Her Majesty was fond of surrounding herselfwith men of wit, and her levees, it is said, “were a strange picture of the motley character and manners of a queen and a learned woman. She received company while she was at her toilette; prayers and sometimes a sermon were read; the conversation turned on metaphysical subjects blended with repartees, sallies of mirth, and the tittle-tattle of a drawing-room.”
Many anecdotes have been handed down of George III. and his love of humour. When the “Temple Companies” had defiled before him, writes Earl Stanhope in his “Life of Pitt,” his Majesty inquired of Erskine, who commanded them as lieutenant-colonel, what was the composition of that corps. “They are all lawyers, sire,” said Erskine.
“What, what!” exclaimed the King, “all lawyers, all lawyers? Call them ‘The Devil’s Own’; call them ‘The Devil’s Own.’”And “The Devil’s Own” they were called accordingly.
The Duke of York was one day conversing with his brother, George III., when the latter remarked that he seemed in unusually low spirits. “How can I be otherwise,” said the Duke, “when I am subjected to so many calls from my creditors, without having sixpence to pay them?” The King, it is said, immediately gave him a thousand-pound note, every word of which he read aloud in a tone of mock gravity, and then he marched out of the room singing the first verse of “God Save the King.”
When one day standing between Lord Eldonand the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Sutton, his Majesty gravely remarked, “I am now in a position which probably no European king ever occupied,” for, he afterwards explained, “I am standing between the head of the Church and the head of the Law in my kingdom—men who ought to be the patterns of morality, but who have been guilty of the greatest immorality.” On Lord Eldon begging to know to what his Majesty alluded, the King humorously added, “Well, my lords, did you not both run away with your wives?”
When a certain admiral, well known for his gallant spirit, was introduced to William IV., to return thanks for his promotion, the cheerful and affable monarch, looking at his hair, which was almost as white as snow, jocosely remarked, “White at the main, admiral! white at the main!” But his Majesty was a very moderate joker, preferring to hear a good joke from others. It is said that when heir-presumptive he one day said to a secretary of the Admiralty who was at the same dinner table, “C——, when I am King you shall not be Admiralty Secretary! Eh, what do you say to that?”
“All that I have to say to that, in such a case, is,” said C——, “God save the King!”
Dr. Doran quotes an amusing anecdote to the effect that the King never laughed so heartily as when he was told of a certain parvenu lady who, dining at Sir John Copley’s, ventured to express her surprise that “there was nopilferedwater on the table.”
In conversation, Queen Victoria appreciated homely wit of a quiet kind, and laughed without restraint when a jest or anecdote appealed to her. Subtlety and indelicacy offended her, and sometimes evoked a scornful censure. Although she naturally expected courtesy of address, she was not conciliated by obsequiousness. “It is useless to ask ——’s opinion,” she would say; “he only tries to echo mine.” Her own conversation had often the charm of naïveté. When told that a very involved piece of modern German music, to which she was listening with impatience, was a drinking song by Rubinstein, she remarked, “Why, you could not drink a cup of tea to that.”[115]
According to Brantôme, Louis XI., wishing one day to have something written, espied an ecclesiastic with an inkstand hanging at his side, from which—having opened at the King’s request—a set of dice fell out.
“What kind of sugar-plums are these?” asked his Majesty.
“Sire,” replied the priest, “they are a remedy for the plague.”
“Well said,” exclaimed the King; “you are a finepaillard; you are the man for me,” and he took him into his service, being fond of bon-mots and sharp wits.
Another amusing anecdote tells how a certain French baron, having lost everything at play, happening to be in the King’s chamber, secreted a small clock ornamented with massive gold up his sleeve.A few minutes afterwards the clock began to strike the hour, much to the consternation of the baron, and the surprise of those present. The King, who, as it chanced, had detected the theft, burst out laughing, and the baron, self-convicted, fell on his knees before the King, saying, “Sire, the pricks of gaming are so powerful that they have driven me to commit a dishonest act, for which I beg your mercy.”
But the King cut short his words, exclaiming: “The pastime which you have contrived for us so far surpasses the injury you have done me that the clock is yours. I give it you with all my heart.”
In one of his journeys, the story goes that Louis XI. went into the kitchen of an inn where he was not known, and, seeing a lad turning a spit, he asked his name and employment. The lad replied that his name was Berringer, that he “was not a very great man, but that still he got as much as the King of France.”
“And what, my lad, does the King of France get?” inquired Louis.
“His wages,” replied the boy, “which he holds from God, and I hold mine from the King”—an answer which so pleased Louis that he gave the lad a situation to attend on his person.
When called upon one day to give his opinion in some great emergency, the Duke of Sully observed the favourites of the new king, Louis XIII., whispering to one another and sneering at his somewhat rough exterior. “Whenever your Majesty’s father,” remarked the old statesman, “did me the honour to consult me, he ordered the buffoons of Court toleave the audience chamber”—a pointed reproof which at once silenced the satellites, who forthwith retired in confusion.
One day Marshal Bassompierre, on his release from the Bastille—where after twelve years’ imprisonment he had grown extremely fat—presented himself at Court, when the Queen thought it a good joke to ask him how soon he meant to lie in; to which the Marshal replied, “May it please your Majesty, I am only waiting for a wise woman.” The King, Louis XIII., asked him his age, whereupon the Marshal answered that he was fifty, at which his Majesty looked surprised, as Bassompierre looked quite sixty. But the latter continued: “Sire, I deduct twelve years passed in the Bastille, because I did not employ them in your service.” Before his imprisonment he was one day describing his embassy to Spain, and relating how he made his solemn entry into Madrid seated on a mule, when Louis exclaimed, “An ass seated on a mule!” “Yes, sire,” retorted Bassompierre, “and what made the joke better was that I represented you.”
The Duc de Lauragais, who was a very singular and eccentric person, was a greatanglomane, and was the first introducer into France of horse-racesà l’Anglais. It was to him that Louis XV.—not pleased at his insolentanglomanie—made an excellent retort. The King had asked him, after one of his journeys, what he had learned in England. Lauragais answered, with a kind of republican dignity, “A panser” (penser). “Les chevaux?” inquired the King.
At another time, when Cardinal de Luynes was paying his respects to Louis XV., his Majesty said: “Cardinal, your great-grandfather died of an apoplexy, your father and your uncle died of an apoplexy, and you look as if you would die of an apoplectic stroke.” “Sire,” answered the Cardinal, “fortunately for us we do not live in the times when kings are prophets.”
His predecessor, Louis XIV., it is said, often gave flatterers good pretexts, of which they were not slow to avail themselves. A Capuchin, for instance, preaching before this monarch at Fontainebleau, began his discourse with, “My brethren, we shall all die.” Then stopping short, and turning to his Majesty, he exclaimed, “Yes, sir, almost all of us shall die.”
A sorry joke was that which the ex-king Charles X. of France made to M. de Montbel as he rode with him. On leaving Prague, where the new Emperor of Austria, Ferdinand, was about to be crowned as King of Bohemia—Charles thinking the spectacle of a deposed monarch a melancholy sight for an emperor and king—“Montbel,” he said, “do you know that you accumulate in your person the offices of First Gentleman of the Chamber, Captain of the Guards, and Chief Ecuyer? I was never before struck with the inordinate character of your ambition!”
And, as it has been observed, there was something pathetic and yet humorous in the remark of Louis Philippe. It appears that by the 24th of August, 1850, his condition had become so seriousthat the physician felt it his duty to communicate his fears to the Queen, who expressed a wish that Louis Philippe himself might be made aware of the peril in which he lay. Accordingly, as soon as the dread announcement had been delicately conveyed to the King, his Majesty exclaimed cheerfully, “Oh, ah! I understand. You come to tell me that it is time to prepare for leaving. Was it not the Queen who requested you to make this communication?”
The doctor answered in the affirmative; whereupon his Majesty added, “Very well, beg of her to come in.”[116]
An amusing story tells how Charles V. one day fell in with a peasant who was carrying a pig, the noise of which irritated him. On inquiring of the peasant if he had not learnt the method of making a pig be quiet, he was answered in the negative. “Take the pig by the tail,” said the Emperor, “and you will see that it will soon be silent.” The peasant did as he was told, and said to the Emperor, “You must have learnt the trade much better than I, sir, for you understand it a great deal better.”
Two ladies once contended for precedence in the Court of Charles V. Unable to agree, they appealed to the monarch, who decided the matter by the command, “Let the elder go first”; which recalls a similar anecdote told of the Prussian sovereign, who, being told by one of his courtiersthat two ladies of high rank had disputed about precedence, replied, “Give the precedence to the greatest fool.” Such a dispute, it is affirmed, was never known afterwards. And speaking of precedence, we are reminded how, when King William landed, he said to Sir Edward Seymour, the Speaker, “Sir Edward, I think you are of the Duke of Somerset’s family?” “No, sir, he is of mine,” was the Speaker’s reply.
The licensed humorist of the Court of Augustus the Strong was General Kyan, the adjutant of the King, concerning whom many amusing anecdotes are told. One day at table his Majesty asked him to pour out some rare Hungarian sweet wine. Kyan placed the King’s glass in the centre, and those of the other great State and financial officials all round. The outer glasses were filled to the brim, but in the King’s were only a few drops. “What does all this represent?” asked the King. “The collection of the State revenues,” said Kyan.
On another occasion, when Kyan wanted a snug berth for his old age, at table he asked permission to change position with the King for a few minutes. This his Majesty granted, on which Kyan sat up in his chair with the King’s hat on his head, and began a speech to the King, whom he harangued as General Kyan, eulogising his merits, and granting him a post of governor of the fortress of Konigstein. The King was so taken with the fancy that the patent was made out, and he died in his post at eighty years of age.
Frederick William I. was fond of the broadest practical jokes, and the “Tobacco College” was his favourite leisure resort, where he was highly delighted when foreign princes got drunk, or when the unaccustomed weed made them sick. This Tobacco Club met every day at five or six o’clock, and a strangers’ book was kept in which the names of visitors were entered, and among them that of the Czar Peter is still shown. The ex-King of Poland, Stanislaus, father-in-law of Louis XV., was often present; and Francis I., when still Duke of Lorraine, smoked his pipe when canvassing his Prussian Majesty as Elector of the Empire, before his election to the imperial crown. A singular personage, Jacob Paul von Gundling, who was elected President of the Academy of Sciences, was the butt of the most amusing, coarse, and even cruel practical jokes. He was made to read to the company at the Tobacco Club some of the most insulting articles against his own person, which his Majesty had sent to the daily papers for insertion. A monkey in a dress—the exact counterpart of that worn by Gundling—was placed by his side, and declared by the King to be a natural son of Gundling, who was then forced to embrace his alleged offspring before the whole company. Frederick William caused, too, Gundling to be ridiculed in his death, for a large wine cask was selected as his resting-place, and in this, attired in his dress of state, he was buried, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the clergy.
It seems that when a child his Majesty was notedfor his wit, for at a fancy ball held at Charlottenburg, July 12, 1790, he appeared as a conjurer, performing his tricks so cleverly as even to be praised for his wit by the celebrated Leibnitz. A year before, the Duchess of Orleans had written: “I am always concerned when I see children prematurely witty, as I take it for a sign that they will not live long; I therefore tremble for the little Electoral Prince of Brandenburg.”
On one occasion a general, proverbial for his stinginess, excused himself from entertaining at dinner his Majesty on the plea of not keeping an establishment. But Frederick William directed him to Nicolai, the landlord of the King of Portugal Hotel, where he made his appearance with a large company. The dinner and wines were excellent, and on rising from the table the general, calling in the landlord, asked him the charge for each guest. “One florin a head without the wine,” answered Nicolai.
“Well then,” the general said, “here is one florin for myself and another for his Majesty; as to the other gentlemen whom I have not invited, they will pay for themselves.”
“Here’s a fine joke,” the King exclaimed good-humouredly; “I thought I should take in the general, and now I’m taken in myself.” He then discharged the whole score from his own purse.
His son, Frederick the Great, rarely indulged in any familiarity with ordinary people, although, as already stated, he did not resent a repartee from one of his servants. He once asked a physician,“How many men have you sent into the other world?” when the unexpected reply came, “Not nearly so many as your Majesty, and with infinitely less glory.”
Inspecting his finance affairs, and questioning the parties interested, Frederick, writes Thomas Carlyle, notices a certain convent in Cleves which “appears to have, payable from the forest dues, considerable revenues bequeathed by the old dukes ‘for masses to be said on their behalf.’”He goes to look at the place, questions the monks on this point, who are all drawn out in two rows, and have broken intoTe Deumat sight of him. “Husht! you still say those masses, then?”
“Certainly, your Majesty.”
“And what good does any one get of them?”
“Your Majesty, those old sovereigns are to obtain heavenly mercy by them, to be delivered out of Purgatory by them?”
“Purgatory? It is a sore thing for the forests all this while! And they are not yet out, those poor souls, after so many hundred years of praying?” Monks have a fatal apprehension they are not, and reply, “No.” “When will they be out, and the thing be complete?” Monks cannot say. “Send me a line whenever it is complete,” sneers the King, and he leaves them to theirTe Deum.
One of the severest rebuffs administered to Frederick was that by General Ziethen, who having been invited to dine with his Majesty on Good Friday, declined, excusing himself on the plea that “he was in the habit of taking the Sacramenton that day.” When Ziethen next dined at the royal table, the King sarcastically said to him, “Well, how did the Sacrament on Good Friday agree with you—have you digested well the real body and blood of Christ?”
This question provoked much laughter, but Ziethen, shaking his hoary head, rose and addressed the King thus: “Your Majesty knows that in war I have never feared any danger, and that, wherever it was required, I have resolutely risked my life for you and the country. This feeling still animates me; and if it is of any use, and you command it, I will lay my head at your feet. But there is One above us who is more than you or I—the Saviour and Redeemer of the world. That Holy Saviour I cannot allow to be ridiculed, for in Him rests my faith, my trust, and my hope in life and death. In the strength of this faith your brave army has courageously fought, and conquered. If your Majesty undermines it, you undermine at the same time the welfare of the State. This is a true saying indeed.”
A death-like silence prevailed, and Frederick, with evident emotion, grasping the general’s right hand, said, “Happy Ziethen, I wish I could believe like you; hold fast to your faith, it shall be done no more.”
Peter the Great, as is well known, loved a bit of fun, and one day seeing a number of men swarming about the Law Courts at Westminster Hall, is said to have inquired who they were, and what they were about, and being informed that they were lawyers, he jocosely exclaimed, “Lawyers,why I had but four in my whole kingdom, and I design to hang two of them as soon as I get home.”
Many amusing stories are told of the wit and humour of the ex-Polish sovereign, Stanislaus Leczinski. Walpole, in a letter to Mann, dated 1764, writes: “I love to tell you an anecdote of any of our old acquaintance, and I have now a delightful one relating, yet indirectly, to one of them. You know, to be sure, that Madame de Craon’s daughter, Madame de Boufflers, has the greatest power with King Stanislaus. Our old friend, the Princess de Craon, goes seldom to Luneville for this reason, not enduring to see her daughter on that throne which she so long filled with absolute empire. But Madame de Boufflers, who from his Majesty’s age cannot occupyallthe places in the palace that her mother filled, indemnifies herself with his Majesty’s Chancellor. One day the lively old monarch said, ‘Regardez quel joli petit pied, et la belle jambe! Mon Chancelier vous dira le reste!’ You know this is the form when a King of France says a few words to his Parliament, and then refers them to his Chancellor.”
But Stanislaus, as Dr. Doran says, could be just as well as witty. Voltaire presented to him his history of Charles XII., expecting to be overwhelmed with compliments. Stanislaus, after reading the book, humiliated the philosopher by asking how he dared to present to him, an actor in the scenes described, a book in which veracity was outraged a thousand times over. It is related, too,of Charles XII., that at the battle of Narva, being told that the enemy were as three to one when compared with his own army, he replied, “I am glad to hear it, for then there will be enough to kill, enough to take prisoners, and enough to run away.”
Christina of Sweden was noted for her wit and repartee, and often astonished persons by her piquant anecdotes. When she visited Fontainebleau, in 1656, in her half-male attire, it is said she appeared to some of the ladies like a pretty but rather forward boy, who was addicted to swearing, flung himself into an arm-chair, and disposed of his legs in a way which shocked “the not very scrupulous dames of the Court.” But these same ladies smothered Christina with kisses, which prompted her to say: “What a rage they have for kissing; I verily believe they take me for a gentleman!”
Her highly-spiced stories, too, were not confined to her own sex, for she was as ready “to discuss with gentlemen improper subjects as any other.” But her collection of 1200 maxims is a proof of her talent in this direction, a few instances of which we subjoin, which, by-the-bye, are not always very complimentary. Thus, she says, “Change of ministry, change of thieves;” and she warns us that “if animals could speak they would convince men that the latter were as great beasts as themselves.” Speaking of royalty, she writes, “There are princes whom men compare with Alexander the Great, and who are not worthy of being compared with hishorse Bucephalus;” and she adds, “There are peasants born with royal souls, and kings with the souls of flunkeys.” “Sciences,” she maintains, “are often the pompous titles of human ignorance; one is not the more knowing for knowing them.” And “the secret of being ridiculous,” she was wont to affirm, “is by priding yourself on talents which you do not possess.” And, to give one further instance of her maxims, she tells us that “princes resemble those tigers and lions whose keepers make them play a thousand tricks and turns. To look at them you would fancy they were in complete subjection, but a blow from the paw, when least expected, shows that you can never tame that sort of animal.”