THE ELEPHANTS OF GERMANICUS.
Coming down to the middle of the seventeenth century, we have a print of “The Cat Showman” surrounded by a cat orchestra in a state of high performance; we have also the famous “chestain-coloured naig,” Morocco, which was exhibited in Scotland; and which “being trained up in dancing, and other conceits of that kind, did afford much sport and contentment to the people, but not without gain, for none was admitted to see the dancing without two pence the piece, and some more.” His master Banks, to borrow Anderson’s entertaining account, would ask—
“from twenty or thirty of the spectators a piece of gold or silver, put all in a purse, and shuffle them together; thereafter he would bid the horse give every gentleman his own piece of money again. He would cause him to tell by so many pats with his foot, how many shillings the piece of money was worth. He would say to him: ‘I will sell you to a carter’; then he would seem to die. Then he would say, ‘Morocco, a gentleman has borrowed you, and you must ride with a lady of court.’ Then would he most daintily hackney, amble, and ride a pace, and trot.... By a sign given him, he would back for the King of Scots, and for Queen Elizabeth, and when ye spoke of the King of Spain, would both bite and strike at you—and many other wonderful things. I was a spectator myself in those days.”
THE CAT SHOWMAN.
(Fac-simile of a print of the
seventeenth century. )
The mule Marco, whose tricksy, sagacious countenance confronts us in the photograph along with that of his master, Pinta, was the delight of little Florentines and Romans, not to mention their elders. His tricks were the ordinary ones, but whatever he did was rendered original by the indescribable air of humorous intention with which it was performed. He had always the air of voluntarily combining with his friend Pinta to play a practical joke upon the spectators; and it was impossible not to enjoy the situation, when after some particularly knowing performance, Marco would slightly turn his head over his shoulder, and glance at the audience out of the tail of his eye, as if to say: “You are great fools to be taken in with so little; I could do bigger things if I cared to try.”
PINTA AND HIS MULE MARCO.
The poor shoemaker, Bisset, a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott, succeeded after a year and a half of patient effort, in teaching his pig to perform a number of tricks. Not only would it answer to his name, obey signals, kneel down, stand erect on its hind legs, and bow, but it would pick out certain letters with its foot, and form them into words. Still “curiouser and curiouser,” to quote Miss Alice, it would add up a column of figures, and put the correct sum total below. So wonderful were its feats, that both master and pig came near being killed by an excited audience, as the possessors of unholy wisdom.