(From the painting by Antoine Pesne. )
Either this dog, or another of the same race, after William was murdered, detected the assassin beneath a pile of rubbish. Having done this act of justice, he refused food, and died upon the corpse of his master. William’s monument at the Hague represents him in armor, reclining under a marble canopy, with the faithful dog at his feet. Bunsen says that as he looked at it he could not help hoping the two friends were buried together. Why not?
A monarch who not only liked dogs, but much preferred them to men, was Frederick the Great of Prussia. His grim father, who curtailed all the son’s amusements, his freedom, friendships, and food, was probably unaware of his fondness for animals, or he would have curtailed them also. The moment Frederick became his own master, a crowd of Italian greyhounds began to caper at his side across the historic stage. He was never without a half dozen at the least to divert his leisure moments. When they were not at their sport, they occupied the blue satin chairs and couches in his room. Leather balls were supplied for their amusement, but in spite of this precaution they kept the furniture ragged.
“How can I help it?” said the king; “if I should get the chairs mended to-day, they would be as badly torn to-morrow; so it is best to bear with the inconvenience.”
He was found one day upon the floor with a platter of fried meat, from which he was feeding his dogs. He kept order among them by means of a little stick—now driving back an over-greedy applicant, and now shoving a choice morsel towards some special favorite.
He was apt to dislike any one whom they disliked, and to favor those they favored. If his pets were ill, he sought medical advice, and nothing more enraged him than to find—as he several times did—that the physicians considered it beneath their dignity to prescribe for an animal.
The best beloved, the Joseph among his dogs, was Biche. The story goes that when reconnoitering one day during the campaign of 1745, he was pursued by the enemy, and concealed himself under a bridge, with Biche in his arms. Discovery was imminent—the least whine or snuffle would have betrayed them; but the nervous little creature crouched motionless, almost breathless, and the pair escaped.
It was this dog, which along with the king’s baggage, was captured at Sohar, and at whose return he wept with joy. An elaborate monument at Sans Souci commemorates its virtues. All his dogs lie buried there, at either end of the terrace, under flat stones inscribed with their names. Frederick wished to be buried with them, but his successor was unwilling, and interred the great king with his ancestors. In his last illness he would sit for hours together on the sunshiny terrace—averse as ever to the society of his kind, but always with a chair at his side for a dog, and a feeble hand ready to pat its head. A few hours before he died, he bade the attendant throw an extra quilt—not over his own chill form—but over a shivering greyhound at his feet! What a tragic contrast to the joyous little drummer shown in the painting by Pesne.
No less fond of dogs than Frederick, is Prince Bismarck to-day. It is his ardent wish that they too may live on in another world, so that death need not separate us from them. One noble hound twice saved his life, and—trustiest of confidants—accompanied him to the conference between the Emperors of Germany and Austria—behaving there with a diplomatic courtesy and reserve that would have done credit to Metternich.
Sultel, or Sultan, a remarkably intelligent animal, was poisoned in 1877, at his master’s country-seat. He died, after some hours of intense suffering, throughout which Bismarck watched by his side. He has been long and deeply mourned. The princess offered a life pension to any one who would point out the assassin—but in vain; the wretch is still undetected.