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 grotto
Thy 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.”
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 great bull 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 three slaps 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—an antojo,” for not only in the case of a royal lady, but in that of the humblest woman of Spain, the antojo had 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 the antojo and 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 the antojo.”
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.