Jerry is now a member of death’s “antic court,” but his necrology may be interesting to the reader.  Mr. Cross describes him as “from on board a slave vessel that had been captured off the Gold Coast, in the year 1815,” when he was supposed to be three years old.  He was landed at Bristol, and was there purchased by the proprietor of a travelling menagerie, who kept him for some years, and taught him the various accomplishments he after excelled in, as sitting in a chair, smoking, drinking grog, &c.; probably he required but little tuition in the latter; since we find a fondness for fermented liquors numbered among his habits by the biographers of his species.  In 1828, Jerry was purchased by Mr. Cross, and exhibited at the King’s Mews, when he appeared in full vigour, and attracted a large number of daily visitors.  He was fed daily from the table of his owner, and almost made a parlour guest; taking tea, toast, bread and butter, soup, boiled and roast meats, vegetables, pastry, &c., with as much gout as any member of a club in his vicinity.  In 1829, his eccentricities reached the royal ear at Windsor, and George the Fourth, (whose partiality to exotics, animate or inanimate, was well known,) sent an “express command” that Jerry should attend at the Castle.  The invitations of royalty are always undeclinable, and Jerry obeyed accordingly.  The King was much amused with his visiter, and, says our informant, “his Majesty was delighted at seeing him eat the state dinner, consisting of venison, &c., which had been prepared for him."[2] Thus, Jerry was not in the parlous state described by Touchstone:  he was not damned, like the poor shepherd:  he had been to court.  He had also learnt good and gallant manners.  He recognised many of his frequent visiters, and if any female among them was laid hold of, in his presence, he would bristle with rage, strike the bars of his cage with tremendous force, and violently gnash his teeth at the ungallant offender.

[2] This reminds us of the attachment of the late Duke of Norfolk to his dogs.  They were admitted to the apartment in which his Grace dined; and he often selected the fine cuts from joints at table, and threw the pieces to the curs upon the polished oak floors of Aruudel Castle.

In the autumn of 1831, Jerry’s health began to decline, and he was accordingly removed from Charing Cross to the suburban salubrity of the Surrey Zoological Gardens.  All was of no avail:  though, as a biographer would say of a nobler animal, every remedy was tried to restore him to health.  Life’s fitful fever was well nigh over with him, and in the month of December last—­he died.  His body was opened and examined, when it appeared that his death was through old age; and, although he had been a free liver, and, as Mr. Cross facetely observes, “was not a member of a Temperance Society,” his internal organization did not seem to have suffered in the way usually consequent upon hard drinking.