V.

A NOTABLE CANINE TRIO.

In almost every library where the owner has an antiquarian taste may be found a pair of stout, leather-bound volumes, bearing a kind of “important-facts” appearance which the title, stamped in gilt, airily contradicts.Nugæ antiquæ, it reads. Trifles, in fine; anecdotes, memoranda of things passed by.

The writer of theNugæwas Sir John Harrington—a man of literary tastes, witty, vivacious, warm-hearted and sarcastic. He put into his collection a little about a good many things. There are items of secret or curious history; there are good stories about “King Elizabeth and Queen James,” as some witty person entitled them; there are letters; and there is one letter, above all, full of interest and feeling, “concerninge his dogge, Bungey.” It was written to the young Prince Henry, King James’s oldest son; and Sir John evidently thought it worth while to make a copy, before sending away the original. It is only a trifle in the great sum of history—yet a trifle that means much. The brilliant Sir John comes very near us as we read; and none of his wit pleases us so well as this simple and affectionate tribute to the dog he had lost.

One or two facts “concerninge” Bungey’s owner may not be amiss before giving the letter.

PRINCE HENRY, ELDEST SON OF JAMESI.(From rare print by Crispin Pass.)

PRINCE HENRY, ELDEST SON OF JAMESI.

(From rare print by Crispin Pass.)

When Elizabeth of England was a simply-dressed princess instead of the elaborately got-up potentate into which she afterwards developed, she had the ill-luck to be suspected of aiming at her sister’s throne. In consequence, not only was she herself put into the Tower, but various friends of hers were arrested, among them a gentleman named Harrington. He was heavily fined, besides being imprisoned. When, however, a few years later, Elizabeth became queen, she did not forget her old adherent, and among other marks of favor, stood godmother to his son John, afterwards Sir John Harrington. The fortunate baby grew up into a handsome and entertaining young man, with such an aptitude for saying bright things that his reputation spread far and wide. A maid-servant at an inn waited very carefully on him, for fear that if he were neglected, he “would make an epigram of her.” Even the Queen used to speak of him as her “witty godson.” She probably had no idea his wit ever turned on her own foibles, as wellas those of other people. That it did so, however, appears from his journal.

One item, remembering Elizabeth’s three thousand dresses, is especially amusing:

“On Sunday, my Lorde of London preachede to the Queene’s Majestie, and seemede to touch on the vanitie of deckinge the bodie too finely. Her Majestie tolde the Ladies that if the Bishope helde more discorse on such matters, she wolde fit him for Heaven, but he shoulde walke thither withoute a staffe, and leave his mantle behinde him; perchance the Bishope hathe never soughte her Highnesse wardrobe, or he wolde have chosen another texte.”

The same hobby that led her to number her own dresses by the thousand, and her wigs by the hundred, led her also to interfere with the clothes of her subjects. One gentleman wore a suit she did not like, and she spit upon it, to show her aversion; “Heaven spare me such jibinge!” says poor Sir John. In fact, although the Queen’s godson, he had to tread carefully at court! and King James’s easy rule must have been a relief to him. Especially did he enjoy the friendship of Prince Henry, to whom, in 1608, he wrote the famous letter about “Bungey.”

“Having good reason,” he says, “to thinke your Highnesse had goode will and likinge to reade what others have tolde of my rare dogge, I will even give a brief historie of his goode deedes and strannge feates; and herein will I not plaie the curr myselfe, but in good sooth relate what is no more nor lesse than bare verity. Although I meane not to disparage the deedes of Alexander’s horse, I will match my dogge against him for good carriage; for if he did not bear a great prince on his back, I am bold to saie he did often bear the sweet wordes of a greater princesse on his necke.

“I did once relate to your Highnesse after what sorte his tacklingewas wherewithe he did sojourn from my house to the bathe to Greenwiche Palace, and deliver up to the Courte there such matters as were entrusted to his care. This he hath often done, and came safe to the bathe, or my howse here at Kelstone, with goodlie returnes from such nobilitie as were pleasede to emploie him; nor was it ever tolde our ladie queene that this messenger did ever blab ought concerninge his highe truste, as others have done in more special matters. Neither must it be forgotten as how he once was sente withe two charges of sack wine from the bathe to my house, by my man Combe; and on his way the cordage did slackene, but my trustie bearer did now bear himselfe so wisely as to covertly hide one flasket in the rushes, and take the other in his teeth to the howse, after which he wente forthe, and returnede with the other parte of his burden to dinner; hereat your Highnesse may perchance marvel and doubte, but we have livinge testimonie of those who wroughte in the fields, and espiede his worke....

“I need not saie how muche I did once grieve at missinge this dogge, for on my journiee towardes Londone, some idle pastimers ... conveyed him to the Spanish ambassador’s, where in a happie houre after six weekes I did heare of him; but such was the Courte he did pay to the Don, that he was no less in good likinge there than at home. Nor did the howsehold listen to my claim ... till I rested my suite on the dogge’s own proofs, and made him performe such feates before the nobles as put it past doubt that I was his master. I did send him to the halle in the time of dinner, and made him bringe thence a pheasant out the dish, which created much mirthe, but muche more when he returnede at my commandment to the table again, and put it again in the same cover. Herewith the companie was well content toallowe me my claim, and we both were well content to accept it, and came homewardes....

“I will now saie in what manner he died. As we travelled towards the bathe, he leapede on my horse’s necke, and was more earneste in fawninge and courtinge my notice than what I had observed for time backe, and after my chidinge his disturbing my passinge forwards, he gave me some glances of such affection as movede me to cajole him; but alass he crept suddenly into a thorny brake, and died in a short time.

“Thus I have strove to rehearse such of his deedes as maie suggest much more to youre Highnesse’ thought of this dogge. Now let Ulysses praise his dogge Argus, or Tobite be led by that dogge whose name doth not appeare, yet could I say such things of my Bungey, for so he was styled, as might shame them bothe, either for good faith, clear wit, or wonderful deedes; to saie no more than I have said of his bearing letters to London and Greenwiche more than an hundred miles. As I doubte not but your Highnesse would love my dogge if not myself, I have been thus tedious in his story, and againe saie, that of all the dogges near your father’s courte, not one hathe more love, more diligence to please, or less pay for pleasinge, than him I write of....

“I now reste your Highnesse’ friend in all services that maye suite him.

“P. S. I have an excellent picture (of Bungey) curiously limned, to remain in my posterity.”

Of this excellent picture I have been unable to find any trace; but the word-picture is wonderfully vivid, and Bungey will live as long as the letter survives to tell his story.

Not long before it was written, Sir John had noted in his journal that “My man Ralphe hathe stolen two cheeses from mydairy-house. I wishe he were chokede herewyth—and yet, the fellowe hath five childerne: I wyll not sue him if he repentethe and amendethe.” Kind-hearted Sir John! Small wonder that Bungey loved him, or that when, some four years later, he died, he left behind him many friends, and hardly an enemy.

During the next reign, in another county of England, lived another dog, the opposite of Bungey in appearance and manners, but who, nevertheless, has attained a wide fame. He was no dog of the courts, graceful and dapper; he knew no tricks to enchance the value of a faithful heart; in fact, he was only a large, ungainly mastiff, whose merits as a watch-dog were all that recommended him. He belonged to old Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, and the way in which his name became notable, is this:

He was a “yard-dog,” and of course slept outside of the house. One night, however, he persisted in following the master to his bedroom. Blows and persuasion were alike useless to drive him away. The Italian valet shut the door upon him, and then the animal sat down outside and howled. Probably Sir Henry reflected that at this rate he would get no sleep at all. At any rate, as the least of two evils, he ordered the door to be opened. In walked the mastiff, silenced at last, and content; for “with a wag of the tail, and a look of affection at his lord,” he crawled under the bed and lay down. Matters being thus peaceably adjusted, the valet left the room, and Sir Henry settled himself for sleep. About midnight, the quiet was broken by a sudden disturbance and uproar. The mastiff had sprung from his ambush, and seized some one by the throat. When the half-strangled victim, through Sir Harry’s interference, was released, it proved to be no other than the amiable Italian who had exerted himself a fewhours before to drive the dog from the room. Now, under the influence of fright, and the fear of prosecution, he confessed that his object was the murder and robbery of his master.

By this time, I take it, the house was roused. One can readily imagine the scene: Sir Harry in his laced night-gear, the frightened servants, the scared yet sullen criminal, still held in check by an occasional low growl from his late assailant. And the mastiff himself—can you not see the uncouth, powerful, sagacious figure, his whole attention centered on the would-be-thief, and quite unaware that he himself is the hero of the hour?

But such he was, and Sir Harry Lee of Ditchley—a just man and gallant soldier—knew how both to appreciate and reward his fidelity. We set up statues to our great men, or, in Sir Harry’s own England, valor and genius find memorial in Westminster Abbey.

To commemorate then, in like manner, the heroic deed of his mastiff, Sir Harry had a painting made by Johnson, an artist of note. It represents the old soldier wrapped in a leather cloak that harmonizes well with his powerful frame and look of activity. Beside him is the mastiff, and, at the bottom of the picture, this inscription:

“More Faithful than Favoured.”

“Reason in man cannot effect such loveAs Nature doth in them that Reason want:Ulysses true and kind his dog did proveWhen Faith in better friends was very scant.My travels for my Friends have been as trueTho’ not as far as Fortune did him bear;No friends my Love and Faith divided knew,Tho’ neither this nor that once equall’d were,But in my dog, whereof I made no store,I find more love than them I trusted more.”

“Reason in man cannot effect such love

As Nature doth in them that Reason want:

Ulysses true and kind his dog did prove

When Faith in better friends was very scant.

My travels for my Friends have been as true

Tho’ not as far as Fortune did him bear;

No friends my Love and Faith divided knew,

Tho’ neither this nor that once equall’d were,

But in my dog, whereof I made no store,

I find more love than them I trusted more.”

About this time, King Charles had a nephew sufficiently famous to make all his belongings noteworthy; and no account of famous dogs would be complete without some sketch of Prince Rupert’s white hound Boy. A beautiful lad this young prince must have been, as Vandyke has painted him, with Boy at his side. Always adventurous and daring, but with a dash and fire in his daring quite beyond the usual soldierly courage, he won something like adoration from his troopers. After a manhood of war, his last years were very quiet, and being of a scientific turn, he spent much time in experiments. The art of engraving owes him a large debt, and “Prince Rupert’s Drops,” still commemorate his name. And as to his character, whatever faults he might have, he was still, as one writer tells us, “so just, so beneficent, so courteous, that his memory remained dear to all who knew him. This I say of my own knowledge, having often heard old people in Berkshire speak in raptures of Prince Rupert.”

Many, indeed, are the stories told about this beautiful and daring boy, of his headlong courage, his warm heart, his kindness and pluck. Once he was out hunting, and the fox took to the earth. “A dog which the Prince loved, followed, but returning not, His Highnesse, being impatient, crept after, and took hold of his legs, which he could not draw out by reason of the narrowness of the hole, until Mr. Billingsby (the Prince’s tutor) took hold of His Highnesse’s heels; so he drew out the Prince, the Prince the dog, and the dog the fox.”

When a mere lad, Rupert was taken prisoner, and detained for nearly three years in the Castle of Lintz, on the Danube. Time hung heavy on his hands here, but part of it he whiled away with pets. He even succeeded in taming a hare, so that it would trot after him like a spaniel, and perform little tricks at his command.

PRINCE RUPERT WITH HIS WHITE DOG BOY.(From the painting by Vandyke.)

PRINCE RUPERT WITH HIS WHITE DOG BOY.

(From the painting by Vandyke.)

But his chief companion and diversion was Boy, a hound given him by Lord Arundel, to lighten his captivity. It was of “a breede so famous that the Grand Turk gave it in particular injunction to his ambassadour to obtaine him a puppie thereof.” When Rupert was released, Boy shared his freedom, and became an inseparable friend.

Many an old lady in those hard days was suspected of being a witch, and holding secret confabs with the Devil, after a midnight tide through the air on a broomstick. If she had a cat, especially a black one, poor Pussy was considered a go-between, and was liable to be burned. Dogs, too, fell under suspicion now and then; and as Prince Rupert was thought by the Puritan faction to act under the Devil’s guidance, so Boy was supposed to run on messages between the unholy allies. In the Bodleian Library there is carefully preserved an old pamphlet of 1642, entitled “Observations on Prince Rupert’s dogge, called Boye,” which amusingly details the different views about him.

“I have kept a very strict eye,” says the writer, “upon this dogge, whom I cannot conclude to be a very dounright divell, but some Lapland ladye, once by nature a handsome white ladye, but now by art a handsome white dogge. They have many times attempted to destroye it by poyson, and extempore prayer (!) but they have hurt him no more than the plague plaister did Mr. Pym.” In fact—

’Twas like a Dog, yet there was none did knoweWhether it Devill was, or Dog, or no.

’Twas like a Dog, yet there was none did knowe

Whether it Devill was, or Dog, or no.

Every squib or broadside of abuse directed against the prince must also hit poor Boy, and in several he figures very cleverly. One of the most amusing is “A Dialogue between Prince Rupert’sDogge, whose name is Puddle, and Tobie’s Dog, whose name is Pepper.” It bears date 1643, and opens with a sledge-hammer contest of wits between the Royalist and Puritan dogs, under whose names are but thinly veiled the two great parties of the day.

Prince Rupert’s dog opens the parley with great disdain:

“What yelping, whindling Puppy-Dog art thou?” And honest Tobie’s dog retorts the question:

“What bauling, shag-hair’d Cavallier’s Dogge art thou?”

“Pr. R. D. Thou art a dogged sir, or cur, grumble no more but tell me thy name.”

“T. D. I was called Tobie’s house-dog ... my name is Pepper.”

“P. R. D. Though your zeal be never so hot, you shall not bite me, Pepper.”

“T. D. I’ll barke before I bite, and talke before I fight. I heare you are Prince Rupert’s white Boy.”

“P. R. D. I am none of his white Boy, my name is Puddle.”

“T. D. A dirty name indeede; you are not pure enough for my company, besides I heare on both sides of my eares that you are a Laplander, or Fin-land Dog or, truly, no better than a witch in the shape of a white Dogge.”

Hereupon Prince Rupert’s dog calls the other “a Round-headed Puppy that doth bawle and rayle;” and Tobie’s Dog retorts that Puddle is “a Popish, profane dog, ... more than half-divell. It is known,” he says, “that at Edgehill you walked invisible, and directed the bullets who they should hit, and who they shoulde misse, and made your Mister Prince Rupert shott-free.”

And so on, through several amusing pages. It is a pleasant and fun-inspiring jest; but other productions of the time strike anote of savage hate, strange enough, as applied to an innocent dog.

Boy’s fate befitted a soldier’s dog: on the fatal field of Marston Moor, where many a gallant cavalier was slain, he also fell, shot to the heart. As The More True Relation, a Puritan statement, says: “Here also was slain that accursed cur which is here mentioned by the way, because the Prince’s dog hath been so much spoken of, and was prized by his master more than creatures of much more worth.”

PURITAN CARICATURE OF THE DEATH OFPRINCE RUPERT’S WHITE HOUND BOY.(From old pamphlet in British Museum.)

PURITAN CARICATURE OF THE DEATH OFPRINCE RUPERT’S WHITE HOUND BOY.

Even his master’s grief at his loss was a subject of derision; and shortly after Boy’s death a squib appeared, called: “A Dogge’s Elegie, or Rupert’s Teares for the late defeat given him at Marston Moor neere York ... where his beloved Dogge, named Boye, was killed by a valliant souldier who had skill in Necromancy.” (He is said to have used a silver bullet, Boy being proof against leaden ones.)

An old pamphlet contains a queer woodcut, representing his death, and then several lines of doggerel, beginning:

“Sad Cavaliers, Rupert invites you allThat doe survive, to his Dog’s Funerall.”

“Sad Cavaliers, Rupert invites you all

That doe survive, to his Dog’s Funerall.”

So lived and perished Boy, his master’s well-loved friend, his master’s enemies’ aversion—and almost the only instance in history of an animal being the object of violent party-hate.

Prince Rupert had other pets, both dogs and horses, but none so dear as his white hound. Perhaps the most affecting instance of his feeling after Boy’s death, is shown in a letter to Will Legge, written in 1661. It bears “the dolefull news that poor Royall at this time is dying, after being the cause of the death of many a stag. By heaven,” he bursts out, “I had rather lose the best horse in my stable!”

With this—as a last pleasant memory of Rupert—we will leave him.

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