"GREYFRIARS' BOBBY"--"PEPPER"--THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG.
"Alas! for love if this were all,
And nought beyond on earth."
"A good story cannot be too often told," said Frank one evening.
"Well, I doubt that very much," said my wife; "there is a probability of
a good story being spoiled by over-recital."
"I'm of the same opinion," I assented; "but as I intend the story of
`Greyfriars' Bobby' to be printed in my next book, I will just read it
over to you as I have written it."
I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby's antecedents,
and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died
long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted
the kindly notice of the good and noble William Chambers, then Lord
Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an
advertisement in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so
much desired.
What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago,
runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in
Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the
same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who
the stranger was, or whence he came.
The following account of Bobby is culled from the _Animal World_ of the
second of May, 1870:--
"It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled
black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:--More than
eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old
Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time,
and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his
faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well,
and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James
found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not
admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third
morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took
pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right
there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of
time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr
Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls,
being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax
being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be
allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted
him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a
handsome collar, with brass nails, and an inscription:--`Greyfriars'
Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.' He has
long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the
graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have
been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to
the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept
watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the
approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as
the procession solemnly passes, who shall say that the ceremony enacted
over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and
tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he
stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he
loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and
impressive tones which consigned his master's body to ashes and dust.
All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby,
trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the
memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the
wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their
tombs a living monument of honour like this!--testifying through long
years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that
death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our
eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are
sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the
inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected
an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows
neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in
marble (the work of men's hands), but in the flesh and blood of _a
living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust_--in the
devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly
he gravitates to one yard of earth only--in the determination of a
sentinel _who means to die at his post_.
"I hear they say 'tis very lung
That years hae come and gane,
Sin' first they put my maister here,
An' grat an' left him lane.
I could na, an' I did na gang,
For a' they vexed me sair,
An' said sae bauld that they nor
Should ever see him mair.
"I ken he's near me a' the while,
An' I will see him yet;
For a' my life he tended me.
An' noo he'll not forget.
Some blithesome day I'll hear his step;
There'll be nae kindred near;
For a' they grat, they gaed awa',--
But he shall find _me_ here.
"Is time sae lang?--I dinna mind;
Is't cauld?--I canna feel;
He's near me, and he'll come to me,
An' sae 'tis very weel.
I thank ye a' that are sae kind,
As feed an' mak me braw;
Ye're unco gude, but ye're no _him_--
Ye'll no wile me awa'.
"I'll bide an' hope!--Do ye the same;
For ance I heard that ye
Had ay a Master that ye loo'd,
An' yet ye might na see;
A Master, too, that car'd for ye,
(O, sure ye winna flee!)
That's wearying to see ye noo--.
Ye'll no be waur than me?"
In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted,
viz, "a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who
means to die at his post." These words were in a sense prophetic, for
Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master's remains lie
buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows.
The following interesting letter is from Bobby's guardian, Mr Trail, of
Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I
take in publishing it _in extenso_:--
"In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the
following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars
concerning the little dog:--"
_Scotsman_, January 17th, 1872:--Many will be sorry to hear that the
poor but interesting dog, Greyfriars Bobby, died on Sunday evening,
January 14th, 1872. Every kind attention was paid to him in his last
days by his guardian Mr Trail, who has had him buried in a flower plot
near the Greyfriars Church. His collar, a gift from Lord Provost
Chambers, has been deposited in the office at the church gate. Mr
Brodie has successfully modelled the figure of Greyfriars Bobby, which
is to surmount the very handsome memorial to be erected by the
munificence of Baroness Burdett-Coutts.
"`Edinburgh Veterinary College, _March_, 1872.
"`To those who may feel interested in the history of the late
Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a
cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw.
"`Thomas Wallet.
"`Professor of Animal Pathology.'
"There are several notices of an interesting nature in the following
numbers of the _Animal World_ concerning Greyfriars Bobby:--November
1st, 1869; May 2nd, 1870; February 1st, 1872; March 2nd, 1874.
"The fountain is erected at the end of George the Fourth Bridge, near
the entrance to the Greyfriars churchyard. It is of Westmoreland
granite, and bears the following inscription:--`A tribute to the
affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby.'
"In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to
Greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in
1872. Old James Brown died in the autumn of 1868. There is no
tombstone on the grave of Bobby's master. Greyfriars Bobby was buried
in the flower plot near the stained-glass window of the church, and
opposite the gate."
Poor Bobby, then, passed away on a Sunday evening, after watching near
the grave for fourteen long years. He died of a cancerous affection of
the lower jaw, brought on, doubtless, from the constant resting of his
chin on the cold earth. I trust he did not suffer much. I feel
convinced that Bobby is happy now; but no stone marks the humble grave
where Bobby's master lies. I wish it were otherwise, for surely there
must have been good in the breast of that man whom a dog loved so
dearly, and to whose memory he was faithful to the end.
The picture of Greyfriars Bobby here given is said to be a very good
one, see page 239. You can hardly look at that wistful, pitiful little
countenance, all rough and unkempt as it is, without _feeling_ the whole
truth of the story of Bobby's faithfulness and love.
"Ah!" said Frank, when I had finished, "dogs are wonderful creatures."
"No one knows how wonderful, Frank," I said. "By the way, did ever you
hear of, or read the account of, poor young Gough and his dog? The
dog's master perished while attempting to climb the mountain of
Helvellyn. There had been a fall of snow, which partly hid the path and
made the ascent dangerous. It was never known whether he was killed by
a fall or died of hunger. Three months went by before his body was
found, during which time it was watched over by a faithful dog which Mr
Gough had with him at the time of the accident. The fidelity of the dog
was the subject of a poem which Wordsworth wrote, beginning:--
"`A barking sound the shepherd hears,' etc.
"And now, Ida, I'll change the tone of my chapter into a less doleful
ditty, and tell you about another Scotch, or rather Skye-terrier, who
was the means, in the hands of Providence, of saving life in a somewhat
remarkable manner. Though I give the story partly in my own words, it
was communicated to me by a lady of rank, who is willing to vouch for
the authenticity of the incident."
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"PEPPER."
Pepper was our hero's name. And Pepper was a dog; but I am unable to
tell you anything about his birth or pedigree. I do not even know who
Pepper's father was, and I don't think Pepper knew himself or cared much
either; but had you seen him you would have had no hesitation in
pronouncing him one of the handsomest little Skye-terriers ever you had
beheld.
Pepper was presented to his mistress, the Hon. Mrs C--, by her
mother-in-law, the late Lady Dun D--, and soon became a great favourite
both with her and all the family. He was so cleanly in his habits, so
brave and knightly, so very polite, and had a happy mixture of drollery
and decorum about him which was quite charming! Every one liked Pepper.
But "liked" is really not the proper word to express the strong
affection which the lady portion of the household felt for him. They
loved Pepper. That's better. He was to them the "dearest and best
fellow" in the world.
But woe is me that the best of friends must part. And so it came to
pass that Pepper's loving mistress had to go to town on business, or
pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both.
Now, everybody knows that the great wondrous world of London isn't the
place to keep dogs in, that is, if one wishes to see them truly happy
and comfortable. For as they don't wear shoes, as human beings do, they
find the hard, stony streets very punishing to their poor little soft
feet. Then they miss the green fields in which they used to romp, the
hawthorn fences near which they used to find the hedgehog and mole, the
crystal streams at which they were wont to quench their thirst, and the
ponds in which they bathed or swam. Besides, there is danger for dogs
in London. The danger of losing their way, the danger of being stolen,
and the still greater danger of being run over by carts or carriages.
But that isn't all, for in the country you can keep even a long-haired
Skye clean--clean enough, indeed, to sleep on the hearthrug, or even
curl himself up on ottoman or couch, without his leaving any more mark
or trace than my lady's muff or the Persian pussy does; but a
Skye-terrier in London is quite a different piece of furniture. London
mud is proverbially black and sticky, and when a Skye gets thoroughly
soused in it, why, not to put too fine a point on it, he isn't just the
sort of pet one would care to put under his head as a pillow.
Taking Pepper to London, therefore, would have involved endless washings
of him, the risk of his catching cold, and, dreadful thought! the risk
of offending the servants. True, he might be kept to the kitchen, but
banished from the society of his dear mistress, and compelled to
associate with servants and the kitchen cat; why, poor little Pepper
would simply have broken his heart.